Savage Awakening 323. Festival of Might (II) (Patreon)

“All the Faction’s best will be here, crowded ‘round,” said the Sage, looking around, hands on hips. “Waiting their turn—seems like we’ve just come in time for the Minor Gods’ show!” 

He whistled as he surveyed the crowd. He waved and grinned at a few of the elders there.

“That lass there—see the Giantess?” he said, pointing. She was towering a good head over most folk. Giant gold rings wrapped her biceps. 

“That there’s Ylcaraz! One of the best in the Inner Faction. Looks like she’s already gone for her tries…”

He checked the Steles, then brightened. “Ah! There, see? #16 Minor God all-time on the Gravity Gauntlet. Damned solid effort! Sage Farthrow—that’s her master—he’s a happy hippopotamus, I’d bet.”

The Sage pointed out another. “That there’s Grenk! Grand Elder Darro’s lad. Never liked Darro much, to be honest. But his disciple’s a sturdy one, looks like.”

Grenk was a reddish man with bull’s horns—just a dense ball of muscle. His name was ranked #15 on the Worldbreaker Hammer.

“And you know Viria,” said the Sage. Viria stood there looking proud, arms crossed, looking like a statue of a Greek goddess—but when she saw Zane she waved shyly.

“Strong lass,” chuckled the Sage. “#9 all-time on the Worldbreaker Hammer, #14 on the Lifting Stones—#22 on the Crucible, looks like!”

He nodded. “She’s got a good shot to be this year’s Festival Champion.”

“How’s that work?” said Zane.

“You add up all the scores!” said the Sage, sweeping an arm across the Titan’s Trials. “Three top-30 ranks ought to be more than good enough for most years… but this isn’t most years. It’s a year leading up to the Chaos Cycle’s peak. Essence has gotten denser than ever across the whole Galaxy. Fate itself’s conspiring to bring up the power levels… I expect we’ll see some mean feats! Ah—speaking of. There’s another one, coming right up!”

A behemoth was wading through the crowd. He had skin like burnished steel and a unibrow that only accented the seriousness in his face. As he strode up to the dais, each step trembled the ground. 

“Next up!” roared the wizened dwarf announcer. “#4 on the Inner Faction Rankings—it’s Bol of the Mithril Golem Bloodline!”

The crowd gave a chorus of ‘ooh’s. Then they started pumping their fists—“Bol! Bol! Bol!”

“Lad already ranked top-10 last Festival,” said the Sage, rubbing his hands. “Let’s see what he can do, eh?” 

“How do you know all that?” said Zane, blinking at him. 

“I come every year, lad! It’s damned good fun. Even better fun, now I’ve got my own disciple in the ring.” He uncorked a flagon and took a swig of heavy Spirit Beer. 

The giant strode up. Past the First Stone—a hunk of pitch-black Neutron star core which Zane remembered having quite some trouble lifting last time. Past the Second Stone, which Zane had only managed to wobble.

Settling at the third Lifting Stone, a real chunker of raw black steel. It had to be Heaven-grade. It looked like a meteorite, all jutting ugly angles. Its gravity was so strong air flowed around it like water.

The crowd gasped. Then the cheers got louder.

“Just a handful of Minor Gods in the history of the Faction’ve managed to budge that thing, much less lift it,” murmured the Sage. 

Bol crouched. Clamped both arms around the belly of it. And heaved.

For a moment nothing happened.

Then he roared—the silver of his face going pink, dipping to red. And energy burst down his body in a torrent. Emptying his core in one massive outburst, straining until his muscles looked about to split—

The boulder came off the ground. 

A foot—two—

Then Bol wobbled, gnashing his teeth, and dropped it. Zane felt the impact in his bones. The giant went to a knee, coughing blood. 

“Partial lift of the Third Stone!” shouted the announcer. 

They all looked to the Stele. The name Bol Hardhead rose, and rose—until it settled at #10 all-time.

The giant smiled with pride. Stood, still wobbly, as the crowd showered him with raucous cheers. Cheers accented by splashes of beer, sloshing all over the crowd. 

“Good lift!” said the Sage. 

Bol knew it, too. He stood a moment to bask, spread his arms wide. “Who dares step to the Lifting Stones?” he rumbled. “Which man among you thinks he’s up to the task?” 

It was plain he thought the answer might well be no-one. 

Zane was just about to go. 

Then someone cleared their throat in the back of the crowd.

“Excuse me,” said a soft but deep voice. “Might I give it a try?”

They all whirled around—and gasped.

“It’s Orin Thunderfist!”  

“The Gentle Destroyer!”  

“But I thought he was still in seclusion…”  

The fellow was shorter than Zane, but built even wider, like a tank. He was fresh-faced, with big spectacles that only enhanced the innocent look in his wide eyes. 

His head was that of an accountant. His body was a wall of muscle. It was a bit of a strange sight. 

Zane felt the presence of a Sacred Bone on that man.

Not just any Bone. One at least as strong as that Monster Prince’s… 

“That lad came out of seclusion, huh,” said the Barbarian Sage. “He must’ve broken through.” 

“Who’s that?” said Zane.

“One of the Patriarch’s own! Some say he’s groomed to be the next Patriarch of the Conclave. One of our greatest talents, folks say.”

“Hmm,” said Zane. 

“Doesn’t look like much, does he? But you’ll see. Lad’s damned strong—and that was before he came out. Who knows what gains he’s made.” 

Orin Thunderfist  

Essence Level 544

Zane frowned. Something about that fellow’s Bloodline… 

“That’s the Heavenly Elephant Bloodline you’re noticing,” said the Sage. “In the savannahs of the Desolate Wastes, there’s two rivals. Two apex Bloodlines—the Titan Rhino, and the Heavenly Elephant! Those things’re strong as hells. Had a good tussle or two with ‘em, back in my day…”

That fellow’s Sacred Bone was hidden, somewhere in his soul. Zane knew much of its powers would go to his Spirit Weapon. But a good chunk of its powers also bolstered his muscles.

“Ranked #8 on the Rising Dragon Ranking. And that’s all on raw strength!” said the Sage, nodding. “That there’s the #1 ranked disciple in the Inner Faction.”

Orin was making his way up to the dais now, saying “Excuse me—apologies—” Shuffling past.

Orin went up, clutching an arm. Still looking a bit shy. 

“Um,” he said, blinking, looking dazed by the chants of “Thunderfist! Thunderfist!” 

“I’m going to start now.”

He walked up to the third stone, and clasped it along its sides.  

He took a deep breath. 

And something in him changed.

His eyes went blank.

And shone. A terrible expression came over his face, an animal intensity bursting to the surface—

That massive body contorted. Muscles bulging down his arms, his back. 

He roared.

And ripped the Third Stone clean off the dais. Locked it out for a full second—and then veins standing out, let it down, restoring it to its place with perfect control. It touched the ground with hardly a clink.

Silence.

Orin put on his glasses, wiped them off, and looked to the Steles.

His name rose. Past #6… #5…

“Number 4, all-time!” choked out the announcer. “Tied with the Barbarian Sage!” 

A pause.

Then the crowd erupted. “Thunderfist! Thunderfist! Thunderfist!” 

At Zane’s side, the Barbarian Sage whistled. “Good lift!” 

Zane agreed. He could tell this fellow had strength left in the tank. 

Orin seemed a bit startled then—like he was coming out of a trance, and had forgotten everyone else was there.

“Thank you,” said Orin. He looked at the announcer. “May I try the Fourth Stone?”

“Of—of course!” said the announcer. “Please!” 

When the crowd saw what he was going for, and grew even louder. 

“Only the Titanborn himself managed that one at Minor God,” said the Barbarian Sage. 

The Fourth Stone was even blacker than the last—it seemed to suck the color out of the surrounding air, making them a warbling grayscale. Zane could feel its density from out here. It made the hard marble beneath it look like rubber.

Orin waded up to it. Locked in a grip, bent his tree-trunk legs. He took a breath. The world seemed to fade for him; his pupils unfocused. 

His Bloodline exploded.

There was a ghostly sound, a sound that shook the world, like a distant stampede of trumpeting elephants. And the energies of his Sacred Bone burned white all over him. A dense aura settled over the crowd, making it hard to breathe… Orin let out a sound of pure exertion. It was a sound that struck the whole crowd—especially Zane. A sound of raw passion. 

The stone wobbled. 

And lifted.

One foot. Two. Two-and-a-half—

Orin let out a cry of surprise, and the stone dropped to the dais.

It struck like a bomb going off. Drowning out the shocked gasps—for just a moment. 

“P-artial lift of the Fourth Stone!” gasped the announcer.

This time even the Grand Elders had their mouths open. 

“Dear Heavens…” 

This time when the chants of “Thunderfist! Thunderfist!” started up again, it felt like the whole crowd took it up. Stomping their feet, clanking tankards of beer in the air. It seemed a bit overwhelming for Orin, who stood there blinking. 

“That’s one hell of a lift,” said the Sage, whistling. “Even I didn’t manage that at his age. He’s a real monster, eh? But what they don’t know is…might be another monster’s come to play.” 

“Is there anyone else?!” croaked the announcer, sweeping round, struggling to make himself heard.

The Sage slapped Zane on the back. “You forget everything else. Just give it your best shot you hear?” 

Zane nodded.

Watching that fellow go at it, he found his fists clenched. Found his own heart thumping fast, seeing him go for the peak of that lift… 

The Barbarian Sage cleared his throat. 

“My lad’ll give it a go!” he shouted, grinning.