Chapter 60

The remaining three days passed all too quickly. He trained, sparred, studied, and meditated in a frantic blur. There wasn’t enough time. Not enough cycles in the day. The sun-wire became his enemy, sleep his begrudging opponent. His Heart was his challenge and obstacle, the altar at which he worshipped and the source of all his greatest frustrations. He came to know the angular cracks and deep fissures that rivened it in intimate detail, and its topographical map haunted his dreams.

But there wasn’t enough time to heal, and the paltry Black Star pills he received each morning were a mockery of the treasures he’d been promised. He swallowed them bitterly, thinking on his farm out in the ruins, and yearned for the next time he could harvest his plants. Better, he’d grow a veritable jungle, he vowed, and steep himself so deeply in its noxious power that he’d never lack for mana again.

Hunting proved more fruitful. He finally managed to pay Jelan a visit with his heavy sack of Heartstones, and negotiated with the shocked alchemist until he was able to wrest an upfront payment of thirty golden octs with the promise of fifty more once the man secured the funds.

“There are more proper avenues for dispensing such… items,” Jelan had said with obvious dismay as he’d hefted the ichor-soaked sack. “They might pay you better rates, too.”

“They might,” Scorio had said. “But I trust you.”

“Trust,” Jelan had sniffed. “Oh, my dear child. You’re entering a very dangerous part of the economy, you know. Those who hunt Heartstones do so in large teams and are led by experienced veterans. Please tell me you are not doing this by yourself.”

“Less folks with which to split the profit,” Scorio had grinned. “What about Black Star? How much might you be willing to pay if I brought you syrup?”

“Black Star syrup?” Jelan had sounded less than impressed. “I suppose there’s a need for it. Refined?”

“If you prefer.”

They’d haggled, Jelan complaining that the substance was practically worthless, Scorio coming back with how the Academy clearly saw fit to serve it to students. Jelan had protested that the market was already saturated, to which Scorio had replied that Jelan could sell at cut-rate prices.

In the end, Jelan had made an offer: two iron octs per refined pill.

Scorio’s heart had sunk, but he’d forced himself to agree.

“Now,” he’d said. “Let’s talk about what I’d like to spend these gold octs on.”

And with his profit, he was able to triumphantly purchase his first Sublime Purification pill. Which meant handing his thirty gold octs along with another twenty from what he was owed right back to Jelan, who procured the pill from private sources and had it delivered to Scorio’s room in a prim case of ebon wood.

“You can’t go on like this,” said Lianshi, standing before him with her arms crossed. He was sitting on the floor of their common room, bathed in sweat, fighting to regain his breath after the umpteenth time of practicing the First Form.

“What?” He gazed up at her, wiped at his brow. “What are you talking about?”

“You’re fighting tomorrow. You think you’ll do better if you’re an exhausted wreck?”

“She’s got a point,” said Leonis from the nest of cushions in the corner of the room where he lay, hands interlaced behind his head, eyes closed as he ostensibly meditated. “A good night’s sleep will do more for you now than another dozen run-throughs of that form.”

Scorio scowled. “I’m not ready. My Heart’s nowhere close to Emberling. The Sublime Purification pill helped, but I need more. When… when Jelan delivers the next one… but that won’t be in time for my fight. I need…” He trailed off, frustration gnawing at his innards like a starved rat.

“And you think you’ll make Emberling tonight?” Lianshi’s tone was flat and uncompromising. “Sleep, Scorio. Give the Sublime Purification pill time to work on your Heart. You’ll have to face your opponent tomorrow as a Cinder. There’s no way around it. I’m sorry.”

Scorio bowed his head, felt sweat bead its way down his temples, run along the line of his jaw. “Damn it.”

“I’m sorry.” She crouched before him and placed a hand on his shoulder. “I know how important this is. I wish I could help, but you gave it your all. Whatever happens tomorrow, you know you couldn’t have done more.”

“Truth,” said Leonis. “Your Heart’s too big and your treasures too paltry. It was an unfair playing field from the start. You can’t get mad at yourself when you had no chance to begin with.”

“Not helping, Leonis,” said Lianshi with false sweetness.

“I know, I know,” said Scorio at last. “It’s just… I can’t think of what else I can do. We’re hitting the old Gauntlet, I’m training in every waking minute I’ve got, I’m pushing myself in every way I can think, and all Hera can counsel me is to be patient and give my Heart time.”

“Look.” Lianshi withdrew her hand and briskly brushed her hair back. “Think of it this way. You did the impossible to get here, but at the cost of your Heart, right? Now half of all your training is wasted as the benefits are vented. You have to literally work twice as hard to accomplish what anyone else here does normally.”

“Lianshi,” said Leonis in the same false, cheery tone. “Not helping.”

Scorio scowled at his hands. “I know. I just thought—hoped—I could force my way through. Just… overcome my limitations through sheer effort and willpower alone.”

“Doesn’t work that way,” said Lianshi softly. “It’s why the Academy doesn’t duplicate your approach for everyone else. It’s why we’re warned of excessive Coal use, why we’re told from the get-go to not consume treasures beyond our abilities. Sure it would give anyone a momentary advantage, but the cost…”

Silence. Scorio felt a pain in the back of his throat as nausea roiled through his guts. His hands were shivering, he saw, while the muscles across his back and neck were so tight, they felt as if they were cramping. “I just wanted…” He forced himself to stop, then hung his head. “I know. You’re right.”

“Those are the facts,” said Lianshi, her tone quiet but firm. “But it doesn’t mean you don’t have a chance tomorrow. As long as you’re paired up against another Cinder, you’ll be fine.”

“Sixty-three other contestants tomorrow,” said Scorio softly. “Of which one third are Emberlings. Odds are decent.”

“Not bad,” said Lianshi with a gentle smile. “But that’s not stopped you before. Now come on. Drink some water, go swim and wash off, then bed.”

“Yeah,” said Scorio, rising wearily to his feet. “All right.”

He felt Leonis and Lianshi’s concerned stares as he padded down the path through the ferns to the radiant blue pool. Shucking his robes, he slipped slowly into the water with a sigh. Ducked his head and swam underwater to the far side, using the motions to limber up his body, release the tension that had coiled within him. His head breached the water’s surface at the pool’s far side, and he sat upon the ledge, lips pursed, staring out at nothing.

He didn’t think about much. Instead, he just felt, his emotions passing through him in a continuous wave. A longing for Naomi, a fear of tomorrow’s match-up, the old anger at Praximar and the whole system, the frustration at himself. Finally, his mind settled on Jova Spike’s face. Her kohl-rimmed eyes, her full lips painted black, her dark skin, her raven hair. Why had she accepted his challenge? If he was so beneath her, she should have disdained the opportunity.

Because he was a Red Lister? An opportunity to humiliate him? To prove to herself that he was exactly what she thought, a worthless, conniving foe?

Or had there been something else? Her anger at the end, her furious outburst—wounded pride? Or…?

The puzzle was beyond him. His body ached, and he felt a hollowness within his chest that somehow felt heavy. With a sigh, he pushed forward, back into the pool, and slowly swam back. Back, to sleep, to rest, and then tomorrow, to fight.

* * *

The roar of the arena’s crowd crashed around him like waves in a storm. Thirty-two sparring circles were gathered close, and the scope and scale of the environment were as overwhelming and awesome as ever.

But Scorio ignored it all. Ignored the huge crowd, Helminth’s voice as she called out the rules, the roiling dark sky overhead, everything.

He had eyes only for his opponent. The sight of her caused his hopes to sink, filled his body with a sudden numbness that contrasted with the dizzying sensation in his mind. He tried to swallow and couldn’t; he felt his throat thicken as if his heart was beating right below it, causing it to close.

His opponent, on the other hand, appeared entirely unaffected by his appearance. She gazed at him with emotionless eyes, her expression lifeless, her eyes half-lidded, appearing somewhere between utterly disinterested and absolutely unimpressed.

Chloe.

He’d no classes with her, only glimpsed her occasionally during the morning runs or at mealtimes. Pale-skinned, with her tousled, curly red hair shorn short at the back and lengthening down the line of her jaw. She had a single, prominent beauty mark to the side of her upper lip and a watery, deathless stare that made her look like the veteran of a thousand brutal fights.

And she was an Emberling.

Scorio had studied every single one of his potential sixty-three opponents, with a focus on those who’d graduated to the next power level. He’d compiled three categories for them: absolutely no chance, extremely difficult, and brutal. There’d been only three Emberlings in the brutal category, five in the extremely difficult, with the rest all being absolutely no chance.

Which was where he’d placed Chloe.

Scorio blinked as the chimes sounded. Was that the second or third? Heart thudding, he raised his fists and fell into his customary combat crouch and swept Coal mana into his Heart. The cracks had receded overnight, with some sealing over altogether. Scorio at once felt euphoric over the effect of the first Sublime Purification pill, and mortified: at this rate, it would take dozens, if not scores of pills to heal his Heart back.

How by the ten hells was he supposed to hunt that many fiends in time?

The chime sounded again, and Chloe began walking toward him, unhurried, expressionless, with all the inevitability of sure death.

Scorio forced his breathing to slow, willed his thoughts to calm. There was a chance. Technically. As long as he didn’t let her touch him and trigger her power, he could feasibly defeat her.

Feasibly.

Warily he advanced, focusing on his breath, watching her carefully as they drew close. Her features were striking, almost boyish, and her confidence appeared total. She slowed, finally raised her fists, her watery, hazel eyes narrowing a fraction as she studied him.

Instead of closing in directly, Scorio immediately began to circle. He couldn’t let her land a blow. Which meant… drawing her out and riposting.

Chloe wasn’t interested in wasting time. She came right at him, her path curving to match his own, and then she darted forward, kicking out at his knee.

A light blow that would have resulted in but a tap, but Scorio immediately willed his Heart to ignite as he jerked back hurriedly. Her kick swished, and she came in again, throwing out a couple of quick jabs.

Suffused with power, Scorio dodged, his nerves making him exaggerate the movement. Skipped aside to gain a couple of yards again, and hunched his shoulders, fists coming up before his face.

He felt light on his feet, his stomach fluttering painfully, his skin prickling. His mouth was parched, but still, he tried to lick his lips as he circled again.

Chloe frowned, impatient, and closed once more, coming right at him. She could afford to take a couple of punches if it meant landing just one of her own.

Scorio darted in and risked a punch at her face, extending himself to his full reach, and cracked a blow into her cheek. Her head snapped back, but before she could react, he kicked at her leg, hammering his shin against her thigh.

Chloe hissed in pain, but Scorio danced back and away.

“You can’t run forever,” she said, tone venomous, and again came right at him.

And she was right. But, heart pounding, Scorio kept moving, light on his feet, backing away as she came at him with bullish intensity. He threw a couple more jabs and she didn’t even flinch.

No feinting, then.

With a snarl she leaped at him, unleashing a flurry of punches, and Scorio leaped back, nearly tripped, then retreated as quickly as he could. She came right after, throwing punch after punch, her expression darkening with growing anger. Desperate, Scorio timed it just right; caught his weight on his back foot, then surged forward and under her punch, to slam a tight uppercut into her sternum.

He heard the air whoosh out of her, and in a frenzy of fear threw himself aside before she could land an elbow. He danced back then checked his instincts—he had to make the most of this single moment. She was hunched over, eyes wide, turning to face him. He lunged forward, cracked a punch across her jaw, hit her with a cross. She reeled, staggered back onto her heels.

A decisive blow. He needed to end this now as his Heart guttered. With a cry, he threw a powerful cross, the kind that could pulverize a brick—and she ducked and swayed under it, suddenly in control of herself once more.

She’d lured him in, he realized, pretended to be weaker than she was—

Her punch slammed into his ribs, tearing a grunt from him.

But then she was gone, flickering away from view, and Scorio twisted about, trying desperately to locate her—

She was behind him, and punched him right in the kidneys. Then disappeared again.

Appeared by his side to smash her fist across his jaw, and disappeared once more.

Scorio roared in pain and frustration, swung his arm out wide, a blind backhand that swept through the space in which he hoped she’d appear.

No luck. She was behind him again, and the blow to the back of his head was like being brained by a club. He staggered forward, his vision filling with radiant light. Each time she hit him she instantly repositioned herself to the most optimum location, was able to hit him harder, faster than before.

Another blow buried itself in his gut, followed almost immediately by a second smashing into the side of his knee, then a third straight into his face.

Faster and faster they came. From all directions, her momentum building, building, until Scorio felt himself in the center of a vortex of pain, unable to defend, to block, to do more than hunch over, arms before his face.

Blow after blow, each stronger than the last. His leg broke, his ribs staved in, and then she caught him right under the chin and crushed his throat.

He fell, the blows still coming, but he knew it was already over. A second later, a terrible force came crashing down upon his skull, and all went dark.

* * *

Scorio awoke upon his bier. No pain. All the agony was wiped away. He lay still, eyes closed, hearing the hubbub all around him, the voices raised in excitement, others in anger. Lay still, internalizing what had just happened.

He’d lost.

He was out of the tournament.

It was strange. He’d known this was going to happen. The odds had been against his advancing another round. Yet somehow, despite the impossibility of it, he’d thought he’d make it. Would somehow find a way to claw his way through, defeating whoever came at him… and…

Scorio exhaled. And what? Prove to be the exception to all accepted rules and expectations?

Suddenly he felt bereft, childish, immature. The world didn’t work that way. You couldn’t keep getting lucky, couldn’t continuously defy the odds, and come ahead through sheer desire alone.

“Scorio?” Leonis was by his side. “Hey. You did well. As well as you could, at any rate.”

He opened his eyes, stared up at the distant ceiling, and nodded. “Yeah, thanks.”

Lianshi appeared at his other side. “When I saw it was Chloe…”

Scorio sat up, rubbed vigorously at his face, and said nothing.

“We’ve still got some nine weeks left,” said Leonis, peering into his face. “This isn’t over.”

“But it will be if I don’t change things up.” Scorio looked up, feeling bleak but honest with himself. “I can’t follow the Academy’s routines and expect to come ahead. Even our weekly runs at the Gauntlet won’t make a difference, not compared to the top students who are being force-fed elite treasures every day.”

“Then?” Lianshi bit her lip, hesitated, then gave a despairing shrug. “What else is there?”

“I don’t know.” Scorio stared down at his hands. “But there has to be something I’m overlooking. Maybe if I can convince Naomi to give me one of her vials. Or…” He blew out his cheeks. “I don’t know.”

“We’ve got nine weeks to figure it out,” said Leonis, crossing his arms and frowning.

“Yeah.” Scorio felt hollow, light, almost weightless. As if the bonds that held him to his body, to the bier, to the world, were falling away.

Around them, Great Souls were congratulating the winners, comforting the losers, and then grew silent as Praximar gave them his laudatory speech. Scorio ignored it all. More and more, he was coming to accept that the Academy wasn’t the answer. Its systems ensured the outcome. The strong got ever stronger, and those who’d been unfortunate enough to not merit attention fell ever behind.

But if the answer didn’t lie with the Academy, then where? The Houses were denied to him. They’d not patronize him if he came crawling offering treasures. He couldn’t reach Imperator Sol, and even if he did, he doubted the Imperator would help him further.

So what was left?

In his mind, he saw the ruins, Naomi’s tower, the tunnels beneath the old Academy, the fiends in their hundreds existing within their complex ecosystem.

Then he thought of Nox, the Imperial Ghost Toad, and blinked.

“Actually. I may have an idea.”

“Oh?” Leonis rocked back onto his heels and raised an eyebrow. “Raid the Academy’s treasure house?”

“What?” Scorio stared at him. “We can do that?”

“We absolutely can’t,” said Lianshi, glaring at Leonis. “It’s better guarded than even the Final Door. Maybe if we were each a Charnel Duke.”

“Oh.” The hope died as quickly as it had flared. “No. But before I share it with you guys, I want to do some research.”

“You’re not going to keep us in suspense,” said Lianshi, tone dire.

“That would be incredibly cruel of you,” agreed Leonis, lowering his chin to stare at Scorio from under his brows. “A cruelty that might cost you your dearest friendships.”

Scorio couldn’t help it. Despite the desolation he felt from having lost, he found himself chuckling. “Fine. Come on. I’ll tell you about it on the way to the library.”

Praximar dismissed them, and everyone was filing out, the four hundred or so Great Souls all embroiled in conversation, discussing the fights that had just taken place.

Filled with purpose, Scorio pushed off the bier and began to stride through the crowd, not caring whom he cut off.

It was a terrible idea. The kind that would make Hera curse his stupidity, Naomi roll her eyes in despair, and which no sane Great Soul would ever take seriously.

But it was exactly the kind of plan that had gotten him this far.