Finding the large raised dais that served as one of many stone arenas was easy. Artorian strolled right up to a massive man, and helped the giant creature find his way onto a knee. The thrumming voice that erupted from the suit only helped sell that the full plate armored man wasn’t here to play. “How do I get on that board?”
Gorgon the Glorious was twelfth on the board—and thus not listed, as only the top ten got a mention—and was having a good day until he found himself on a knee. With a metal hand crunching his clavicle to rubble, he swiftly found it within himself to be cooperative. “Scarf man. Speak to scarf man!”
That was plenty information. Gorgon hastily beat a retreat to a healer upon being let go. His entire left shoulder had a purple handprint on it that was getting darker by the second, and the armored figure moved on without missing a beat. Gorgon’s posse had witnessed the event in stunned silence, reduced from raucous fans to confused onlookers. They exchanged glances and ran to the betting pools. Word traveled fast: there was a new fighter in Ziggurat!
Uferiel, the coordinator, pinched the bridge of his nose. How he despised these uncouth monstrosities of muscle and savagery. “No finesse. No finesse I say!”
He sighed deeply as yet another imposing shadow came over him. Uferiel wasn’t even phased, he just prepared a new small wooden block. “Name?”
Given the red scarf-clad coordinator was in what Artorian would call ‘refined’ clothing, he smiled beneath his helmet. Finally someone in this area he could speak with! “‘Mr. Fringe’ would be an adequate representation for the purposes of the tournament, my good man.”
Uferiel nearly lost his composure. Manicured nails pressed to his embroidered inner vest as his hazel eyes shot wide open, turning to regard the specter of politeness he had just been haunted by. A full, proper sentence? The luxury! His ears felt like they were healing from the underutilization they had suffered. “Oh, my good heavens, please do tell me that wasn’t a one-off chance at proper perlocution. I’m shaken, sir. Shaken!”
Artorian nested his arms behind his back, a habit that his age wrested upon him. In the armor, it merely made him look regal. “It was not, and I do apologize for my uncouth entrance. Much of this place is crude. May I kindly register for the events?”
Uferiel blushed pink and was overcome with emotion. A tiny cheer peeped from his throat as his fingers pressed into half-fists on either side of his fangirling mouth. He was delighted! Overjoyed! “Oh, of course, Mr. Fringe. I’ll have you registered and lined up momentarily. Please do give those savages a proper thrashing. It’s been so awfully long since a person of any caliber has graced my… well, it used to be a respectable sport. Now it is the ‘clobbering zone’.”
He sighed and carved in the name. “Arena seven, if you please. The one next to the seven flagpoles, if you can count that high… Oh! My apologies, sir! I slipped into my usual entrapments. I’m so used to offering only grunty pointing. It’s over there…”
Artorian took the coordinator by the wrist, and firmly gave it a shake. “My sincere thanks. I am delighted to see such a strapping mind in charge. I was expecting ruffians to control everything in the area. Are you unharmed?”
Uferiel nearly fainted, biting back a whimpering hiccup of enjoyment at being treated with respect by another mind. Oh, his knees were weak, and cheeks were rosy pink! “Oh, oh no, sir… I am an untouchable. If anyone so much as bends a hair on my head, the Ziggurat would turn against them.”
The slender man showed off a wrist bracelet made entirely of bone. A tiny opal reflected light in the center of the band. “I am marked by the Ziggurat. I can be found any time so long as I wear this, and anyone who has one is under the direct protection of the leadership. We have gained their favor through… some means or another.”
Artorian pointed at the arena in question upon letting the man’s hand go. Receiving a cordial nod in return, he muscled his way through the crowd and got onto the dais. It was a large, stone circle. Two squares were set on opposite ends near a stripe in the middle, and from the muddy footprints he could deduce that was where fighters stood before things began. He set himself into place and crossed his arms.
He did not have the details of how the fights worked. Artorian didn’t need them. The only true victory condition was clear. Win. Win, and don’t stop winning. The crowd around his arena was nothing special. He seemed to have the favor of the coordinator, but that was of little help for now. He waited only for a few minutes for the first opponent to crawl his way up the dais.
The man crawled, and onlookers yelled. “There are stairs! Use them!”
The armored figure covered its faceplate with a hand. To Artorian’s surprise, that didn’t obscure his vision. He saw right through to the other side of the hand. Helpful? Yes. Mostly odd. Still, gift horse, mouth, the usual.
“I am Rafan! I shall gut you from spleen to stern!”
Stern? The… ship…? You know what? Never mind. Artorian doubted these people even knew what the word ‘anatomy’ meant. He wanted this over quickly. Actually, now that was a thought. He smiled and spoke through his voice changer. “Ten seconds.”
Rafan circled him like a rabid dog, and rusty daggers found their way into both his hands. So weapons were allowed? Good to know. Rafan hurled an insult at him, speaking with a tone that denoted a lack of… certain mental faculties that could be trained. “Ten what? What’s wrong with your talky talks! You speak like dog barks!”
Artorian continued his mental countdown. “Five.”
The bandolier and headscarf toting fighter lunged at him from directly behind. Against a normal person that was likely something clever. Attack from a position where your opponent cannot see. It was something that showed forethought.
*Crack*!
With barely any effort, Artorian turned and backhanded Rafan straight into the crowd. Connecting armored fist to the side of an unarmored head had expected results. The dirty fighter twitched in the mud, and bubbled out some words. Otherwise, he was out of the fight. Booing and jeering echoed around the arena. They’d come here for a fight! What was this one-hit wonder nonsense? They wanted fury! They wanted carnage! They. Wanted. Blood!
The armor boomed as the inhabitant put some effort into it. “I will defeat every opponent in less than a count of ten.”
A count? Was that what a second was? Booing turned into questions, and greed found a new spot. Less than a count of ten was something that could be bet on! The armored figure had returned to the arms crossed position. So the fighter was confident and full of himself? Great! That would make odds all the better when someone took him down.
Uferiel was a person that played favorites. His current arena was handed off to someone else, and he quickly made his way to dais seven. No way in the abyss was he going to let someone else coordinate Mr. Fringe’s fights. Those were his! He called out, voice sweet and sugary in a sea of shouts and death threats. “Oh, Mr. Fringe?”
Artorian turned and made his way to the edge of the dais where Uferiel stood. The man was surprised this fighter had heard him the first time, and so easily! He again felt faintness threaten him when Mr. Fringe addressed him.
“Yes, Sir Fashion?”
“Fashion?” Oh! His heart! Composing himself, Uferiel fanned himself with his hand before clearing his throat. “Is there a particular difficulty we’re looking for today? It will be easier to match you if I’m more aware of your goals.”
Artorian wasted not a moment, pointing at the massive leaderboard bolted to the side of a tower. “Tychus and Grimaldus. I want them both in my arena at the same time. I need to exchange words.”
Uferiel’s smile was full of overjoyed greed. All the way to the top? He had a true contender today! Given how easily Mr. Fringe dispatched of his first match in the placing round… he might actually get there. “Mr. Fringe. I would be delighted to coordinate these fights. Do you need breaks between matches? You will need to change arenas for some of the larger, more popular bouts.”
Arto
rian shook his head before getting up. “No breaks. I will meet them today. Tell me when to change locations and send all challengers. Keep. Them. Coming.”
Uferiel didn’t even bother trying to hide his smile. “As you wish…!”
The second fight ended much as the first; an overblown fool backhanded off the stage. The third fight had the slightly smarter opponent remaining at the edge of the arena until the count hit zero, just to mess with the bets. It had not gone according to plan. Artorian only needed a single second to put the full effect of Rail Palm into motion. He didn’t even perform the full art, but it still sent the challenger flying twenty feet off the stage with a caved in chest. He did not live to feel the impact of his fall.
Betting erupted. Ten seconds to defeat, or be defeated. Rapid fire matches performed at high speed. The spectacle saw many a betting man resent their loss, but nothing in the rules said they could not crawl up on the stage to fight one of the contestants. The rules didn’t need to do anything: an armored backhand quickly made the attempt known as ‘pulling a Rafan’.
Uferiel, while set in his ways, was a dependable coordinator. He changed the entire format of arena seven at the drop of a hat. If you registered, you got sent up right away. Given the speed at which fights resolved, a line formed in front of him as people who wanted to win the ever-growing jackpot replaced self-preservation with the hope of a one-in-a-million wonder. If only the odds had been remotely so favorable for the challengers.
Several aides came to Uferiel’s side to help facilitate the event. Booing turned to cheering. While the carnage people sought was lacking, the constant, quick fire resolutions to fights had its own, unique draw. The first half hour of non-stop flying lessons contained nothing but non-cultivators. Those one-sided bouts were so unmemorable that Artorian yawned at the end of the last match.
Given that his armor amplified and altered his voice, his tiny yawn became an insulting bellow. The line finally thinned out of willing contestants. Even with a massive jackpot, none had put so much as a dent on Mr. Fringe. The old man looked over his shoulder. “Sir Fashion? Anytime you’re ready.”
Uferiel was screaming with glee. He jumped in place, arms performing little in-the-air wiggles. He was going to kill it when cashing in today’s coordination logs! He’d done so much work! His pay was going to be a fat purse of gold. “Coming right up, Mr. Fringe!”
A figure jumped from the crowd, easily clearing ten feet before slamming down onto the arena. Cheers of support cried out from surrounding fans. Artorian couldn’t immediately see the Center of this one. A veil? Oh my heavens, finally a cultivator. About time.
This match was different. Uferiel actually got up on the arena and performed an announcement. “Savages and ne’er-do-wells! The preliminary rounds have ended, and we can finally set this challenger against numbered opponents. We’re in the top one hundred now! Mr. Fringe now faces fighter ninety-nine: Fuego, the Firestorm! I hope you’re ready, because it’s about to get hot!”
Fuego was… D-rank two. Cute. His hands lit up with flames, and a minor cyclone of sorts formed on his palm. Air Essence? Artorian squinted. No… just fire. Essence plus a shape? “I mean. Why not? I’m not sure if that qualifies someone as a firestorm.”
Artorian had to correct himself. His understanding of ‘average’ was no longer the actual average. D-ranks were a significant accomplishment, and he needed to remember that. He was dangerously close to the trap of seeing lesser-ranked cultivators as non-threats.
He shouldn’t do that. If anything, Fuego over here might be the first actual threat he’d faced so far. Artorian decided to take the fight seriously. He smiled as the Firestorm took his position.
“Ten seconds, Firestorm.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
A cyclone of fire enveloped the arena. Onlookers gasped and cheered when the armored figure appeared to be too scared to move. He was going to lose this one! Yeah!
Far from feeling fear, Artorian was confused. This was the Essence technique of ‘The Firestorm’? This ability had more holes than Tarrean’s favorite cheese! Was the man trying to kill him or tickle him with Essence? Currently it was the latter, as even a light field of fire Essence in his Aura made the whole attack moot.
Artorian cocked his head to the side and broke down the technique with Essence-cycled vision. Essence? Fire. Shape? Cyclone. Area? Wide. Intent? Nil. Control? Laughable. The D-ranked cultivator had fueled a half-formed technique and released it on the arena to perform a function. Undoubtedly, the effect would fizzle out when depleted of refined Essence. Even with not being great at techniques himself, he could see this one was terrible. The Essence was just spinning and expressing its unaltered concept upon the world. Fire Essence was just… there.
An idea struck the academic. Could… could he just… take it? There was only refined and fire Essence occupying the space around him. With a simple pull, it passed through his Presence coating his armor, and when it did… it was his. Artorian blinked at how easy it was. With just a thought, Fuego’s technique was fueling Artorian’s Essence shielding.
He needed to know. Even if it burned him a little, Artorian expanded his Presence to envelop the full span of the dais. No harm so far. Artorian altered the edge of his Presence into a membrane — as he didn’t want any rogue infernal Essence getting in — while his Presence filtered out the unpleasantry. Conditions looked good, so… nom?
The burning cyclone simply ceased to be. The Essence fueling the technique stopped inside of Artorian’s Presence as his will overshadowed both the technique and its owner. Neither were very sturdy… Essence looked to be molded, and the presence field was superseding a great many factors. Without effort, Artorian made it gather and come to him. It harmlessly seeped into his Aura, becoming part of his Presence.
Artorian frowned. No side effects? None? Surely not. Nothing in the cultivation life had been so easy. Fuego frowned as well, but at his outstretched hands, trying to figure out what had gone wrong. He threw out another flaming cyclone, but no fire eruption burst from his hands. As soon as the energy left him, the noticeable Presence field he was in gobbled it up. Fuego was doing little more than throwing free Essence out into the world.
Artorian was so perplexed that his count of ten stopped dead. So taken aback that he flat out asked his opponent a question: “Would you like to try again?”
Fuego threw his hands out a third time, fueling more Essence and power into the technique. Not a sliver of heat or *fwoosh* left his fingertips. Instead, he felt drained. He was sweating heavily, and his lungs drew deep, demanding breaths. Only then did he realize he was in the F-ranks. What! How? He thought techniques perfectly returned Essence back to the user every time, so how was he drained? The truth was simple, yet it escaped Fuego: he was wrong.
The Firestorm sank to his knees, hands shaking as he looked at them. His Essence was still draining! Fear gripped his heart, and showed on his face. “Fuego… Fuego surrenders!”
Artorian released his crossed-arm pose, and pointed at the edge of the arena. He didn’t give the crowd a chance to voice their displeasure. That wasn’t his concern; only continued victory mattered to him. If he could avoid killing a man in the process… that was just a better alternative. “Accepted. Leave.”
The crowd broke out into screams of defiance. Conceding? Unacceptable! They berated Fuego as he left the arena. He didn’t mind that he’d lost his spot, or that Mr. Fringe now held it. Fuego was more worried for his cultivation and his much-reduced lifespan.
Artorian mulled things over. Why had nobody thought of this before? Perhaps they had, and discovered downsides he’d not yet seen? Running the gambit, it was a safe bet that any affinity he didn’t have would be absorbed as corruption, which was a good reason to be careful. A condition for this feat also seemed to be the opponent having a tenuous grasp on techniques, and a lack of intent fueling the ability. Could he test this further?
Uferiel announced the next contender. “Next up in the blood games,
number eighty-five! One who needs no further introduction: Typhon of the Blades!”
A pointy-eared man clad in scarves and rags slid up the steps. He took the pose of a dagger fighter, but held a small gourd of water in his grasp rather than a knife. Artorian couldn’t discern any features on what was likely an… elf? No, this was a human that had pointy ears for some reason. A mystery for another time. Artorian could discern a strong water affinity, but not much else.
Typhon activated his technique, fueling power into his gourd to create a high-pressure knife of water. It belched from the spout, and Artorian noted the same flaws as his previous opponent, so tried to sap the Essence from the technique.
*Splat*.
Typhon stood still as a handful of water fell to the ground. The man looked down, not sure what had just happened. Oh no… he’d wet the arena. Usually that happened with the blood of his enemies after he slashed them. His knife ignored most defenses, so it was a powerful offensive tool. He… must have done something wrong? Typhon activated the knife again! It seamlessly shaped into being while his opponent was counting down, already awfully close to zero.
*Splat*.
Typhon didn’t have time to wonder why this was happening; a palm to the chest sent him barreling out of the arena. He hadn’t even seen his opponent move, and he regularly boasted about his kinetic vision. He didn’t get the chance to boast ever again, dead by the time he landed in the mud.
The armored fighter squeezed his hand open and closed. With that second cultivator, he had recouped all the costs his armor had taken from him over the last week. This was fantastic! He should attempt to use this often whenever the situation allowed. No… becoming reliant on this would only bite him in the keister.
Uferiel snorted at Typhon’s loss, and announced once more. He wasn’t in the slightest bothered that people he disliked were racking up eliminations. In fact, he was lining them up in hope of that outcome. Fuego remaining alive had been… unfortunate.
Artorian's Archives Omnibus Page 104