The rest of the crowd parted in waves, allowing a single man to march through. He looked to be about twenty years old, maybe twenty five. He had a broad, muscular physique and perfect skin, with almost a slightly red, bloodstained hue. A pale green tunic clung to his shoulders, and runic script ran along the V-neck and collar, and around the bottom hem of the shirt. It wasn’t faux-runic; they actually glowed. Judging by the shirt’s perfect cleanliness, they were hygiene runes—preventing the shirt from even getting wet.

  A long cloak flowed behind him, and a round shield clung to his back—wooden, but emblazoned with a green bear. A short sword, a spatha, hung at his hip.

  Blake gulped. This man…had an uncanny resemblance to the statue of the steerman at the center of the plaza. From his rigid facial structure, high cheekbones, long blonde hair, and intense eyes, almost everything was the same. The only thing he was missing was a beard.

  He pushed the cloak up off his shoulder, revealing a rank seal. Core Formation one.

  “Hail, Heron Tweynson Silverbeard,” Ulfred said with a grimace. Most of the remaining civilians in the crowd bowed.

  “Ulfreld,” the man said. “You look like you’ve seen better days.”

  “Is that the Steerman?” Blake whispered to Ulfreld.

  “That is his son,” Ulfreld replied softly.

  Heron Silverbeard glanced down at the corpse of Svarikson and the orange gore leaking out his head. He rolled his eyes, blew out an exhausted puff of air, then looked up. "He was an associate of ours. A valuable land-master who kept chaos out of my father’s domain. His death will bring me never-ending troubles...for a few weeks, until replacements can be found."

  "If the troubles are never-ending, they shouldn't end after a few weeks..." Blake muttered.

  A normal man wouldn't have heard him. A normal cultivator still wouldn't have. But Silverbeard’s head whipped toward Blake as if he'd heard every word Blake said. “Watch your words, boy.”

  Blake scowled at someone who looked about the same age as him calling him ‘boy,’ but in truth, Heron was likely much older than Blake. Decades, probably.

  "Your associate shouldn't have picked a fight he couldn't win," Ulfreld said, holding his hands in a calm, diffusing position. "Judging by the shield and attire, Heron, you are now truly a Green Bear."

  “Father wants direct control of the most prominent sect in his region—the sect he favours. I am to be married into the sect and appointed as its Patriarch.”

  Ulfreld said nothing. He crossed his arms. “You are not Patriarch yet, and your authority on this matter is limited.”

  “You are in no position to deny me compensation for the inconvenience your sect member has caused me, Ulfreld.”

  “And if I raise the issue to the Hunters’ Inner Court?”

  “A toothless threat. They won’t protect your pavilions all the way out here, and they’ve shown little interest in Shell as a whole. The Green Bears are the power of this region now, and you’re in no position to deny it.”

  Blake winced, stepping forward, “Sir, if I may—”

  A halo of silver moonlight flared up around Heron’s head. It was thin as a ribbon, except at the front, where it broke—as if someone had slashed a sword right through it. That had to be a Shaping technique. Blake took it as a warning.

  “Apologies,” Blake muttered, cursing himself for speaking like that. “Look, sir—”

  “Address me with respect.”

  You know what? No, Blake thought. Aloud, he said, “Yeah, or you’ll kill me? Such a gracious young patriarch you’ll be, killing people for misspeaking slightly. No one wants to be micromanaged by a bunch of oversensitive—”

  Before Blake could finish, Ulfreld grabbed the back of his shirt and pushed him down to his knees, causing his ribs to cry out in pain. Blake gasped.

  “I don’t want to see you die like this, Junior Brother,” Ulfreld whispered.

  “He wouldn’t attack. Not in a crowd like this. And not against a lowly boy like me,” Blake countered. “Elder, I have an idea.”

  “Let him speak, Ulfreld,” Heron demanded. “Now.”

  “Sir, I’m to be pitted against your sect’s top…uh, disciple?” Blake glanced back at Ulfreld. “When’s that happening?”

  “Tomorrow afternoon,” Ulfreld whispered.

  “Oh, shit…” Blake breathed. He cleared his throat, then turned to face Heron and said, “Okay, well, let’s make a deal. If I win, you’ll clear my name for my transgressions against Svarikson—including killing him. I mean, I wouldn’t have laid a hand on him if not for him coming after me and trying to kill me, so really, you’re getting a good deal. I shouldn’t have to clear my name at all.”

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  There was the slight problem that Blake had stolen from Svarikson. But if Blake hadn’t, he was dead. Maybe he shouldn’t have run from Svarikson at all, and just given over what rent money he did have, but it wouldn’t have been enough—Svarikson had been a day early.

  Blake hadn’t done anything. He hadn’t started it. He’d done what he had to to stay alive.

  Heron patted his chest and laughed, but Blake couldn’t help but notice the mischievous smirk on Heron’s lips. “Alright, then. We’ll see what you’ve got in you, boy. If you defeat my top disciple, then I will absolve you of any responsibility in Svarikson’s death—or the matters that led up to it.”

  That was…a surprisingly reasonable response. Sure, Blake shouldn’t have had to fight to have his name cleared, but it was exactly what he was looking for.

  There had to be some kind of catch.

  However, without another word, Heron stormed off. The crowd parted for him again, and in a matter of seconds, it was like he had never been here.

  “You don’t know what you’ve done, Junior Brother,” Ulfreld whispered. He pulled Blake up to his feet. “Manafather’s beard, you’re bleeding. Badly.”

  “It wasn’t a clean fight,” Blake grunted. “Svarikson was Tempering five.”

  “Tempering five?” Ulfreld hiss-exclaimed. “And you won?”

  “Yeah…”

  “Come with me.” Ulfreld practically dragged Blake across the evening plaza and back to the inn, then up to his personal room. After a few minutes, Blake had himself cleaned up, and his arms and flank were bandaged. Not like it would help the discomfort of the fractured rib.

  Ulfreld sat Blake down on his room’s couch, then stood in front of him, arms crossed. “Junior Brother, do you know what the Waterway is?”

  “...No?”

  “It is name for the code of the martial world. The intricacies of the system of respect expected from all martial artists, and how they should be punished for violations. You are lucky you’re not closer in stage to him, otherwise he would have killed you on the spot.”

  “Well, okay, I do sorta know the rules,” Blake returned. “Which is how I knew he wouldn't kill me for that.”

  “But you don’t seem concerned about the results of your duel tomorrow. If you win, he will see it as an insult to the sect. If you lose, he will punish you for killing Svarikson. Either way, you are likely dead.”

  “How is me winning a duel that was pre-planned, and which he agreed to, an insult to the sect? And, hey, you wanted me to fight their top champion before. Did you want me to insult him, was that the plan?”

  “Things have changed. I have recently learned that their top-potential disciple is his betrothed. It likely would have been fine if they were already married, but the tradition is tradition. To defeat another man’s fiancé in combat in the six months prior to the wedding is to object to their marriage.”

  “Oh, fuck me…”

  “If you hadn’t made your deal,” Ulfreld said, “you could have purposely lost tomorrow’s fight. Now? You must fight, you must win, and you must insult him, or you will die. You will probably still die, but you’ll delay the inevitable.”

  “Is there any way that he wouldn’t see it as an insult?”

  “No. That is the trap. It is a scummy move, but the Steerman and those above him will honour it nonetheless. He has set this up, knowing that no one will dare defeat his top disciple, for fear of insulting him. He is maneuvering to make the Green Bears look stronger than the Red Pines, doing his father’s dirty work. It is the final blow against us.”

  “This doesn’t seem fair at all.”

  “It’s not. But Heron does not work on fairness, and neither does the rest of the martial world.”

  “Do you know him? The way you two spoke makes it seem like you do.”

  Ulfreld chuckled. “Ten years ago, when we first arrived on Shell, we were both part of an up-and-coming sect—the Green Bears. We met a young woman from your world who showed immense cultivation skill, and we both vied for her hand. She chose me over him, and Heron could not stand the shame. His father had her executed for a minor insult, and had me banished.” The man shook his head. “I had long dreamt of starting a family, of fathering children, of advancing along with them….”

  When he trailed off, Blake said, “You look a lot…older than Heron, elder. But you should be around the same age, no?”

  Ulfreld sighed. “That is what you’re concerned about?”

  “I’m curious…”

  “My advancement has stalled. His has not. That is why.”

  “Sir—”

  Ulfreld raised a hand, dismissing the topic. “This isn’t important. I worry for you, Blake. I don’t want to see you die. This whole trade was a trap, and it seems our destruction was inevitable…”

  “I won’t, sir,” Blake said. “I’ll…come up with something. I’ll figure it out. Look, if I win tomorrow, it would buy the Hunter’s Sect some time, right?”

  “It would project strength, yes. It would likely bring us another few months.”

  “Then I’ll do it.” Not only because Blake hated the unfairness of it all, and if he was going to die, he may as well go out kicking and screaming, but because if he did find a way to survive…well, the Hunters’ sect was an excellent source of protection.

  “Rest,” Ulfreld insisted. “The best you can do to prepare for tomorrow is to rest.”

  Blake returned to his room after that. Normally, his arm would’ve needed more intense medical attention, but as it stood now, he was going to pass through the second stage of Body Tempering soon—muscle refinement—and he’d be able to heal it properly. They didn’t need to waste the resources.

  His bigger concern was his rib. He could fight through the pain if he had to, but he really didn’t want to. He was going to be fighting someone much like himself. Not just worthless grunts like Svarikson or his average thug.

  When he put Ethbin’s ring back on, a warm feeling settled over him. Ethbin said, I’m very proud of you. But this isn’t over yet.

  “Do you know how to deal with a broken rib?”

  Fractured. It is just fractured.

  “But—”

  Yes, I do. And you do too. You have passed Bone Reforging. Pump honour through your Bone Meridian, and your enhanced body will deal with it. It will mend your ribs for you. In the morning, you will be healed. Likely sooner, considering how powerful your body is.

  “Really? That’s—” Blake grinned. “I like the sound of that.”