Once the adrenaline started to fade, Archmund felt bad. He’d made a girl cry.

  “Damn, Betty, are you crying again?” shouted a boisterous voice. Upon hearing that, Archmund felt less bad.

  It was Rorhid of Redmont County, though he went by Rory. A boy right around his age

  “Shut up, Rory!” Beatrice Bckstone shouted wiping her eyes. “I fell into the dirt. Of course I’d cry a little!”

  “Hey, hey, you did great,” Rory said, walking over to her. “You almost got him. Really.”

  “Don’t patronize me. Almost isn’t enough,” Beatrice growled, pushing herself to her feet and brushing off her dress. Her sorrows had been forgotten; now, she seemed pissed. “You know that, Redmont.”

  “Well, we’ll see about that,” he said, turning to Archmund. “Looks like it’s you and me next.”

  “I suppose so,” Archmund said. “You beat Greenroot?”

  “Gelias? He’s no good with the bde. He only entered because we were. Still good enough to beat most peasants, though.”

  “I’d say any of us could easily beat most peasants,” Beatrice said bitterly. “What rotten, horrible, no good luck for all of us to be paired with other nobles.”

  “How utterly and totally unfair,” Archmund said dryly. “Facing those of equal capabilities as yourself. Truly an injustice.”

  “I was born better, Granavale, why shouldn’t I be able to appreciate that?”

  Archmund bit back a retort. Better than who?

  “There you go with your all or nothing again, Bckstone,” Rory said. But there was no malice in his voice, and with a resigned sigh, Beatrice stalked off to her next match.

  Rory’s eyes lingered on her as she left, and didn’t leave until she bowed to her next opponent.

  “Anyways,” Archmund said to grab his attention, “Redmont, you feeling ready?”

  “Oh, yeah, I’m looking forward to it,” Rory said, scratching his back with his wooden sword. “I hope you’ll be better sport than Gelias was!”

  “Duelists, begin!” Barst boomed.

  Archmund watched Rory warily. Rory was about his age, but maybe two or three inches taller than him. He was nky. He had brownish-red hair, and his arms were long enough that he’d have a definite advantage. But beyond that, he seemed like a nice guy overall.

  He stretched wide his arms. “I’ll let you get the first swing!” he said. “A thank you for hosting.”

  It was obviously a trap.

  “Let me guess. You can’t be hurt by swings that are too weak,” Archmund said. He hadn’t been strong enough to cut weaponsmaster Garth even with a Gemstone Sword, and in the past two weeks he hadn’t been training his strength, he’d been far too focused on making sure the tournament could actually happen without problems. It hadn’t been easy to build a colosseum that could host a few hundred people.

  Rory grinned. “Yeah, that’s the idea. Want to give it a shot?”

  Archmund didn’t like his chances.

  At best he’d meditated on his Gems at night, letting his power flow through them and back into him. That had been enough to increase his Attunement, but he hadn’t had any chances to actually put them into practice.

  He’d been focused on his magical power, not his physical strength.

  “It’d be a mistake,” he shouted back. “You could, oh — I dunno, grab my sword and throw me!”

  If he was to develop Skills, they would come in the heat of battle. There was an obvious element of survivorship bias in people who developed Skills to save their lives, but what if only honor or status was on the line? Who had any interest in studying such things?

  “That trick always works on Betty!” he shouted back. “Well, if you’re not going to take the freebie—”

  Rory walked leisurely towards him, hand casually gripping his wooden sparring sword. And then, when he was just slightly out of reach—

  Rory’s arm swung up, a perfect side strike in lethally-good form. The kind of strike and form and manner that was developed through extensive practice, or the blessings of the muscle memory of the Gem-bound dead.

  Archmund just barely blocked the bde from hiting his left fnk, but even still he staggered back.

  There was true force behind the sword.

  Rory was stronger than he was. He had more reach, probably about half a foot. He barely had to try.

  Another blow, coming from eleven o’clock. Then another, from one. Another from three. A flurry of blows, relentless, unstopping.

  Worst part of it was, Rory barely seemed to try.

  “C’mon, Granavale!” he taunted. “That the best you can do? You beat a girl without any trouble!”

  “And how’s your record against her?” Archmund said, parrying the best he could. With every blow he was forced to step back.

  “Oh, she always loses,” Rory said. “She talks a big game, but…”

  He was stronger. Faster too. Rory had the upper hand. There just was not a lot one could do against a physically superior combatant.

  Rory shocked him with a surprisingly strong blow, forcing him down onto one knee.

  “Is that it, Granavale? Don’t tell me you’re done already…”

  He actually sounded disappointed, the bastard.

  Archmund hated losing. He really, really did, and he always, always had. He hated being pitied just as much.

  If he’d had his Gems, then maybe he’d have a chance. But then Rory could’ve used his Gems too, and there was no doubt that he’d practiced with them.

  Archmund quickly scrambled back to his feet but stayed in a low crouch. It was easier to block this way. Every blow Rory directed his way, from this position, came from above. He didn’t have to waste precious energy turning his bde to the side to block surprising strikes.

  And he was enduring this surprisingly long. Rory had increased the power of his strikes. His weaker strikes had had no effect, so he was drawing on more and more of his strength.

  As strong as Rory was, he was still getting stronger.

  His strength was more than from being slightly older or having good nutrition. His strength was enhanced by the power of Gems.

  After one particurly strong blow, Archmund swore he heard the cracking of wood in his hands.

  It was not enough to defend.

  So the next time Rory swung his sword down, Archmund struck.

  He caught the bde with his own and let it slide past his side as he pushed forward, jamming his elbow into Rory’s ribcage. Right where a pressure point was.

  The older boy staggered back, more from surprise than pain. But Archmund didn’t stop there. He smashed his forehead into Rory’s chin, ignoring the pain. Rory’s head snapped up and he staggered back.

  “Woah, hey,” Rory said. “You’re really asking for it, aren’t you?”

  He was.

  He kicked at Rory’s shin with the tip of his foot. He jabbed at Rory’s belly. He even tried to knee Rory’s crotch.

  Like stabbing the soft parts of a turtle.

  He remembered the feeling of losing himself, as he held his ill-won Gemstone Sword, and he channeled that feeling, that memory, that power, even though the bde itself was under guard in the stands above.

  [Skill] Channeled Rage of the Dead

  Rory, the poor soul, tried his best to fight back, swinging his sword in perfect form. But against a warrior who had trained to cut down men, Archmund fought like one possessed by a berserk rage.

  “Stop! Stop!” Rory said, holding up a hand in front of himself. He’d fallen back onto the ground. “I give! I give. I surrender.”

  He clutched at his nose. That was odd. Archmund didn’t even remember trying to hit his nose, and yet now it was bleeding.

  “Goddess, man, you py dirty,” Rory said, giving him a wary look. “What’s the big idea, anyways?”

  “Economics,” Archmund said.

  “What the crap?”

  “A Gemstone Rapier’s like three years’ wage for my people. For you, it’s… what? Three months of spending money? I want to keep them in the county and I don’t want you beating up peasants in a show game for it.”

  There was also the matter of fealty. A commoner who was given Gemstone Gear had to swear their fealty to their local lord, unless they became a Hero. And how did they become a Hero? Archmund still didn’t know. He suspected there was some css-based element there — social css, not vaguely RPG css.

  “Damn, man,” Rory said. “I wish you’d said that when you announced this tournament.”

  In retrospect, that was obviously a faux pas. If he’d just told them not to enter, odds are at least some of them would’ve respected it.

  “Sorry.”

  “Heh, it would’ve saved you the trouble of needing to kick my face in. Betty would’ve joined, still. She loves her shinies. I just. Damn. Where’d you learn to fight like that?”

  “I have a Gemstone Sword,” Archmund said. “It’s… angry.”

  “Now that I’d like to see,” Rory said.

  “You’re not mad?”

  “Mad? Of course I’m mad. I’m mad that you got me to join this tournament by dangling a prize in front of me only to learn literally right now that you never wanted to let me have it. I’m mad that you broke my fucking nose. I’m mad that you used economics as an excuse.”

  He was awfully candid about what he was mad about. They were also of roughly the same social css where either of them could get away with beating the tar out of the other outside of a formal dueling environment, and Archmund didn’t like his chances. Briefly he wondered if he could deescate this before it became a problem.

  “But… the way you fight’s terrifying enough that I want to train to beat it. And besides, we’re going to be neighbors in the future.”

  He held out his hand. After a moment Archmund took it.

  “Good luck with Gelias,” Rory said. “He’s a tricky one.”