Chapter 59

With only seven days till his next bout in the tournament, Scorio poured his every ounce of energy into training and hunting. He woke up early and attacked the morning run with grim determination, ignoring the other Great Souls and instead attempting to draw on the different hues of mana that filled the great circuit, working on his ability to fill his Heart and run without igniting. It felt like racing with a great bowl of water balanced on his head; deprived of the adrenaline rush of imminent danger, his focus and control felt sloppy and vague, and so he ran, his pace methodical, staring through the crowds, intent on holding onto the mana for as long as he could.

Classes went by in a blur; he found it hard to focus on the academic subjects that didn’t touch on combat or direct progression. Seminars on the geography of hell, the political factions of Red Keep, the biographies of the hundred and seventy-six Imperators that had lived and died since the founding of Bastion, the commercial activities of the great Houses—all of it failed to grasp his attention, and more than once he slipped out of the Academy instead to sneak in an hour or two of hunting along the edges of the ruins. Only Instructor Hera’s class on Mana Theoretics on Fourthday held his focus, but it served only to drive home how ruined his Heart was becoming.

Which made sparring practice before lunch the perfect opportunity in which to vent his frustrations. Scorio redoubled his efforts on his First Form, again seeking to carry a Heartful of mana as he executed the scripted blocks and attacks, hearing once more Naomi’s instructions in his head even as Feng critiqued and advised: envision your opponents, remember where each is, then move to engage, to destroy.

That week, however, a new element was introduced to their sparring classes: each day, four or five of the Great Souls from the winning bracket cycled through, with each of them fighting two or three of the ten students that Feng selected as representing the best of that unit. They were working their way through every class, taking on different students as a form of reward for their success and a means to enhance their training.

“The closer to actual combat you can come,” Feng had said, repeating Naomi’s own wisdom, “the more effective your training. Thus fighting before a crowd, fighting for glory, if not your life, is a step up from any other form of sparring. And the students from the winning bracket will take your sparring to the next level, to your mutual benefit.”

Scorio had raised his hand. “Excuse me, Instructor. Is that why we hold the tournament in the first place? As a more advanced form of training?”

“Exactly so,” Feng had said, his smile quietly amused. “I forget that you missed our first classes where we reviewed such basics, Scorio. But I’m glad to see that you can put two and two together.”

Scorio had flushed but nodded; it made sense. His fights against his first two opponents in the last round had felt more intense and real than anything short of his Gauntlet runs or actual fights in the ruins. It was the pressure, he realized, the desire to advance through the tournament; it formed its own crucible in which their talents were honed and grown.

And on Sixthday, it was Jova’s turn to visit their sparring class.

Along with three others—one of them being Kuragin—she stood in the center of their modest sparring circle, hands linked behind her back, gazing out over the crowd as if unwilling to engage them even by meeting their eyes.

Scorio and the others gathered around, hair matted with sweat, bodies limber and warmed up by forty-five minutes or so of practice.

Instructor Feng hopped up onto the edge of the ring and turned to regard them. “You all know the drill. Everyone, take a seat. We’ll begin with Kuragin and… let’s see. Scorio.”

Everybody began to move toward the seats, including Jova and the other two students in the circle.

“If you please, Instructor Feng,” Scorio heard himself call out, “I’d like to request a change.”

Feng paused and looked slowly back over his shoulder at where Scorio stood, one of his arched brows rising slowly. “Oh?”

It was a dangerous sound, a clear warning that Scorio was straying far out of bounds, but with his heart pounding, Scorio didn’t care.

“With all respect, and if it is at all possible, I would like to spar with Jova Spike instead.”

Everyone stopped and stared. Jova, who’d been on the verge of leaping down off the circle, turned to regard him with an inscrutable stare.

“You do not get to pick with whom you spar,” said Feng, already turning away. “And to refuse to fight Kuragin is to insult his achievements.”

Scorio balled up his fists, his posture stiff, and raised his chin as he held Jova’s dark gaze. It had been madness to request the fight in the first place, but he wanted to test himself, to try his abilities against her own so badly.

“Instructor Feng,” said Jova, voice quiet, her liquid black eyes holding his gaze calmly. “If Kuragin doesn’t object, I would accept Scorio’s challenge.”

Kuragin frowned, his huge arms crossed over his chest, his whole body radiating an eagerness to fight. But then he inclined his head stiffly. “I’m happy to accommodate Jova’s request.”

Feng paused, turning around to face them both. “This is highly irregular. These are informal sparring matches, and not meant to reflect any outside grudges or attempts to acquire glory. However, that being said…” He paused, considered them both, then shrugged. “There’s also nothing against allowing it. If Jova is amenable, then so be it. Scorio, in the circle.”

“What are you doing?” whispered Lianshi as he left her side, his mouth suddenly dry, his pulse racing, a strange, light sensation filling his chest. He placed a palm on the edge and vaulted up. Rose and stepped forward to face Jova, who’d moved to her spot on the other side of the ring.

Feng had climbed up onto his raised chair, and now sat back and crossed an ankle over the other knee. “A quick reminder: this bout is informal, and points are scored through strikes that touch the chest, back, or head. You may ignite your Hearts but not use any powers or abilities. Failure to cease sparring on my command makes you liable for disciplinary action. The first to reach three strikes wins. Am I clear?”

Scorio nodded, his gaze never leaving Jova’s. He felt at once faint and energized as he lowered himself into a three-quarters combat crouch, hands raised, his stomach fluttering, his skin prickling.

Jova crossed her arms and pursed her lips, making no attempt to enter a crouch of her own.

No powers or abilities. That meant she could lean on her natural Emberling strength and speed, but not engage her resistance to damage.

“Begin,” barked Feng, and Scorio felt the crowd inhale as one.

Jova gazed at him contemptuously, weight on her heels, hips subtly thrust out, shoulders back.

Provocation? No matter. Scorio purposefully forced himself to relax, to deepen and slow his breathing, and again he heard Naomi’s words in his mind, instructing him to calm down and focus and to allow his instincts and training to do the heavy lifting.

“You have to attack me,” said Jova, sounding bored. “This isn’t a staring match.”

Scorio flushed as light laughter rippled across the crowd, but then grinned and advanced, feeling predatory. He swept a great mass of Iron mana into his Heart, forcing it in, packing it tight, and then as he drew close, he flexed his will and caused it to ignite. It took a moment, but then steel flames erupted from his Heart, and immediately he felt mana began to vent from the many cracks that fissured its surface.

Victory would come quickly or not at all.

Jova watched him approach and didn’t even react to his first feint.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Scorio heard himself think, By the ten hells, I’m fighting Jova Spike. This is… awesome.

But that was the last thing he thought, for he threw a jab that caused her head to sway aside, and followed with a flurry of crosses and hooks.

As if awakening from a reverie, Jova floated back and away, circling as he came after her, dodging adroitly, eyes narrowed, her gaze passing clear through him. Scorio reined in his excitement; he fought cautiously, aware that she was trying to goad him into a wild attack, to open himself to a vicious counter.

Still, when it came, he wasn’t ready.

He threw a couple of quick jabs then glided forward with another powerful cross. She simply bowed back and away and simultaneously flicked out a neat roundhouse kick that cracked him in the ribs under his outstretched arm.

The blow nearly broke bone. Scorio hissed and bounced back, lowered his elbows to cover his sides, and in Jova’s face, he saw the first hint of emotion, a contemptuous upturn of the corner of her mouth.

“Come on, Scorio!” he heard Leonis shout off from the side. “Stave her head in!”

“Silence,” snapped Feng, but the words combined with Jova’s smile pricked Scorio into action. For a second there he’d begun sliding into a defensive panic, but that was exactly what she’d expect; instead, he moved forward once more and unleashed a flurry of tight blows, elbows kept close, along with a high kick to her side that almost caught her by surprise.

She blocked them all, then hopped away, moving around once more in a sideways skipping motion. Her black-painted lips were pursed, and her eyes narrowed as she stared right through him again.

Had she even ignited her Heart yet?

Scorio gave her no breathing room. His mana was running out. He pursued, shoulders raised, chin tucked in, elbows tight against his ribs, fists hovering just before his chin. Tight front kicks, jabs, the occasional follow-up elbow.

Jova gave ground, light as mist upon the sparring circle floor, unconcerned, not interested in standing firm—until she was.

With a burst of pressure, he felt her ignite her Heart, the sensation like an oven door swinging open, and then she reversed her trajectory, pushing off the ball of her foot to dart in and low, ducking and weaving to the side to slam a hook into his elbow where it was pressed against his side.

The power behind the punch nearly lifted him off one foot, but was immediately followed by a second hook from her other arm so vicious and swift that it was all he could do to bring his forearms together to block it.

One, two, and the third punch was a pure uppercut, launched from the hips, her entire torso swiveling behind it, coming in so low it slipped right under his guard and slammed into his stomach, pounding up and into his ribcage as he felt his innards jelly and the breath explode from his lips.

“Second point,” Feng said clinically from somewhere to the side, and Scorio staggered back, unable to breathe, his whole chest locked up. No expression from Jova this time, no smile, no taunts. Her gaze was flat and direct as she followed, her burning Heart still giving off a terrible heat, her intent to finish him off plain as the fact that he was horribly outmatched.

Scorio heard a great pounding in his ears as he realized he was going to be defeated within the next few seconds, and the very thought of such ignominious schooling caused a flush of strength to flood into him, subsuming the pain, his vision narrowing to a tunnel with only Jova at the end of it.

He couldn’t breathe, his core was spasming, but he crushed the pain with a ferocious will. He eschewed the stubborn Iron mana that was all around them, and instead reached for Coal, filthy and turgid, heavy and scorned. Swept a great mass of it into his Heart, and willed it to burn.

A rough, crude power flowed into him, and with a cry he threw himself forward into a hopping forward kick, thrusting from the hips and leaning back, the kind of blow that would shatter a door or, as Leonis had put it, stave in a head.

It caught Jova completely by surprise, and she leaped aside, batting his leg away, but Scorio pivoted on his foot, going from heel to the ball, revolved his hips up and around, chambered his calf back to his hamstring, then snapped out a follow-up roundhouse right at her face—once, twice, three times.

Jova’s eyes widened further, and she brought both arms up to block, taking the shuddering blows full on.

Enraged, not thinking, Scorio thrust his leg back in one fluid motion and kicked out behind himself, the motion propelling his upper body forward as he threw a cross at her with all the strength his Coal-burning Heart could muster.

His punch crashed through Jova’s defenses, blasted right past both raised arms, and slammed into her sternum like a sledgehammer.

With a cry, she staggered back, eyes flaring wide in shock.

“Point to Scorio,” said Feng, his dry voice registering just a flicker of surprise.

“That’s what I’m talking about!” yelled Leonis, rising in the stands.

“Last warning, Leonis!” barked Feng, whipping around.

Jova inhaled powerfully, stretched out her ribs, then glowered at him, her dark-rimmed eyes narrowing to slits, her black hair falling before her features in a curtain.

Elated, feverish, Scorio grinned at her. “Right now you could care less about me,” he said, “but mark my words, you will care by the time I’m done.”

Jova snarled, rose to the balls of her feet, then rushed at him. Scorio saw death in her eyes, and his grin slipped just as she leaped up, her right leg passed before him, not a strike, he realized, but a preamble, a setup for her other leg which came scything all the way around as she spun in the air like the apocalypse itself. The outside of her left fist slammed into him with the force of a charging fiend; Scorio felt himself lifted clear off the ground and sent flying, to bounce once then fall off the edge of the sparring circle, crashing to the ground below.

Feng’s voice seemed to come from a mile away. “And we’ll say that’s the third point, making this an easy victory for Jova.”

Scorio lay there blinking, staring up blearily as he felt pain course through him. A dark shape appeared at the edge of the ring to stare wrathfully at where he lay.

“I won’t believe your lies!” he heard Jova snarl.

That made no sense. What was… but it was too hard to think. Instead, he rested his head back and grinned. The sweet glow of having scored a point enveloped him, and her anger, strangely personal, made his accomplishment all the sweeter. He could hear voices, hear people rushing to his side. “I think she likes me,” he said to nobody in particular, then everything dropped away, as if falling down a well, and he blacked out.