0.17

“It isn’t fair,” Gianni Scala said bitterly, circling me in the pit. His blade, a finely wrought bronze that shimmered in the setting sunlight, hissed quietly through the air. “Why should heaven reward you for disdaining all that you’ve been given? You treat this life like a joke, you always have, and you’re rewarded for it at every turn!”

As the Daylight Games had progressed, the Young Aristocrat of the Burning Dusk had fallen further and further into despair. He was a diligent student of his cult’s teachings. A fierce athlete. Had I not been present, he would have dominated nearly every single event.

But I was present. And so he lost, and kept losing. My jumps, both long and high, were superior. My discus and my javelin, superior. My sprints and my horse races, superior. In every way that mattered, I was superior. We were the perfect reflections of our fathers.

I grimaced and spat.

“We are filial sons!” He kept on. “It’s our duty to bear the torches of our fathers!” Despair had all but taken him, but still he attempted to distract me with self-righteous scolding while he searched desperately for an opening. The martial trials were entities in and of themselves within the games. Triumphing here would bring him more than enough renown.

We had each conquered three opponents in armed combat to reach this final match. Gianni, to his credit, had not suffered a single scratch. Blade work had always been his specialty as far back as I had known him. As well as I knew that, he knew that pankration was mine. He had no hope of victory in the unarmed events to come. This was his final chance.

He surged forward, having apparently found his mark. His blade caught the light of the falling sun and erupted in blood-orange flames as he swung down, from heaven to earth.

It was an obvious truth that not all cultivation techniques were created equal. They were manifestations of a man’s virtuous soul, shaped by his unfaltering will and the experiences that had molded him throughout his life. Intent and execution were the dual forces that determined a technique’s overall quality, but it was also possible for the origins themselves to be a contributing factor.

It was a well-kept secret among the two premier cults of the Scarlet City that our foundational techniques were tied to our mysteries. The Rosy-Fingered Dawn was a technique that waxed and waned in strength as the sun blazed its way through heaven. It was strongest at the dawn, when the sun’s first rays breached the far horizon. At the zenith of midday it was as weak as it could be. Because at that point, the Burning-Edged Dusk began to gain in strength.

That the non-combative events had been portioned for the first half of the day, when the Burning Dusk Cult’s foundational technique was at its weakest, was no coincidence. The Burning Dusk had long enjoyed a position of disproportionate influence within the Scarlet City, and the structure of its Daylight Games reflected this.

Could Damon Aetos have changed these orders, restructured things in favor of the Rosy Dawn? Without question. Such a thing was well within his power. He’d simply chosen not to.

The Burning-Edged Dusk was at its strongest when utilized with a falling strike, in the light of the setting sun. Gianni brought his blade down upon me with every ounce of strength in his body, steam seething through his clenched teeth. My own blade rose up to meet it. The Rosy-Fingered Dawn was strongest when it climbed, in the light of the rising sun. At this time of day, I could only fulfill one of those two conditions.

Unfortunately, a technique could not triumph on origins and mysticism alone. Triumph was the providence of tyrants. Execution was king. Damon Aetos had not bothered to alter the city in pursuit of cheap advantages because he had no need for them.

My waning blade of dawn struck his sword and shattered it.

“Lio Aetos!”

“Have you ever left this city, Gianni?” I asked, idly rolling my shoulder. My rival, laughable as that statement was, glared silently as we circled one another.

The author’s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

The games were nearly at their end, now. After armed combat had come wrestling and then boxing, both of which the heir to the Burning Dusk had abstained from competing in. In average circumstances it would have been a terrible loss in standing to do such a thing as his cult’s leading athlete, but I doubted anyone would hold it against him, given his inevitable opponent. It was understandable that he’d save his body for the final event, the only one that mattered. Pankration.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, I had found myself slowly unwinding as I progressed through the wrestling and boxing trials. They soothed my raging soul, provided a balm to my heart. Unarmed combat had always been my style. How conflict ought to be. It was simple. It was profound.

It was free.

Gianni ducked and lunged forward in two quick steps, attempting to box me out of the ring. I blocked what could not be avoided, met his raised knee with my own and relished the crunch of bone striking bone. Gianni winced, faltering ever so slightly as he tried to pivot on that wounded knee, and I shoved him back with two palms to his chest.

I could have done more, obviously. But instead I paced around him, wondering.

“I’ll take your silence as a no,” I said. “But surely you’ve thought about it. Pretend for a moment the cults did not exist. If you could go somewhere, anywhere in this world, where would it be?”

“Nowhere,” Gianni spat. “My place is here.”