3.43. The Sum of Steps (Patreon)

The audience helped clean up the sand and dog piss from the previous fights. It was a tradition stretching as far back as anyone remembered, and I thought it was a nice touch—a measure of gratitude to the organizers and the fighters for their hard work. Once they were done, I had room to lay down the boundaries for a new, larger ring for the tournament’s final bout.

People surrounded the circle in a wide, colorful band, a mixture of the previously elminated fighters and festival goers. The air buzzed with anticipation, but the people waited mostly patiently. With so many land soldiers around, no one started any trouble.

Teila had the idea of asking the dolbecs to stand to one side, so that the shorter folks could see. They’d agreed, and the move had the added benefit of creating a windbreak to protect the ring’s boundary. It’d begun to gust over the past twenty or so minutes.

Ichkadeshtu arrived first, the crowd making way for him. He carried a poleaxe on his shoulder—a wooden hammer on one side and spikes on the other and at the tip. Then Wusta, in the guise of the Blue Sword, stepped out of the crowd. Thankfully, he’d brought one of the wooden weapons with him, albeit super-sized to fit his frame. Honestly, I wasn’t sure if it was any safer. Getting hit with that thing would likely be just as deadly as if it were sharpened steel.

Without fanfare, the combatants took their positions and bowed to each other. I checked on Ichkadeshtu’s team, but they were surrounded by land soldiers. There’d be no trouble from them. The rest of the audience was empty of anyone harboring ill intentions, and the surroundings were clear of hidden observers.

Someone to my left, from where the dolbecs were, spoke: “Let Barakas witness our strength and our determination. We will fight undaunted.”

There was a moment—a split second—where I felt the billowing of energy. Qi and body power washed over me like a bomb had exploded. The stone cracked under Wusta’s feet as he launched forward, his greatsword sweeping, but Ichkadeshtu was already moving, rolling, dodging past the swing. He repositioned to attack with his own weapon, but Wusta danced a step, letting inertia rotate him around to crack—the weapons thundered but neither splintered. The combatants had enchanted their weapons.

Wusta’s strength was prodigious. He bore down on Ichkadeshtu and forced him to give way to the greatsword, taking control of the ring’s center in the process. In response, Ichkadeshtu used his poleaxe’s reach to strike at Wusta’s knees and groin. He tried hooking a leg to trip up his opponent. Wherever the poleaxe went, however, Wusta’s greatsword was there to meet it.

Ichkadeshtu was Well-Trained and Trained Some More, but Wusta was an old man under his mask. I’d seen the discipline in his home for training, for war. Like Inleio lived for the spear, Wusta lived for the sword. And if his talents were any measure, he’d die for it too.

The air around Wusta shimmered, and his swings grew fiercer. Yet the arcs were never sloppy; they blurred with a perfect rightness. My scalp crawled to see them. One hit would paste me for sure.

Ichkadeshtu was outclassed, and he seemed to recognize it too. The number of his strikes decreased, choosing instead to focus on defending himself. Maybe he thought he could win a battle of stamina? He was Unstoppable, after all.

I took it in—I took it all in—my spirit eyes enchanted so that I could catch every motion, be every turn and pivot, and feel the weapons in the hands, the sweat flying, and the air creaking under the strain of a dozen attacks in the space of seconds.

My heart raced, and Yuki’s qi spun at a dazzling rate. Spontaneously, we merged, so that our combined consciousness might better parse the fight in front of us. We were captivated by the artistry that transcended the brutality from which it originated.

A duel was a puzzle, a challenge to be met, and a test of skill. It was a dance whose sum was greater than the individuals fighting—or it at least had the potential to be so. Not everyone knew how to dance well, but Wusta and Ichkadeshtu surely did.

None of the bouts we’d witnessed previously had lasted longer than two minutes, yet the skill and stamina of these fighters was such that they’d already gone for five.

Ichkadeshtu’s elusiveness seemed to frustrate Wusta, however. Unable to land a solid blow, the dolbec’s expression grew fiercer, and his skin tinged toward scarlet as the air around him heated even more. He left the center of the ring—a step here, a step there—starting to chase the healer-sworn before catching himself and pulling back.

Then, an opening appeared: Ichkadeshtu was slow to withdraw from a failed attack on his opponent’s legs, and he let his left hand linger a fraction of a second too long. Wusta lunged a half-step to extend the swing of his greatsword and smashed it.

The crowd gasped, but not Ichkadeshtu. He quickly retreated to buy time for the broken bones to heal, yet there were twenty-seven in the average hand. How long would it take? And would Wusta let him?

There was no way the old warrior would let this advantage slip. Wusta’s greatsword flashed as he pursued his opponent. Ichkadeshtu dodged and ran, flirting dangerously with the ring’s boundary. Wusta seized the opportunity—he left himself open, willing to trade hits to force a ring out.

Except, in a flash of amber light, Ichkadeshtu’s hand became whole again, and his poleaxe came to life to wind between Wusta’s legs. He had the leverage to trip the dolbec, tilting him toward the ring’s boundary. We held our breath, and for a moment we forgot about winning and losing. There was only the struggle before us of two men fighting their hearts out.

In the blink of an eye: Wusta let go of his greatsword as he twisted his body. He grabbed the poleaxe’s haft and pulled as he fell, bringing Ichkadeshtu closer. The healer-sworn also let go of his weapon, but his left hand was a touch slow. Wusta captured it, continuing to twist, using his body as the axis of the rotation to lift Ichkadeshtu up and over.

The two rotated like a planet and its moon, with Ichkadeshtu unable to free himself from the gravity of Wusta’s grip. The healer-sworn was swung around and smashed into the stone ground—half his body outside the ring. Wusta fell next, yet somehow still inside. It wouldn’t have mattered either way, since Ichkadeshtu was already out, but Wusta’s victory was somehow more complete this way.

The dolbec stood, breathing heavily. The air around him cooled, and the scarlet tinge to his skin faded too. He looked a lot calmer than someone who’d supposedly lost their temper earlier, and we wondered how much of that had been a ruse. Or Ichkadeshtu’s mistake for that matter—the first one that had lured Wusta into pursuing him.

There’d be time later to review the fight, though—we’d dedicate our dreaming time to it and all the other ones we’d witnessed too. For now, we split our consciousness, and I watched as Wusta helped Ichkadeshtu to stand and the two bow to each other.

The healer-sworn looked stunned, like he couldn’t believe he’d lost. His team gathered to check on him, but he only shook his head in response to their questions.

As for Wusta, or perhaps it should be the Blue Sword, his people gave him space as he gazed thoughtfully at the ring’s boundary. It was only when he looked up and gestured for them to approach that they came to him with their congratulations. They were a stoic bunch, except for a bunch of youngsters in what appeared to be homemade masks.

Their spirits spoke of having been caught doing something they shouldn’t have been, but they were also unrepentant and thrilled to see the head of their family fight and emerge victorious. Crost was there among them, and he was probably the most excited of all.

The tournament had safely concluded. The healer’s agent had been defeated, and the tournament had a legitimate winner: Wusta the Horror of Crunei. All that was left was to award him his prize.

###

Knight Otter stood before the crowd. Above her head, a ribboned ring of water in blue and gray circled. She’d also made it seem like she wore a dress beaded in front with the design of a shimmering snake on a black background.

I stood beside her, and thanked the stars that the closing remarks were hers to make. All I had to do was yell out what she signed. Even that was nerve-wracking, but Yuki was, as always, close by, just in case I needed them.

“None of us are whole on our own,” Knight Otter signed. “Every drop in the river flows alongside a thousand others. Every leaf on a tree lives and falls with its siblings. The air itself contains a multitude of motes—the energies of life swirling together. And so it is with people.”

Knight Otter gazed at the Blue Sword standing at the front of the crowd, then cast her attention wide across the rest of the attendees. “I say that none of us are whole on our own, and you likely think of your families now or your lodges, your villages, and even your cities. Soldiers, hunters, farmers, merchants, and so many more—all together, all necessary, and without one, the rest weaken.”

She paused to let the words sink in, then continued: “There also comes an advantage from striving against others and winning—this is a truth—but the true benefit is in the striving itself, in the refinement of yourself and your path. Those you strive against are your partners in it, whether you realize it or not.”

“The Path to Perfection is difficult. You battle against yourself and others to travel along it, and in so doing, you establish yourself. I will tell you this, however: How you win is who you become. That is the path’s nature. You are the sum of the steps you take.”

“None of us is whole on our own. Those around us—family, lodge, strangers, and enemies—they are our partners in life.” Knight Otter returned her attention to the Blue Sword. “You have fought bravely and with skill. More importantly, you’ve held onto your honor. You may step forward.”

Wusta climbed stepped onto the stage, the platform creaking. He bowed to Knight Otter, and then after a moment’s hesitation, at her prompting he also bowed to the audience. Surprised, they hurriedly bowed back, a few people yelling out their congratulations.

Knight Otter gave the crowd one last lingering look before saying, “May you all be blessed and always find your way along the Path to Perfection.”  Then, she gestured to Wusta to follow her into the pavilion, and I went in after them to act as an intermediary.

The tent’s ceiling was low for him, and he kept his head ducked until he could kneel. Even so, he was still taller than Knight Otter, even when perched on her cushions. Outside, the crowd murmured loudly, but I tuned them out. There was still work to be done.

“I’ve already accepted your exchange,” Knight Otter said, “so all that’s left is to complete my side of the agreement. Our Eight will apply the natural treasure to your back—”

Wusta raised a hand to stop her. “If you will, the boon is not for me, but for a member of my family.” He touched a calling stone hanging around his neck, and a moment later we heard two claps outside and an excited voice.

“I’m not supposed to say who I am, but I am here to receive Honored Ikfael’s boon.”

I recognized the voice as belonging to Crost. When I went to let him in, I saw he wore a new mask, this one properly made. His spirit was open to take in the experience of meeting me again, meeting Ikfael, anticipating the boon, and everything else happening in this incredible, once-in-a-lifetime moment.

He was so tall and muscular; it was easy to forget he wasn’t even ten years old. Yet, he knelt by his grandfather and bowed as if it was the most natural thing in the world. “Thank you so much. The tournament was wonderful. I’ve learned so much—”

“Boy, that’s enough.” Wusta’s voice was stern, and his posture reminded me of how he’d been prior to his bout with Ichkadeshtu, but his focus this time was directed at Knight Otter. “The tournament’s organizers said nothing about having to accept the boon for myself.”

Which was an oversight on our part, and I kicked myself for not having foreseen it. We’d absolutely have to correct the rules next year. Otherwise, the consequences would be enormous—the only entrants in the tournament would be a handful of silver or dark fighters competing for the benefit on behalf of their families.

It was what I would do if I were in that position, which got me wondering: Why had Ithia and Silasenei not entered the tournament? Was it beneath them, or had they respected Ikfael’s perceived intentions for it? Whatever the reason, I was glad they’d stayed out, and that they’d limited their manipulation of the rules to simply overrunning the roster with their people.

Wusta’s request didn’t faze Knight Otter. She said, “I’d intended the winner to be the boon’s recipient, but you’ve abided by the terms of the exchange. It is yours to decide where the boon will go.”

“Then this boy will have it,” Wusta said, putting his hand on his grandson’s shoulder.

So, I retrieved the blindfold I’d prepared in advance, and wrapped it around Crost’s eyes. There was only one, though, so I had to improvise by using my cloak for Wusta who stoically accepted being blindfolded.

Then, I went to retrieve the mahogany box in which we’d stored the portion of Yuki meant to help the winner. I lifted them out with reverence and set them against Crost’s back. Transforming into qi, they slipped into him easily.

The whole act was just that: An act to protect Yuki’s secret in case of hidden observers. There was no one else in the tent obviously, but there were so many weird and unexpected abilities out there that neither Ikfael nor I were willing to take the chance.

How is it? I asked.

Like a consommé in the process of being reduced. There’s a clarity to his qi and hints of a complex richness developing. Would you like a taste?

Uh, maybe later. What about his meridians?

As we suspected, they’re slightly different, but with a sample of one, we can’t make any assumptions about other dolbec. There’s no sign of qi usage, though, or mana.

Crost can use body power, I thought. He did it when I sparred with him.

Don't worry. We’ll observe its use when he does. What’s troublesome is the damage we’re seeing. Someone’s been heavy handed in their approach to stimulating his dantians and meridians. The blockages must be removed before we start.

###

The next morning, Crost and his mother Bleith checked into our inn. Ostensibly, she was there as an observer but acted more like a bodyguard. Don’t get me wrong—there was plenty of affection for him in her spirit, yet there was also a sharpness beyond a mother’s protectiveness whenever anyone unknown approached. Also, when the treatments started in earnest, she had a harder time being blindfolded than Wusta.

As Yuki worked, I pretended to be Ikfael’s voice, telling Crost what to do based on their feedback. And frankly, the kid was amazing. Once the damage to his meridians was healed, he turned into a quick study. He sensed his qi tingling after a couple of hours and was able to rudimentarily move it after a couple more.

The sense of wonder never left his face either. The excitement he’d brought to the pavilion stayed with him, even during the most mundane moments spent in tireless circulation of his qi, which took hours upon hours, every day and night.

My team visited often to contribute qi to the enterprise; Teila was a trooper putting her Wood-Wise talent to work. I meditated often and looked over Yuki’s shoulder as they worked. Sometimes we chatted, but not too often because they were busy-focused-working.

During my breaks, I thought a lot about Ikfael’s remarks during the closing ceremony. There were also many times when I was bored out of my mind.

Until five days later, a soft chime sounded from within Crost. He’d refined his qi.

The boy was ecstatic, and his mother even more so. He’d gone from being qi insensitive to qi rich in such a short time. Ikfael’s Boon was miraculous, a true treasure. Which it was. Which they were. Yuki was amazing, after all.

The tournament’s prize included an effort to teach the recipient how to sense mana too, but that went much less smoothly. Oh, we identified Crost’s affinity quickly enough—Time Magic—but only Mumu and I knew the rune for it, and even for us, the converted mana felt thin and difficult to sense.

Crost bravely tried, his expression reflecting an intense inward focus, but after a couple of days, he’d made no progress. Still, he knew something now that he hadn’t before—a direction to pursue. The odds were good the kid would get access to mana magic eventually; he worked as almost hard as I did.

###

My team and I attended the celebration at Crunei’s Garden, but I didn’t remember many of the details afterward. There’d been three separate roast javelinas stuffed with vegetables and corn dumplings brought out on huge platters, then someone had handed me a fruit juice, and everything went blurry after that.

There was music and dancing and... storytelling? Something about a donkey’s adventures in a desert?

I had to have Yuki retell it to me the next morning, along with everything embarrassing I’d done, including dancing atop Agath’s shoulders, having her and Moon toss me back and forth while I did somersaults in between, challenging Wusta to a duel, and falling asleep in Mumu’s lap. I hid under my blanket and blamed it on the terrible hangover. Later, I learned that the juice was called Ixtual, and that it had a reputation for kicking hard.

Eventually, I forced myself to get up. The autumn festival had officially ended the day before, but many of the merchants lingered. The more they sold, the less they’d have to haul back to their hometowns.

I wandered the market with my team and bodyguards, and they took me to their favorite spots. There were deals to be had, but we all kept our hands in our pockets. The team from Albei had their debts, while the bodyguards had already spent a lot at the festival market. Still, the haggling I saw that day was intense.

This would be our last day in Albei, and I wanted to make the most of it before heading back home. So, for the first time in weeks, I just enjoyed the sights and sounds around me. In the back of my head were worries—there was nearly always something—but I did my best to let them go for a time, and just absorb the spectacle of taak changing hands.

Eventually, Mumu steered us toward the Hunter’s Lodge, saying that there was some last-minute business to address. Her spirit was weird as she said it, though—an uncertain mix of anticipation and dismay.

“Is something wrong?” I asked.

Mumu shook her head. “The formalities have been completed. It’s time for us to pick up the light left behind by Borba, Kuros, and Banan.”

“I—oh, okay.”

Normally, a dead person’s light would go to their family and be reinvested there, but Borba’s had run off, and even if they hadn’t, it would’ve likely been claimed by his victims’ families. As for Banan and Kuros, they’d tried to murder me so I had a claim to their light. They’re families could’ve tried to buy me out—they certainly had the money—but they chose instead to leave Albei for Sugrusu Hakei to escape the stigma associated with having a murderer in the family.

While I’d been helping with Crost, Mumu had handled the details as my lodge master. She hadn’t wanted me involved—not that she thought the families would seek revenge, but... how did she put it? “Your life is already complicated enough.”

###

We found the lodge deserted, except for a couple of hunters using the place as a meeting point before they headed out to look for post-festival deals. My bodyguards stayed upstairs, while the rest of us took the stairs down.

The attendant stationed there nodded at Mumu’s request to use one of the ritual rooms, and he unlocked the door for us. Moments later, he clapped outside to let us know the light had arrived. One of the cores was in a simple pine box, cushioned inside by sawdust, while the other two were nestled in a padded oak box. We sat in a circle, placed the open boxes on the ground between us, and gazed at them, the mood heavy.

We’d all been involved in tracking down Borba and ending his life, and Mumu and Haol had gone a step farther by killing Banan and Kuros. It’d been self-defense—a highly proactive version maybe, but self-defense none-the-less. As for me, my body count was now six: Borba, Banan, and Kuros, yes, but also Ghitha and the bandits Boscun and Kaad.

I tried not to think too much about any of them—all the deaths had been justified in one way or another—but I’d have been lying if I said didn’t sometimes catch myself dwelling on... well, what it all meant.

This world had a way of forcing uncomfortable-uneasy-disturbing decisions. They were often messy, without clearcut boundaries for what was right and what was not. From the beginning, I’d done my best to navigate the cultural differences thoughtfully, but I knew I’d never be perfect.

This world pushed, and my inclination was to push back. Not always—I was hopefully wise enough to recognize when going with the flow was a better strategy, but I had to stick to solid ground too—a foundation for keeping me me.

Although, just who that was now was a nagging question.

I’d never been a killer in my past life nor a fighter. The scuffles from my previous life didn’t count, not when compared to the life-and-death struggles I’d experienced in this one. This world had changed me; I’d be a fool not to recognize it. It occurred, then, as I gazed at what was left of three dead men, that I didn’t know entirely where the path I was on led.

In my mind, Yuki quietly whispered, What did you do before when you weren’t sure about how to live your life?

I looked for what was true and let go of everything else.

Which was... yeah... still a viable strategy. I had what I’d learned from the traditions and people I’d trusted, as well as my own insights from studying and meditation. Anything uncertain, I’d test against those things to check if they rang true.

Thank you, I thought, and Yuki responded with a wave of love. Then, they sat back to watch, their own thoughts resonating along with mine.

My path wasn’t entirely mine alone—I never forgot that. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. Yuki and I had gotten so used to each other, I sometimes did.

###

After about twenty minutes of silent reflection, Mumu slid the oak box in my direction. “Traditionally, if others aided in your defense, you’d offer them a share, but Haol and I will forgo it this time.”

“What? Why?”

“You’re about one hundred eighty kutha from Level 5, yes?” At my nod, Mumu continued, “I am early into Level 4, while Haol is mid-Level 3. We’d see the most good if you become dawn.”

“We talked about it,” Haol said, “and decided the guaranteed talent at Level 5 was worth the delay in our progress. Also—” A grin bloomed. “—we can’t help ourselves; we want to see people faces when they learn an eight-year-old is dawn.”

Slowly, a matching grin spread across my face. “It would be fun, wouldn’t it?”

The two of us mugged at each other, and just like that, the heaviness broke. My concerns didn’t go away, but with Yuki and my team with me, I didn’t feel as stuck in them.

Mumu took Haol’s hand in hers. “Borba’s light is owed to the lodge, and we will hold it in reserve, in case the others are not enough. The lodge’s hunters will understand the necessity; you and Yuki’s contributions for the tournament are beyond anything—” Her voice tightened. “Our lodge would vanish if not for the two of you. Our gratitude will never end for what you’ve done.”

Tegen’s voice was thick with emotion as he said, “We’ll never forget this blessing, nor the others you’ve offered. Not in twenty generations.”

I got misty-eyed in turn. “The lodge is a second family, but you all... you’re family-family.”

Well, we all got a bit emotional then, with tears shed by everyone, and it took a while longer yet before we were in any shape to proceed. Eventually, though, it was time.

I picked up Kuros’s core and broke apart the darklight to find a collection of small, shiny nuggets.

285 silverlight gathered. 285 absorbed.

A slimy sensation slid through me, followed by the feeling of something tough and flexible, like a cord with its surface covered in snot. Nothing else mattered but the cord... and others like it. They’d braid together into an even tougher unit—a team. They were the only ones due any real loyalty. No one and nothing else could be trusted.

I shook my head to clear the ickiness, and it took a moment to register the notification’s exact wording. You didn’t take your share? I thought.

Yuki replied, We want to see you dawn too!

Aww, thank you.

It’s okay. We plan to renegotiate for a higher percentage afterward.

Yes?

Don’t worry, we won’t be greedy. We’ll be fair.

I'm not worried. You’d told me before the arrangement was only until we were both dawn. I haven’t forgotten.

Hurry up and absorb the next one. We want to know what you get.

The notification for Banan’s core read:

498 silverlight gathered. 498 absorbed.

There was a thinness, a feeling of finding it hard to breathe. Too much was too close, and there wasn’t enough room for air. Everything had to be pushed away and kept at a distance, but that was no way to live, to survive in a harsh world. So, be selective, pick wisely, and be who you needed to be to make it all work. Otherwise, you’d disappear, asphyxiated while surrounded by the colorful and the bright.

These people were broken, weren’t they?

Yuki nodded in agreement. Not that we would’ve done anything differently.

Yeah, they made their choices. It’s just a shame.

“How is it?” Mumu asked.

I checked my Status and saw that I had a total of 6,627 silverlight gathered. The breakpoint for Level 5 was 6,750, so... “I’m twenty-five kutha’s worth short.”

Teila chimed in: “You should just take all of Borba’s light. As Mumu said earlier, the lodge will understand.”

I shook my head. “My preference is to not experience any of it. His history is heartbreaking.”

Tegen reached over to put a hand on my shoulder. “Taking light is also taking responsibility.”

“Which is why we should all share it,” Mumu said. “We’ll apportion the light, making sure to give our Eight enough to reach dawn.”

So, we paused until a scale could be brought, and Mumu measured out thirty kutha’s worth of silverlight. I had a reputation for being unusually precise in my measurements of anything Status related, but Mumu added some extra, just in case.

150 silverlight gathered. 150 absorbed.

An impression swept through me of disappointment—a frustratingly difficult slog to reach a goal only to stumble at the end into lonely, crushing, brutal disappointment.

Notifications rang in my head, but even though the sensations from Borba’s light weren’t as strong as the previous two, I felt my heart ache for him. He’d been such a tragic figure.

“Eight?” Mumu asked.

“I’m all right, just saddened.”

“And the light?” Tegen asked.

I saw three separate notifications:

Congratulations. You have collected enough silverlight to grow in power.

The World Spirit rejoices. Another has become dawn.

And:

You did it! :)

I checked the last one first, but that’s all there was to the bittersweet message. The amalgamation of my super and subconsciousness called System Eight must be well and truly be integrated into the System by now.

Speaking of which, the time had finally come for me to learn what it meant to become dawn.