January 22nd, 2022
***
Clare didn't show up in the morning. She called in - said something about being busy. Said to work hard, focus, called him an idiot, and that was about all he remembered; Richter hadn't paid much attention.
-Honestly not his fault, she shouldn't have called at five o'clock.
But more importantly, it meant he was on his own. This was his first chance at autonomy since arriving on Carson II, and it was due time to shop for clothes and basic goods — Gouging on snacks and sports drinks got old quickly. He zipped up a tracksuit, jeans, and a jacket and grabbed the bag of silver by his bedside.
"Deposit."
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[Name: Richter Maier || Mana: 0%/100% || Level 25: 0% XP || Unused Attribute Points: 0]
[Class: Swordsman (intrinsic)]
[Subclass: Dueler]
[Attributes: Strength: 25 || Agility: 28 || Constitution: 21 || Magic: 50 || Intelligence 14]
[Abilities: Transcendent Bloodlust (innate), Transcendent Sense (innate), Swordsman's Tenacity (passive), Swordsman's Agility (passive), Swordsman's Deflection || Skills: Sunder, Harden, Lightspeed ]
[49 Silver || 9 Copper || 0 Healing Potions || 0 Mana Potions]
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He tested the withdrawal function too, to make sure it worked as Nax described: It did. Maybe she wasn't all bad, though Richter still didn't get how she sniffed out his extra money. Probably had connections to some of the backups.
So why bother? There was no need to hint that she found out about the spar. Why did she do it? Was there a reason at all?
It was stuck in the back of his mind. He was just shy of two weeks in this new reality, and every piece of information created more questions than answers. There was so much he wanted to know about mana and magic, arenas, space stations, bloodlines, subclasses and competitions, dimensions and more. Thoughts flipped end over end in his mind like the silver coin across his fingers; All of this overthinking drove him crazy. He hadn't felt this left out since he was a kid.
The Ëinhãŕl were his only lead. Drek had mentioned they were supposed to teach this stuff. If true, then that would be his chance; He just had to figure out what they were, where to find them, and how to get to them. Oh, and make it home safely. That was a big one.
"Status."
Still drained from training, Richter bought his daily limit of two mana potions and downed them. One silver equaled one hundred copper, and the conversion was handled automatically when getting the spare change back. It gave him a bit of context on the economy: Fifty silver felt like a small fortune.
And damn it couldn't have come sooner, cause as he walked out of the hotel - stiff, itchy, robotic, uncomfortable - he cursed Clare's name yet again.
She didn't acknowledge or care that his wardrobe consisted of mismatched hand-me-downs. Hell, it could be someone else's wardrobe entirely — Maybe the clothes of a dead man who failed the assassination before him. If only the fabrics could talk the same way blades did.
Like when he heard the rough grips or knicks or dull spots that whimpered along a sword's edge. Here he saw small stains in a few sleeves, with some scratches and tears in others, but the clothes didn't let slip any secrets.
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Planet: Carson II.
Day-Night Cycle: Thirty-six hours.
Time: 7:12
Day: Twelve hours.
Night: Twenty-four hours.
Lunar Cycle: Eight days. (3/8)
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Their star had barely risen, tucked behind skyscrapers in the backdrop of the deepest parts of the city. Traditional trucks and SUVs drove along the road in bumper-to-bumper traffic, emitting fumes from their exhausts. Each painted line and lane was perfect; no potholes or faded colors.
It was a little off-putting.
The bumps and grunts of annoyed pedestrians pulled him out of his reverie. He had been standing in the center of a busy sidewalk, something that would have annoyed him, too.
This excursion was also a chance to learn about the city. He'd need to know his way around should his current arrangements go up in flames. The right led toward the facility and market; The left led back to Drek's place and the border of another family. Most of the block was occupied by dojos or gyms, and at the far right end was some kind of floating gas station. Two side streets branched out across the road with a large multi-story parking garage shared between them. It dwarfed the hotel, but most buildings in the area did.
Hovercars lifted up in pairs from the twelfth level and rushed off to who knows where. They had sleek designs, with four wheel-sized thrusters built into the bottom of the frame. Blue flames boiled the air underneath, funneling the updraft into a glass tube connecting the corners in an X shape. The air was superheated further into a yellow plasma that spread through the rest of the frame.
Even the cars were cloaked in the colors and symbols of families. What stood out most was the variety. He'd only seen and heard about 'the top three', and never considered how many other families existed here. Shame he was too far to make out the symbols. Making out the designs had strained his Sixth Sense enough.
The architecture - the principles and tools and aesthetic - were all so...earthly. So enticing. It didn't click with him. Aliens should be alien; they should look like freaks. But even the parking garage looked vaguely like it was made of concrete. It'd be a hell of an adjustment phase if every human planet felt like this.
He thought back to the gold trim, display cases, and fancy weapons that people ogled in Nax's shop. It reminded him of Vegas — A great place to visit, a terrible place to live. This type of city drew people in by appearing opportunistic, like anyone could make it if they seized the chance. It put what you wanted in arm's reach, then demanded the arm in exchange.
Seems that was coming true before his eyes.
He was drawn to a dojo across the street with a line around the corner. Its neon blue sign lit up with bright flashing words he couldn't read — These people must have lined up hours in advance. They were a strange sight, wearing reds and whites and purples, all the colors excluding brown, green, and blue. A pair of hired muscle stood sentry at the door in black button-up suits. His Sense slipped out for more details, snaking up and around the guards, then inside.
Or at least he tried to. Their heads snapped to his position the moment his Sense got to them. They employed some form of ability to intercept it. Honestly, he was impressed — they took an aggressive approach. He likened their efforts to a jammer or EMP - something that tried to disorient his Sense instead of shielding from it. People on Earth seldom noticed his Sixth Sense, let alone tried to disrupt it. Now it felt like most people could detect and trace it back to the source.
'How can I resist?' he mused.
—So tempting. It was so tempting to bust through their protection and scan inside. It was a bad habit in the making. Their glares hinted at bloodlust, but neither moved from their post. They really knew how to make a guy curious. It's not like it was a secret; the front wall had glass windows and there were dozens of people lined up to enter. There must be something more happening under the hood.
The pair picked up on this train of thought and reined it in. They stopped staring and let go of their bloodlust, but kept the jammer.
What would a normal person do in this situation?
He didn't know. Normal had gone out the window two weeks ago.
Wanting to act like just another guy, he did what felt natural: he crossed the road and got in line. No, he wasn't distracted. This was of utmost importance. It had nothing to do with the fact that it was a dojo, and most people in line appeared to use swords. This was a chance to gain insight. And it was on the way to the market, so might as well take a peek.
***
It was an hour-long wait. There was an entry and ID process at the door, but weirdly he was excluded from it — The guards didn't bat an eye. He was among the last inside before they stopped accepting more people. At a rough estimate, one hundred made it in. There were three boxing rings, some sandbags, a couple training posters, and a lot of straw dummies. To no surprise, it was decorated in shades of blue, but otherwise drab and bland. All function over form.
The others passed all that to group in the back before a podium with a glowing scroll. A blue band was tired around it with a seal and signature. The energy was electric; no one spoke but the silence was deafening. Each person eyed the scroll like it was their lover. They wanted it bad.
Then a guy in white took center stage, climbing the steps and surveying the crowd.
He lingered on Richter for a little longer.
His uniform had a symbol of a scaly snakehead with large dripping fangs that matched the white of his shoulder-length hair. It was an older guy — Richter was feeling mid-thirties.
"Welcome everyone." He gave a light smile, picking up the scroll. "I know we're all tired, so I'll keep this short: We're here for the weekly raffle. Another Teleport Scroll is up for grabs, and the challenge is quite simple."
He snapped his fingers, and the guards pushed a tremendous amount of mana through their bodies. But they didn't pool it in their muscles or limbs — they sent it to their brains. A concept that fascinated Richter.
[Telekinesis - 100%]
The straw dummies smoothly lifted into the air one after another, transported across the dojo in rapid succession. It took thirty seconds to move them all. Did they even realize what they were doing? Richter didn't think so. He squinted hard to check for hidden ropes or mana threads, anything that would make it an illusion or physical feat.
There were none. They really did it with just their minds. Admittedly, his knowledge was limited. But in his experience, the only way to do such a thing was to impose their own reality on the dummies.
They had touched upon one of the hardest concepts required to master the five senses. Maybe it was different because of the mana involved, but few disciples he'd taught had ever grasped it. And he'd never seen it used to lift objects.
The man cleared his throat once the dummies were set.
"As you can see, each person will be performing a cut on a dummy. The one with the cleanest cut wins the scroll. You can use any technique you want, but you only get one move. Any questions?"
No one raised their hand. As everyone got ready, the guy locked eyes with Richter again.
"...One more thing. We have a surprise guest with us; a Scathher came to spectate." Everyone turned back to look at him. The mix of emotions directed his way were overwhelming: envy, hatred, awe, fear. "As always, we are all grateful to the Scathhers for sponsoring this raffle and providing the dojo."
The man gave a long pause, like he forgot what he wanted to say. Richter was tempted by the scroll - it was exactly the kind of Plan B he needed - but he couldn't participate. The man in white had made that clear by calling him a spectator. It wouldn't reflect well if the 'sponsor' stole the prize away.
"Apologies, everyone. I'm more tired than I realized. Go ahead and line up. You can make the cut when you're ready, but there's a five-minute time limit. Good luck.
With that, the crowd broke apart as each hurried to claim a dummy. Some were nonchalant, and others were acting like one dummy could be better than another — They were all just straw. He'd analyzed them for tampering during the introduction and found nothing.
The man in white set an alarm clock on the podium, "Begin."
Cries and grunts rang out as some took their swings immediately. He approached Richter off to the side.
"What do you think? There are some real talents among the other families."
"I guess some of them are okay," Richter answered thoughtlessly. He barely processed the guy's question, more intent on watching. He wasn't one to mince words. It was disappointing that the challenge was so simple. It would have been great to see duels or spars or anything more involved. Essentially, he'd wasted the last hour - what a letdown. It dawned on him that this was an event geared toward amateurs. These people weren't from the top three, and it showed.
Some people went for deep cuts, some thin. They used a variety of styles he didn't know, but nothing stood out.
A few bisected their dummies and were quite proud of themselves, though the cuts were rough and uneven. Some went for the head or arms, as if that would give a better result. Regardless of their technique, they all used the same bland approach.
By now, the man in white was fuming beside him, balling his fists till his knuckles turned white. He glanced down at the katana on Richter's hip. "Then show us. Show us what it means to be more than 'okay' in the eyes of a Scathher."
All he could do was sigh. Here he goes again, with another flame burning so bright and yet so weak. Richter saw the fire in his eyes and the determination. He saw that fire in the eyes of everyone present.
Ever since they gathered in the dojo, that energy that resonated so strongly. He'd been here before. He'd learned from his mistakes.
There were still four minutes left on the clock, but the man stepped forward, intending to grab everyone's attention. Richter stopped him and shook his head.
"That's not necessary."
"So you can't back it up? Then take back what you said. Scathhers are such cowards."
He looked terrified as the words left his mouth, like he had committed a grave sin. He winced and prepared for retaliation, but nothing came. There was a change though, Richter had gripped his katana. A chill traveled down his spine, and then back up as the temperature dropped.
"I meant it's not necessary to call them over. I don't want to demoralize a whole group; I'll settle with just you.
Him? A coward? He may have said Scathher, but the context definitely included himself. Richter had learned from his mistakes... but some people needed a wake-up call. If the guy couldn't get past it, then Richter was saving him time. Best to quit now than later. He walked over to an unused dummy - it would have been his had he participated - and plucked a single piece of straw from it before walking back over.
"Pay attention."
[Mana Surge - 5%]
He flicked the straw into the air and took a step back, watching and reflecting. This was such a waste of his talents. A mere party trick.
His lead foot tensed as the straw fell into range — That brief second was all he needed to see. Its path played back in his mind, his katana slid out, and then...
[Shikigami Style - Draw]
No mana, neither fast nor slow. He sliced the straw in half.
Vertically.
He flipped the blade and gingerly caught both halves on the flat side, laying them parallel. The man in white couldn't speak. He couldn't find the words.
"Take them. It'll serve as a reminder." Richter held his blade up to the man who took the halves. They were sliced cleanly, evenly. You couldn't tell they were ever together. And like had happened many times in the past, he saw the fire in the man's eyes sputter and flicker. It started dying, shrinking until embers remained.
There was no reason to stick around; he'd seen enough. A handful of others had witnessed his cut, but most were still focused on making their own. He sheathed his katana and went for the door.
The guards had witnessed it too, and their bloodlust was among the strongest. It was like when he first tried to peek inside. Finally, he realized that there was no ploy or foul play going on here; their bloodlust was simpler than that. They - like many others at the dojo - had a bone to pick with Scathher.
Some grudges never went away.
***