The gladiator walked up on the dais to a still snickering man in armor. Sextus twirled his spear, and somehow it made the armored figure stop its insulting outburst. He focused on the weapon, and that was something number six could appreciate. Attention on the fight. Good. The two contenders sized each other up, and Palladia had to be honest with himself. He had no idea what he was looking at.
Armor? Yes, but it was seamless. It had no visible weaknesses, and seemed flexible in places where there should have been openings to allow for mobility. On closer deduction, those four lines weren’t vision slits in the helmet. It was… fire? He could tell, but how was the person inside seeing him, or reacting, with a fully closed visor? Was there even a visor?
The visuals were streamlined, but the design served to take attention away from the more dangerous details. Such as the lack of weaknesses. An additional problem was the hum of power surrounding the shiny form in a tight field, while a much larger, significantly lighter field surrounded him and the majority of the arena. Sextus did not like these conditions.
*Tink*.
Tink? Palladia looked down to see a section of his ice protection had fallen from his armor, and was slowly disassembling into nothingness. There was no jettison from the fallen ice, and he couldn’t draw the energy back from the ice construct. Like a piece of snow under the relentless sun, it melted and was gone. That shouldn’t have happened. No ice should be falling off him at all!
*Tink*.
A significant sheet of plating disconnected from his left shoulder and hit the dais. The arena was coated in shattered, still skittering pieces of ice before they again dissolved into nothingness. What was going on? Nobody in the crowd, or any of the close observers called foul play. Even with the people screaming for him to attack already, cold dread crept around Sextus’s hands. Attacking into the unknown was dangerous, and his defenses had been compromised by a means he was unable to see. Abyss! What in Phlegeton’s name was happening?
A nosy old man was cutting Essence constructs like it was a piece of scrumptious cake is what was happening. He’d tapped at a spiky bit with some hardened light, and the ice had come right off. It had been a tiny fleck, and the warrior didn’t notice. The academic had a studious expression plastered on his hidden face, refining a line of water and fire Essence into a line barely the width of a scalpel. Adding the idea of ‘cut’, he then angled the unseen line and passed it diagonally through the points in space where ice coated the gladiator’s armor.
Seeing it hit the ground, and the cultivator appearing not to understand what was going on, he tried absorbing the piece of hard Essence and came upon some revelations. He had done this before, just not in this fashion. Taking the piece of ice-like Essence apart, it had the same base construction idea as his hardened light. Wait, it had more! This Essence construct was external Aura, energized and reshaped to hold the idea of what it was. Like a container, but with a set shape unless you let it do its own thing. It was very specific on the fire to water ratio the entire way through. That explained the ice spike!
He’d expected corruption to be at play, but no such thing was found. Breaking the construct apart, he found he merely had to bathe that area of his Presence in some unseen starlight, and lance away the preset identity. Like evaporating water, the construct reverted to pure water Essence, and he ate it up without a second thought. Excellent, the fire Essence had only been used to leech away heat before dissipating. Then he did it again with the back of a shoulder plate. Same result! Excellent! Now for something a little more… aggressive?
Sextus dropped into a low combat stance, spear at the ready for a stab while his shield angled forward, ready to take a direct hit. Straight on strikes were already known to be something his opponent excelled at; he couldn’t give the man the opportunity. Sextus didn’t feel so good. Was he sizzling? Pumping some extra Essence into his Aura to make sure the ice flows kept growing, he felt it… bump into something?
Something that was tightly compressing around him, siphoning away rogue Essence that left his external Aura. The feeling was also pressing him down to the ground like a weight, and his knee thumped to the arena floor as the gladiator did his best to keep eyes on his opponent as the entirety of his ice armor not immediately touching his armor melted away.
It was akin to being held under a magnifying lens. He was burning up, and fueling more water shielding to block the strange effect didn’t seem to be doing anything to stop his ice from melting. This also swallowed up buckets of his Essence stores as the crippling removal effect worked faster than he could build the ice back up. The effects were so pronounced after a few seconds that a soft vapor cloud of steam started to hang around Palladia.
Artorian was having a delightful buffet of it. Weaknesses in auric defense and holes in the ice technique let him freely coat the warrior in lancing starlight, without the light ever being noticeable. Some infernal Essence that was lanced from the tip of his spear was forced to drift away. It wasn’t hard to see that it beelined for the Ziggurat as soon as it passed Artorian’s membrane. The vaporized water Essence, his Presence took in with ease… at first.
Palladia was putting up a fight? Could you call it a fight when someone ladled soup into your bowl faster than you could drink it? The gladiator was fueling his effects with more Essence than Artorian could reasonably absorb. Oh, look! It made clouds! How charming!
This was certainly not how either of the contestants had expected this fight to go. Whilst he still had the strength, Sextus pushed up through the extra weight, using a burst of refined Essence on his musculature to break free. He charged swiftly, with the practice of a seasoned warrior. His spear would pierce that annoying armor with the force of his arm alone!
He’d have done so as well, if his arm ever had the power to move the spear close enough. The very space he occupied filled with a vapor and wetness that collided and clung. Sextus, midway through his charge, felt like he’d fallen into the ocean and that he was currently trying to run through water. In his confusion, he even saw the armored figure pensively nod, hearing the mumble nobody else did. “Looks like that works too…”
The gladiatorial cultivator was stuck as still as a statue but a few feet away from his intended target. Something hard, solid, and rigid had encased his joints beneath his armor. Or on his armor? It was frustratingly difficult to tell with his Aura being repressed, and when he struggled to expand it back out, felt the solid masses of Essence that had encased and immobilized him. It was like his ice, except… not utilizing fire or water Essence. A similar kind of solid Essence construct meticulously coated him, hard enough to prevent joint movement; like being bound in a cast. Actually, that’s exactly what it felt like. He was entrapped in a mold.
Artorian paced around his handiwork, getting a good look at it. “Looks like I win this one. I’ll take this if you don’t mind, young man. It looks awfully dangerous.”
Palladia the gladiator could do nothing as his opponent relieved him of his spear. The clamps around his fingers released, and let it easily slide from his grip as he was unable to close his hand to grip it tight. Making matters worse, his Essence was still being siphoned. How was he losing essence… his ice! Something about his opponent allowed him to rebuke the ice! Sextus stopped fueling his defensive ability, and Artorian stopped in his tracks.
“Oh. Oh, you figured it out? About time. Any more and you’d have been so low in the D-ranks that you’d have to concede.” Sextus shifted his battle plan, dropping the entire attempt of external armor, and fueling his Essence into his body instead. The armored enemy took a cautious step back. “Ooh, I wouldn’t do that if I were you…”
As if the proud and mighty Sextus would listen to a distraction attempt from an enemy! With power in his musculature, he broke free of the shackles with a mighty roar! Angling his shield forward, he took a deft step, and then felt his world go hazy. His arms and legs screamed in pain, his nerves flaring with fire. Sextus collapsed to the ground in soundless agony; unabl
e to scream from how much everything was hurting, twitching in place.
“Tut, tut, tut.” The thrumming voice sighed while shaking its head. “Lost track of how much Essence you added to your muscles, didn’t you? You’re about to have a few unpleasant nights of no sleep. Nothing fixes an Essence overdose, just have to wait it out. Sorry my boy, you’re out…”
With a foot nudged underneath number six, Artorian soft-punted him out of the arena. Keeping the spear as a trophy, of course!
Chapter Forty-Two
Grimaldus held the second carrot firmly in hand. Not a single set of teeth marks marred the surface of the orange vegetable, as the son of the Fringe remained fully enraptured in what he was seeing. He didn’t actually buy what his eyes were selling. What was this ridiculousness? No wonder this upstart had been trucking through the lineup, this was insane! What kind of a C-ranker increased in power as you fought them? He was only C-rank three, and his brother one lower. Their opponent was C-rank seven, and he’d been rank six before the fight had started.
“Brother, I think we may need to step in before this becomes a problem. I also think… we might not be able to win.”
Tychus was rarely concerned when it came to fights, but his brother had a nose for trouble. Munching on some unknown leafy greenery, he stopped to glance over, cheeks bloated full of ‘rabbit food’. Some mumbling sounds came out, but a look from his brother made him swallow his food before trying again. “Why do you say that? It’s just one man, tired from repeated battle.”
Grimaldus slapped his forehead, groaning at his muscle head of a family member. “Ty, have you been paying attention?”
The mountain shrugged, licking his fingers clean. “I’m better at executing the plan, not coming up with it. You can see things I don't know how to. I lift. Now what is wrong?
Grimaldus firmly nudged his face in the direction of the dais. “That man started at a C-… you still don’t know the rankings, do you?”
Tychus looked away to pretend he wasn’t involved, and his brother sighed, covering his face with his hand to try not to be ashamed. “He’s stronger than both of us together, right now. He’s about where…”
The black-robed man leaned closer, whispering so only his curious brother heard him. “He’s where our Vizier is. We’re going to get rolled!”
The mountain unpleasantly shifted in his seat, expression no longer quite as ashamed, but far more concerned. “So should we just say he won, and take him to the Vizier? That’s not how we do things brother. We are from the Fringe! We are defeated only when we decide we are defeated. Give not the enemy victory when you can take it for yourself. We are merely afraid of a possibility. Now come brother, use your genius. How do we win?”
For all his bluster, Grimaldus appreciated his brother’s brilliant optimism, and equally brilliant smile. Really, how did he keep his teeth so white? He rubbed his temples, racking his brain. “We can’t half-abyss this. We should go in at full strength from the start, with everything stacked on and ready. Forget the rules, we have to make sure to get out of the fight alive. Power up and get in the ring. Don’t let anyone else fight, or that heavy armor monster is going to plow through us without a care in the world. Any more power and even my clever plans aren’t going to get us anywhere. Go, go! Make a scene! I need time.”
Tychus dropped his food, and jumped over the fence keeping them boxed in the private seats. He didn’t like it when even his clever brother was nervous, so he kept his voice bursting with strength. “Five! Hold!”
Symarael locked gazes with an equally confused Uferiel, but she stopped from finishing the sign-up process. She’d expected an interruption, but not on her turn. She pressed a hand to her cocked hip, and waited for Tychus to plod on over like a bull trotting to a fence. “Two? What is it, Tychus?”
The mountain cleared his throat and leaned over her, placing a hand on Uferliel’s clipboard. “No need for that, Coordinator. She’s not going next; my brother and I are. You can…”
Symarael kicked the massive man in the shin so hard that he jumped around on the other leg. “What! You will not do the replacing of me!”
Laughter belted from the dais as Artorian hooted, watching and listening to the display his son was going through. Ahhh… still the same old tactless boy. Still had a fleck of greenery stuck to his cheek as well, and didn’t even notice it. That was certainly Tychus. The two bickered for a while, but the woman stomped off angrily after feistily slapping her hand across his cheek. Looks like he was going into battle with a handprint on his face.
Tychus, cheek burning, stepped up onto the arena. He was not expecting to be addressed, and the words unsettled him. “Tychus. I’m… I’m so glad to see you again. Tell your brother to come over, we have much to discuss.”
The mountain didn’t want to approach further. ‘Again’? If this was a repeat fight, he was at a disadvantage as his particular use of the infernal was as simple as he was. Still, Grim had asked him to make a scene, so a scene he would make. “I. Am. Tychus!”
The crowd exploded in cheers once again. They loved seeing one of their champions galivant and pace about in a small oval, hands up to draw more of their reactions. “I am the unassailable mountain, the tower of strength, and wooer of the most wonderful women!”
People snickered. They knew that last one was a joke; particularly with the very obvious handprint on his face.
The armored figure crossed his arms and cocked his head. “Are you… sure? That doesn’t sound like you.”
Tychus grumbled as the retort made the crowd slather on a round of laughter. Not the scene he was wanting to make. He wanted to put some dents in that armor, but he knew it was a ruse. He needed to wait no further as his brother stepped onto the dais. Laughter turned back into cheering as the brothers performed their fist-bump. It was always a good show when the top favorites came to brawl! “What took you, brother?”
Grimaldus shot some side-eye at the coordinator. “Unexpected addition to the roster. Number three is joining in as well.”
Tychus threw his head back, in pretend pain. “What? No. Not him. I don’t like him!”
“Evening boys... Ready to get sweaty?” Grimaldus winced at the smell of grease and sweat. Number three was as big as Tychus, but several times as girthy, and several times as smelly.
Grim glared at the man. “Wash, you oversized boar!”
Blairon the Boar, aptly named, looked sickly from how happy he was to be there. “All three of us on the stage! Isn’t that just exciting? Maybe there will be hugs afterwards…”
Both sons of the Fringe visibly cringed, already doing their best not to hurl at Blairon’s presence. Grimaldus sternly looked the other way. “Can we not.”
Uferiel threw his wooden sticks into the air and stomped off. To the abyss with the rules apparently! Artorian had a look at the additional opponent in front of him. That… he agreed with his boys. This wasn’t going to be allowed. “Excuse me. Three of you? Really?”
Blairon, loving the spotlight, got loud and proud. Waddling himself forward as he addressed the crowd. “I alone am enough for you, weak man hiding in his armor! My armor is my girthy and thick meat!! My mass cannot be-”
*Shink*!
“I’m sorry, my boys. I just couldn’t listen to that.” Grimaldus and Tychus turned their sights back to the center of the arena, where a spear had impaled the brain-space of the smelly dead man.
The smaller of the Fringe brothers cleared his throat, and nudged a toe at the fat boar. Grim wanted it removed, but didn’t… really want to touch it. “No that… completely understandable. We could change rings? This one is a little tainted.”
The armored form strolled over, and slid his foot under the meat-pile.
“No, it’s fine… just… nyeh!” With a wet, meaty flop, the number three arced off the arena and laid still in the mud. Nobody wanted to move that body. It could… wait.
Artorian cleared his throat and thickened the membrane on the edge of his Presence.
With that simple action, he altered the light that moved through until the outside of his Presence appeared as a dark orb, blotting out the battlefield. “Better! It’s about time we got some privacy.”
Tychus looked around, and backed up close against his brother as the inside of what was clearly an orb lit back up. A different kind of light, but light either way. “Brother. Tell me you have something.”
Grimaldus had his hands raised, but wasn’t firing the expected infernal bolts of energy. Their opponent was just… standing there. He was going to reply to Tychus, but the armored form leveled a question. “Your names. What do they mean?”
The brothers pressed side to side, and Grim changed his tactics to quickly summon the bones from outside of the arena. While they crossed the threshold into the inner workings of the light sphere easily enough, he lost his connection the moment they did. The bones sizzled and began to… melt? Finally replying to his brother, Grimaldus just gave a very weak headshake in the negative. No. He had nothing. If he started attacking, his brother would get decimated.
Biting through the realization of defeat as imagined example after imagined example led to them losing. He dropped his arm and found a thread of hope, perhaps he could just answer the question. “I am Grimaldus. Son of the Fringe, necromancer of the Ziggurat, loyal to my brother, and self-proclaimed intellectual.”
With a nudge to the ribs, Tychus followed suit. Not entirely sure why Grim wasn’t telling him to start throwing fists. “I… ueh… Tychus. Son of the Fringe. Apex warrior of the Ziggurat, loyal to my brother, and actual mountain of muscle; nothing self-proclaimed about it.”
The opponent nodded. He seemed satisfied with something, though neither of the brothers could tell why. Grimaldus blinked as he watched their opponent do something truly odd. The man was… removing his helmet?
“My name… is Artorian,” their enemy rumbled while a long, hefty white beard spilled free. The voice of an old man replaced the thrumming depth the armor portrayed.
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