Chương 234: Arc 4 - Chapter 36

Bert was not well, but he would be, once he'd beat the smirk off that bastard in front of him. He stood upon the bloodstained sands of the brawling ring, his fists and face dripping thickly with red.

"What's wrong, gutter rat? A real warrior too much for you?" his opponent chuckled. He was a large man, foreign, lithe and well-muscled, and a foot taller than Bert himself. His skin was brown, ridged and rigid. It must have been some Ability or Strain that turned his flesh to wood. His smooth mane of black was pulled back in an unruly tail. Bert spat, then bared his scarlet-tinted teeth in a grin.

"Too much? I don't know the meaning. I'll take everything you got, and then some." The man, who had been announced as Treltear Oakfriend, raised his hands, his knuckles painted with blood. Bert's blood.

"If that's what you want," he said, stepping forward and lashing out with a fist. Bert slipped the strike and closed in, dropping his shoulder, then preparing an uppercut. Just as he was about to spring up, putting the full force of both his legs and his arm into the blow, his feet were swept from under him. A kick, one that imitated the swaying of a willow, had struck him just below the knee with undeniable strength and what felt like Momentum.

He tumbled, but it was a controlled fall that Bert turned into a sideways roll, before rising right back up to his feet and throwing a heavy punch at the man's liver. A wooden elbow, solid and strong, blocked it. A thunk sounded, and the skin on his knuckles throbbed. Thanks to the frequent use of his fists and his Tough Skin Passive, his flesh didn't tear. It barely even hurt. Though his attack had been thwarted, Bert didn't let up. He punched with his other hand, then kicked, then punched again.

These were also blocked or narrowly avoided. Undeterred, Bert pushed himself to move swifter and to swing harder. His blows rained down on his foe, who defended against each strike expertly, before responding to the assault with methodical punches of his own. One such punch, cunningly calculated, struck Bert full in the chest. His sternum cracked from the impact, though it was immediately mended by his Imbued Bones. He could feel the magic being taken from his heart, where it pounded vigorously.

Then his Vitality, which infused each part of his body, took over, stopping any swelling and easing the bruise before it ever had a chance to bloom. Still, he had to take a step back and suck in a deep breath, because the wind had been knocked right out of him.

"Your fists are as light as rain. No, weaker, a drizzle," his foe taunted. Bert straightened and stepped back into his stance.

"And you're all bark and no bite." Treltear frowned, whether it was a reaction to the very good joke or the sudden recovery, he couldn't say. Bert chomped at the air with a snap, which only seemed to unsettle, or maybe intrigue, the man.

"Get him, Bert!" Rosie shouted as the crowd cheered and jeered. Bert was glad that at least one of the audience was on his side, even if it was only her. The rest could all go drown themselves. They'd turned on him as soon as he'd taken a few heavy blows. So much for Rain City fellowship. The bloodthirsty crowd were likely just sick of him winning every fight. Though it was always exciting to be in a brawl, to hurt and be hurt in turn, he knew that it could get boring to watch.

Especially when it was one-sided, like many of his recent bouts were. There was a severe lack of brawlers at his own level; only the more grizzled of the browncoats really matched up, and of those of them that were willing to go toe to toe with him were few and far between. It had led Bert to the conclusion that most, if not all, of them were bloody cowards and craven bullies. This left him with dregs, those who had Climbed only a few floors of each Spire in Rain City.

Foreigners usually avoided the underground fights or would not even know about them. And even then, Climbers of great strength would find more coin duelling in the arena than slugging it out in the brawling ring. It was also safer, considering the better healers it had. Bert thought it odd that this powerful foreigner had found his way down to the districts and had sought him out to fight. He hadn't considered it before, but he wondered if it could be a setup.

His gut agreed with him, though he didn't know who had it out for him. Maybe he'd just won too much, or maybe it was because he never took a fall even when told to. That must have ruffled some feathers. Either way, that wasn't important right now, not while his opponent was rushing at him. Bert matched the charge with one of his own, and they slammed together with a meaty thwack. Though he had wrapped his body in Momentum, his foe didn't even stagger.

Instead, he could feel the subtle, irresistible waves of Treltear's Momentum clashing with his own. His power held for a moment before it was overwhelmed, and he was pushed back. Bert seized the man's rough arms, his feet dug into the coarse sand, and he strained. He pulled on the power pounding in his heart, sending its strength into his limbs. Bloodwell pulsed forth, his muscles swelling and his veins bulging like vines beneath his skin. Both men came to a slow stop, grunting and growling.

Bert attempted to toss his foe to the floor, but the bastard was rooted firmly in place. Then he himself was lifted into the air and thrown over Treltear's shoulder. Bert landed in a roll, as he'd been trained to by his tumbling instructor, then was up and sweeping a kick at his foe's leg. It struck with bone-jarring force, but it was like kicking a tree trunk and just as ineffective. To his surprise, he heard a hiss from his opponent.

Treltear turned swiftly, spinning around with a backhanded fist that Bert ducked by an inch. It was followed by a punch that caught him in the jaw, breaking it despite the veins of moonsilver lacing his bones. The pain was terrible, but in less than a second, all that was crushed by the powerful blow cracked back into place. It drew upon his Bloodwell, and his arms felt like they were deflating; the magic sucked away instead of his Stamina. Bert spat bloodily and glared at the mildly shocked face of his foe.

That shock soon shifted into an expression of begrudging appreciation.

"Huh," Treltear said. Bert sprang forward and loosed a storm of punches. Again, his fists were blocked by wooden limbs, but now that he knew his strikes could injure the flesh below the bark-like skin, he kept striking despite the solid defence. He didn't bother with precise blows, not while his foe was so focused on guarding himself. Instead, he struck again and again, growing swifter with every punch and ignoring the pain in his fists and all the blood dripping from his torn knuckles.

Though only one in three attacks struck squarely against the swaying, rooted style, it was well worth the effort and the brutal aches running up his arms. Because no one could weather his storm. His foe scowled under the bloody assault, and his arms began to drop. Bert grinned. With a snarl, Treltear lashed out with his own punches and kicks, abandoning his defence and relying on his wooden flesh to endure the onslaught. The blows were precise, aimed at where it would hurt most, and they did hurt, a lot.

But still, Bert didn't let himself relent; he was harming his foe, too. Every punch he repaid savagely, every kick he returned viciously. Thuds drummed out, but were drowned in the cries of the crowd. The yells of both the brawlers surged above the roar, as they beat upon each other. Though his foe's strikes broke ribs and splintered bones, Bert recovered quickly from each wound. His Vitality and Bloodwell coursed through his veins and bubbled throughout his body, easing any injuries.

Still, those pounding energies were dimming steadily and would soon run out if he took too much punishment. The bark-skinned man, whose Durability was nothing to be scoffed at, took less overt injury, but Bert knew from his movements that he was hurting, that the barrage of blows had not been in vain. There were wounds below the surface, pummelled muscles and battered bones, nearing ever closer to breaking. A powerful punch sent Bert to the sand. The crowd screamed.

But in a moment, he was back up again, with a lopsided grin. The blow wasn't nearly as heavy as some of the others he'd suffered at the start of the match.

"Your fists are weak, getting tired?" Bert taunted. He knew that the punch had been robbed of most of its power by his Die Hard Evolution, Wall of Wounds, which raised his toughness the more wounded he was, but there was also something else. Something that couldn't be attributed only to his foe's condition. There had been a trembling in his Sanctum, only barely felt above the rumbling of the crowd. He'd been close, so close, to raising one of his Techniques.

The Arte Pugilist, he hoped, as it had been stubbornly stagnating despite his constant training and his frequent brawls. But if it were the other one, he wouldn't complain either, especially because of all the reading Fritz claimed it required. If there were a shortcut to be found through fighting, he'd love to rub it in his too-pretty face. Tretear growled, though his eyes were more feverish than furious, and stepped forward, resuming his assault. Bert bore it and struck him back.

Smacks, slaps, thuds and thwacks continued to sound as fists met flesh, wooden and toughed alike. Minutes passed, but neither fell. The shouts of the crowd had quieted, now a dull murmur as they watched Bert and Teltear land blow after blow against each other. Both were flagging, panting, sweating, chests heaving and bleeding. And still they swung. Bert's eyes were bleary, and the world closed in, darkening at the edges.

The pulsing power of his Advanced Attributes was near silent for once, extended too far, and fully expended. His limbs burned numbly, and his breath came in ragged gasps. His Sanctum trembled each time he was struck, but didn't quake. A knee to the gut brought him low; he felt as though he'd lose his dinner. Bert's head spun, and blackness gripped him tighter. He was going to lose. Losing was death. Drifting, drowned, down the gutter. The end. Gritting his teeth, he seethed. A shadow loomed over him.

Tall like a tree. It swayed, but not from the wind. There was none. It was tipping because it was ready to fall. Just one more strike, a felling stroke. Bert rose in a leap, his fist swept up in an uppercut. He was struck in the jaw before it landed, and he toppled. Pain bloomed down the side of his face, and the darkness grew deeper. Another strike thudded, a kick. Thankfully, the blow didn't break any of his bones; the mending would have drained his stamina completely and knocked him unconscious.

He still had some left, enough for another attempt. A last attempt. Bert bellowed and leapt again, and was met by a fist. A punch glanced off his cheek and bounced off his neck. His Sanctum quaked, and his muscles and skin tingled and tightened. His whole body felt as though it were underwater, pushed on all sides by powerful currents. Then the sensation faded, leaving behind a strange stiffness and a solidness. He ignored it, focusing on his foe.

He drove his knuckles just under the man's chin, snapping his loose jaw closed. Treltear staggered, and Bert struggled to remain standing. Throwing an ungainly hook, Bert pressed forward. It was blocked, barely, and countered by an unsteady straight. He felt the punch had little weight behind it, but it bounced off his chest with a solid thud, so it must have had some strength. Snarling a feral grin, Bert slipped past a swaying kick, then struck.

His fist landed true, right in the temple, and finally, eyes rolling back into his head, his foe toppled. Treltear fell in a heap, and the announcer yelled Bert's victory. The crowd cheered. He raised his red fists to the roof and soaked in the triumph. After what could have been a minute or a moment, he lowered them and slouched, then was led away from the ring. His vision was blurry, and the sound was muffled, but he knew he was being taken to the Healer. He wondered who was on duty.

"Hope it's Jane," he croaked.

"What?" the woman leading him asked.

"The Healer," Bert explained.

"I hope it's Jane."

"Why?" the now annoyed voice asked. Bert glanced at the speaker and, upon seeing her scales, knew it was Rosie. Stolen novel; please report.

"What, are you jealous?" Bert asked, trying to grin wide but finding it too painful. He settled on a smug smile. Rosie scoffed.

"No, she's just a bitch. Real nasty piece of work if you ask me. Worse than Lauren. And also, she's ugly." Bert chuckled coarsely.

"She's not so bad. Once you get to know her."

"I don't care. I don't want to know her." Soon, Bert was lying on a bed, the Healer on duty, who turned out not to be Jane, had taken care of his worst wounds and then had applied remedies to his cuts and bruises. He was being bandaged when he decided to drop into his Sanctum and see what Technique he had mastered further. His own arena dwarfed the one he had just fought in, and the cheers were nearly deafening, though he could still hear himself perfectly, nor did it affect his ability to think.

Such was the case with Sanctums. A strange thing, but not really mysterious. He brought up his Spire Sheet with a thought and took it in in all its glory, all his glory.

Spire Readout Name: Albert Level: 20 Path: Brute Strain: Human Sigil: Sunken Spire, Gold(10), Mer Spire, Gold(10).

Attributes Strength: 24 Agility: 18 Endurance: 24 Perception: 6 Focus: 0 Memory: 0 Advanced Attributes Bloodwell: 9 Dawnsong: 6 Momentum: 12 Synergy: 6 Vitality: 33 Activated 3/3 Concussive Blow A strike that ripples with whispered thunder. Surges, swells and breaks asunder.

Corrosive Spray A gout, a torrent, a sizzling spray. Rusts and ruins, and eats away.

Bull Rush Seeing red, snort, charge! Fury full, trample, charge!

Passive 3 /3 Tough Skin - Evolution 1/3 A hide inured, can bear the brunt, of strikes aplenty, sharp and blunt.

Corrosive Conditioning Burning, bubbling, hissing pain s. Suffer through, and anguish wanes.

Vital Bond Help each other, to any lengths. Beast is brother, share your strengths.

Trait 3/3 Imbued Bones: Mend Scribed skeletal, the runes that bind, the fractured framework, that shapes your kind.

Potent Blood Veins full of lifeblood, a red stream wending, pounding proudly, from a heart unending.

Dawn's Bond A friendship, golden, that forgets the borders, of beast or fairy, or godly orders.

Path 1/3 Die Hard - Evolution 2 /3 Battered, bloody, breaking, beat. Never fall, to death's conceit.

Technique 3 /3 The Observations (Novice) Whittle away, scatter survive, poor prevail, covertly thrive.

Arte Pugilist (Journeyman) Strike, Slip, Punch, Kick, Dive, Skip, Grab, Flip.

Conflict Conditioned Body (Novice) Like tempered steel and beaten leather, your body's bettered by all you weather.

Strain 0/3 His gaze drifted to the bottom, and rather than finding his mastery had increased, he discovered that he had a new Technique.

Conflict Conditioned Body (Novice) Like tempered steel and beaten leather, your body's bettered by all you weather. This Technique grants minor benefits to the toughness of your body. You are harder to harm, afflict, hobble or render unconscious. Abilities gained and Evolved are more likely to be influenced with these effects.

You have endured a regimen of injuries, suffering systematically from many kinds of harm including blades, bludgeons, fists, fire, cold and corrosive fluids. You have maintained a mana-dense diet. You have been in many battles. You have nearly died.

While the addition was not what he'd been expecting, he was pleased with it. He and Rosie had been trying to learn this, or something close to it, like the Stony Skin or Iron Bones Techniques he'd been told about. While this one didn't sound as impressive, it also didn't appear to be as focused on certain body parts. From the description, it fortified his entire being, which could only be a benefit. He preferred broad advantages to the overly specific, even if they were less powerful.

Best to be tough all over, instead of having a weakness that could be exploited. That, and his skin and bones were already reinforced with magic and metals. Having seen what he'd needed to, he left his Sanctum, though only after roaring a victorious cry to the arena around him and basking in the well-earned cheers. Then he was in that bed again, the sickly-iron scent of blood returning. He wrinkled his nose. Bert lay there, a smile stretching onto his face. Another step forward, now he was tougher than ever.

He could protect Fritz, Dale and the team much better now. That was good because one of them got in a lot of trouble a lot of the time. He sighed. Bert wondered if Fritz was alright. It had been a week since he'd left, so if he Climbed quickly, he should be back soon. If he hadn't died. Not that there was much chance for that, the man was slipperier than an eel and thrice as clever. Even if his whole crew died, he'd find a way to escape. It was his nature. Bert missed him and his stupid, self-satisfied smile.

The world just wasn't the same without him around; it felt... hollow. Though there was plenty of fun to be had in his absence, many of those pleasures would soon pale into pointlessness. A rich voice spoke from another bed near his.

"Did you get it?"

"Get what?" Bert asked, turning his head with a wince.

"The resilience Technique you were working on," the voice continued, though the words were muffled, stiff. Bert frowned, then narrowed his eyes. It was Treltear; he was also bandaged and painted with pastes and greases. His ruggedly handsome face was swollen around the jaw and one eye.

"How did you know?"

"Huh?"

"How did you know I learned Conflict Conditioned Body?"

"I was hired to beat it into you," Treltear said without shame.

"What?" Bert blurted.

"By who?"

"Didn't get a name. But a big guy, grey beard and hair. Had a rapier," he replied.

"Sir Needle," Bert muttered.

"What a prick. Did he also pay you to beat me half to death?" Treltear smiled up one side of his, now healed, face and nodded.

"That's right. Helps the Technique along. It's a bastard to learn otherwise."

"So I should be thanking you then?" Bert asked.

"No need, the gold is thanks enough," Treltear said.

"But if you insist on further thanks, dinner wouldn't go amiss." The man attempted a wink, but his eye was too bruised. Bert considered, and as he did, Rosie spoke up. She had been leaning against the wall, watching and listening with a vacant smile.

"Hey, I'm meant to learn that Technique too. Think you can teach me as well?" Rosie asked. The man glanced her up and down, then hesitated.

"And I'll buy you dinner for a full week," she added.

"Uh, I don't know-""And I'll pay you."

"It's a painful process..."

"I don't mind if it's rough," she leered, then smiled her shark's grin.

"Come on, I'm tough. And I like to fight."

"Sure," he hedged, though he seemed more startled by her forwardness than disinterested in the offer.

"I'll join you, if you'd like," Bert suggested.

"For both dinner and training."

"Yeah, the more the merrier," Rosie agreed. Treltear looked between the two. They both grinned, and he slowly nodded, and a smile stretching his bruised lips.

Cal was tired, but he pulled up more weeds. It was muddy work, but not truly strenuous, not compared to his daily training. He stared around at the ill-kept garden of Fritz's estate. He'd already made his mark; most of the unwanted plants that were choking the flower beds had been ripped up, but there was still much to do. Cal eventually wanted to begin planting. He had seeds of both a mundane and magical nature, and he wanted to see what he could grow. That, and he found gardening strangely calming.

Although it was not quite as fun or as rewarding as cooking, it did speak to something inside him. A desire to shape his own surroundings, maybe. He shook his head, water pouring off his hat. He wasn't a deep thinker; he hadn't the knowledge for that, not yet. He just hadn't read enough. Though he was working on that, too. And not just because Jess praised his efforts. That was just a benefit. A great one. A warmth settled in his chest and crept onto his face when the woman came to mind.

She was beautiful, and smart and refined. She was polite too, and not in that cold, cutting way Lauren was. Jess was kind. You had to be, to be a good teacher, which she was. He hoped she liked flowers.

"You're nearly done? Already?" the groundskeeper asked. Cal nearly jumped. He hadn't heard the older man coming. They'd met before, of course, and he'd learned a thing or three when the groundskeeper offered his advice, or rather chided him for doing a poor job and showed him the proper way to do things.

"What?" he asked, thinking he might be in for another lecture on the right way to pull up the stubborn, thorned plants.

"The weeds, you've almost got them all," the man replied.

"You've done the job of three men in half the time. You Climbers really are something. But wouldn't your time and effort be better spent another way? Gardening is hardly Climber's work." Cal smiled and shrugged.

"Neither's cooking, but I like it, too." The man nodded, then stood there awkwardly with a pensive expression. He looked to be debating something with himself.

"Can I help you with something?" Cal asked, standing up from his crouch.

"You already have," he said.

"This would have taken me some weeks to tame this garden all alone."

"I'm happy to help," Cal said.

"Aye, I can see that," the groundskeeper agreed.

"Begging your pardon for the question, but do you find joy in this?" He gestured to the garden with a sweep of his calloused hand. Cal nodded easily.

"Then you'll be a better successor than me," the man said, blowing out a puff of air.

"Wait here a moment, if you will humour this old man. I have something you may be interested in."

"Alright." The man lumbered to his modest lodgings, and Cal stood, watching the weathered door he had entered. Cal waited, and while he did, he stretched. Six minutes later, the groundskeeper returned, a mild wariness in his step and a self-doubting expression planted on his face. Cal knew that one well; he saw it in the surface of still water all the time. The man held a cloth-wrapped package in his hands.

"Here," he offered. Cal reached out slowly.

"Take it," he said, pushing it into Cal's hands.

"What is it?"

"You'll see. Open it somewhere dry, and store it somewhere safe," he ordered. Cal nodded, then looked to the last of the weeds that needed pulling.

"Go, I'll finish up here," the groundskeeper said, scowling only slightly.

"Can't have you doing all the work, or what am I being paid for? The Lord would have my hide if he knew I was letting one of his team do everything."

"Are you sure? Fritz, I mean the Lord, is plenty forgiving," Cal said. He waved Cal away.

"I don't want to find out if that's true or not, now go."

"Alright, Mr... umm."

"Just call me Bob, if it's all the same," the man provided.

"I'm Cal," Cal said, offering a hand. They shook. They stood awkwardly for a moment, then with a nod, a grunt and a groan, Bob stooped and got to work. Cal left him to it, making his way to his room. He set aside his muddy boots at the garden's entrance and hung his raincoat by the doorway, then strode barefoot through the dimly lit halls. It was quiet and calm, and a little spooky. Cal thought the place might be haunted, though he'd never seen a ghost.

Rosie had claimed she had seen one and that they lived in the walls, but he didn't believe her. She liked to tell tales, stupid ones triply so. When he'd reached his room, he sat at his desk and opened the package gently. What he found disappointed him for a moment. He'd thought that perhaps it was a box containing some magic seeds or rare herbs, but it was just a book. An old one with a soiled leather cover and brittle yellow pages. Then he read the title and, with giddy trepidation, he realised what it was.

"Acaster's Astounding Almanac and the Principles of Superior Seeding." A Technique. One for gardening. What a gift. He wondered why the man had parted with such a treasure and wondered where he'd gotten it, but was glad to receive it and wouldn't question it, lest that bring some trouble. Cal smiled broadly, thanked the groundskeeper silently, then began to read.