Kim swore he didn't know anything about anyone. I cut him off and told him he had two weeks to find out at least something. In the meantime, he could enjoy a special session in the Chamber.
That was it — my social duty was fulfilled. I'd redeemed myself in Liang Shi's eyes — shown him I was working on the Hall of Order's tasks. Now it was time to take care of myself. And I had a reassessment coming up. So: music, the greenhouse… Without Zola! No need to draw extra attention to her right now. And some Pure Thoughts just before heading out.
To keep it brief, I added five minutes to the previous forty. And that small addition wrung every last drop of energy from me. I wouldn't have minded a friendly shoulder to lean on, because the walk home was pure torment.
The most interesting part of all this was that, by my calculations, those five minutes gave me just one unit of pure qi after dispersal. I would've ground my teeth if I'd had the strength.
The next morning, I had my first training session with Cinar in armour. After Rene, of course.
I suspect Kate asked Piper to make it a training session instead of a spar, because I clearly wasn't up to it. The armour tipped the balance heavily in my opponent's favour, and so did his pick — no rubber cap this time. The wooden tip had a predatory gleam and clearly wasn't any softer than steel.
A word or two about Cinar's armour — black and green. The green was deep enough to pass for black at a glance, but still distinct upon closer look. It looked rather stylish despite lacking any ornamental etching. Pure functionality, and maybe a few formations. I couldn't tell myself.
We started with simple strikes. I think Cinar was pleased with how my Chain Punch shattered against his chest. I only managed to scuff the paint a bit — exposing the steel of his breastplate in a few places. What I didn't like was how his very first blow left a dent in my own chestplate. Small, sure — just a few millimetres wide and deep — but that was without him even trying.
The hook hit hard though. It knocked him off balance, and I had some hope that if I boosted the projection more, I might get some results. But the session proved I needed an ultimate. I needed a technique capable of crushing Cinar. Something like that giant fist that had given me enlightenment.
Unfortunately, pulling off such a technique took time — something there's never enough of in a real fight. And besides that, it required a lot of time just to learn it. So I decided to seek strength elsewhere — in improving the techniques I already knew and in formations.
Alan had a catalogue. He sent it to me by email, and I'd been browsing it during my order shifts, but I couldn't choose anything. Formations like the Black Tortoise Formation slightly boosted defence, but covered almost every type of qi, while the Steel Shield Formation specifically defended against Point attacks but completely ignored Palm. And all of them cost money.
It was honestly strange how deeply cultivation was tied to money. So much so that someone like Marlon or Denis making it to the second stage felt illogical. Still, I already knew that Adam came from a poor family, as did Hakim. Yet they managed.
Probably the reason was people like Bao — greedy types who tried to bite off more than they could chew.
My head was absolutely spinning from all these thoughts. Especially the next one. Novak had said he'd give me the third material for my breakthrough if I won three weekly tournaments. He was doing it to motivate my desire to grow.
Rationally, that would cost me far more than the market price of any first-step material, in repairs alone.
Did that mean I'd give up on the idea?
I wish I could say yes — but no. I don't like losing, and I hate getting beaten even more, but this is a brutal world. One way or another, I'd have to fight. Better to do it in the arena, with technicians nearby to pry me out of my armour, and medics ready to patch me up.
And even though I had little faith in my own victory, we already had a champion who'd met Novak's challenge — Leon Gunther. Number one on the first-period cultivation rankings and first in earned points, thanks to three tournament wins. A Palm cultivator.
To be fair, in the first tournament he joined, there were only five participants — five cadets who had mastered their first technique. Meaning more than half the contestants placed in the top three. Also, winners, those in the top three, were banned from entering the next tournament, to encourage broader participation. Still, the circle of winners formed quickly. For the most part, it was the top twenty cultivators, with a few exceptions.
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
The most recent tournament had forty-three participants. Dubois took second place. The monthly tournament had only been held once so far — and Gunther won that too.
Each week, both the number and skill level of the duelists increased. The growing numbers weren't the problem — the skill level of the top twenty was. They were gaining more and more experience, leaving me further behind.
While racking my brain for a way not to be completely crushed, I came up with a plan — one inspired by recent events, namely, drugs.
The school shop offered a wide range of stimulants — not only for cultivation but for combat as well. Fully legal, arena-approved stimulants. In theory, if I flooded my system with them, I might have a shot at winning. It would cost me points… and my health.
Health was my biggest concern. That damn 99/100 had me on edge. And my life expectancy wasn't exactly cheering either — though after my second bottleneck it had jumped to 71. Most first-years in the late first stage were above 90.
So first and foremost, I needed to understand how these stimulants actually worked. Like high-performance energy drinks? Or more like amphetamines? Adjusted, of course, for the rules of this strange world.
And I had a specialist who could explain it to me!
Outgoing call to: R. P. Robinson.
"Well, well, look who's calling!" he said. "What sort of trouble made you remember poor old Doc Robinson?"
"I need some advice about combat stimulants," I admitted.
"Don't," he replied shortly. "Just don't. Wouldn't recommend duelling at all. Better to focus on cultivation."
Judging by his tone, his mood had taken a sudden dive.
"Can we talk about this in more detail?"
"What's the point? If you've already decided to do something stupid…"
"Doc, you're being too emotional. I can feel there's a story behind this. I won't dig into your past, but I still haven't heard a clear and logical answer. I don't need emotion — I need to weigh the pros and cons. Especially since a certain mutual acquaintance of ours really wants me to take part in the tournaments."
"Tournaments? That's even worse than duels! It's like trying to win the lottery — or beat the casino!"
Even I thought he was being a bit too dramatic. For a second, I regretted calling him.
"I see. Sorry to bother you," I said.
Maybe I should call Diego? The fifteenth, not the ninety-eighth. I hadn't spoken to him even longer than I'd avoided Doc, and I had nothing to offer in return for the conversation…
"Wait!" said Doc, just before I could hang up. "Come see me when you've got time. I'll be in my office until seven p. m. today."
I came early.
Doc poured me some tea. Something yellow and sweet, with a hint of blackcurrant.
"Novak wants you to fight?" he asked.
"Isn't that what all of this is for?" I replied, gesturing around the room.
Robinson grimaced.
"Generals don't care about the fate of individual soldiers," he said. "Did you know that every year, two or three dozen first-years die in the arena?"
"No," I admitted honestly.
Robinson took a sip of his tea.
"Another hundred or so suffer injuries that make further cultivation impossible. A close friend of mine nearly died. He had a small crack in his visor — he ignored it. A firebolt hit it dead on, punched through. A shard of molten armorglass went straight into his eye. It didn't reach the brain, but the heat alone caused irreparable damage. He spent a month in the capsule, and when he came out — he had to relearn how to walk and speak.
"As for me, they had to reattach my leg — and that cost me weeks I could've spent working or cultivating.
"In the end, all those points, all those thousands of points, will end up on the accounts of the top twenty fighters. They'll make their little deals, divide the tournaments between them, and shear the rest like sheep. Sure, there'll be drama, and a few of them will fall — but that'll be the exception, not the rule.
"The smarter cadets will skip the fights and throw themselves into work — they'll slog like they're cursed. The ones with a bit of talent will try individual duels. At least with duels, you can prepare — study your opponent. But tournaments… they're for all the losers and the handful of bastards who come out on top."
"Novak wants me in the tournaments specifically."
Robinson set down his cup.
"He's not the kind of person you defy. But we're talking about your future here. I'd sabotage it," he said seriously. "You can always find a reason not to participate — or lose on purpose."
"I've got another plan," I said. "The task is to win three weekly tournaments. I'm going to win one, then say it's too costly and not worth it."
"Stimulants," Robinson guessed. "They might help — but they won't guarantee victory."
"But right now, they could make the biggest difference. Correct me if I'm wrong, but at this stage, raw strength matters more than experience."
"There's some truth in that," Doc agreed. "But you're underestimating the top ranks."
I opened that damned cultivation ranking list and found myself.
"Doc! I'm fifty-fourth!"
Robinson tilted his head in surprise and pulled up his interface.
"How the hell did you manage that?"
"Thanks to you — that first cultivation session. And thanks to Novak's Pure Thoughts."
"And what about techniques and armour?"
"Armour's from Alan Kalum. Techniques — Chain Punch, Hook, and Mad Monkey. The next one will be—"
Doc stopped me with a wave of his hand.
"I don't know much about fist techniques. But if you already know three… Well, maybe you actually stand a chance — but it definitely won't be cheap!"
"I'm more concerned about what it'll do to my health," I said, not mentioning that I was still learning the third technique.
"That depends on what and how much you take."
"That's exactly why I came to you. The shop's got over a hundred different supplements. I can't make heads or tails of them."
"I don't want to badmouth the Medicine Hall's pharmaceutical department, but our shit is shit. I'd suggest looking for something proper in the business center."
I tilted my head and raised an eyebrow.
"I see!" said Doc. "You want me to do all the work for you."
"You're the specialist! And I'm not only a first-year — I've got amnesia, remember?"
"Oh please! Don't start blaming everything on the amnesia again!"
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