CHAPTER 4

A Light and a Path

When first attaining the mounted position, one would be foolish to try to attack too soon. Though any well-built roof can withstand the initial downpour of a rainstorm, it is the prolonged accumulation of water, the filling of gutters, the soaking of soils, and the pressure on the roof that finally bring it to collapse. The mount should force such a collapse. Listen to an opponent’s rhythm of breathing and apply pressure to the diaphragm during each attempted inhalation. Block their mouth and nose so that what air they do find is a struggle. Cover their eyes so that they welcome the darkness when it comes to them.

Passage Two, Eighteenth Technique of the Combat Codes

Cego opened his eyes and thought he was truly blind. A white shroud veiled the entirety of his vision. But he felt a familiar warmth on his face, and as his eyes adjusted, he saw a fuzzy form take shape. It was a spectral, nearly sitting at the tip of his nose. Not just any of the commonplace wisps—it was Cego’s spectral from the cell, the one that had kept him sane through hours of one-sided conversation. Somehow, he knew it just as he knew any other old friend.

“You’re back,” Cego whispered, keeping his voice low to not wake the rest of Crew Nine. He glanced over at Weep’s bed to see the boy wrapped tightly in his covers. Dozer was snoring loudly, as usual.

The spectral flickered and began to drift away from Cego’s cot. He stared at it through the darkness and it stopped. He could feel it pulling at him, beckoning.

Cego slid off the bunk, feeling the cold stone floor against his feet as he padded after the floating wisp. He thought about the guard usually posted outside their door, but unsurprisingly, he wasn’t there. Cego had overheard the man talking with another guard earlier about visiting a place called Courtesan House during blackshift.

He followed the wisp past the exit and turned the corner to see it drifting down another hall. Cego recognized the route as one he’d been prodded down every day for the past month. The spectral was leading him toward the practice yard.

Cego paused to make sure no one was following him before stepping out onto the red dirt of the yard. He watched the little wisp ascend toward the street-level grates at the top of the room.

He heard a sudden grunt in the darkness. Cego could make out a single form at the center of the wide yard. Someone was shadowboxing, throwing out a series of jabs followed by a spinning kick. Cego recognized the movement, the lanky limbs, the fluid attacks melding together one after another.

A mech transport rumbled by at street level and cast its headlights onto the yard for a moment, illuminating a face with a wicked scar crossing it. Knees.

Cego stepped farther in to make his presence known. Knees abruptly stopped moving.

“It’s you.” The boy stared at him. “Thought the old guard be deciding to come back from the Courtesan Houses early.”

“Still a risk,” Cego said as he approached. “Ozark probably would punish us for coming out here at blackshift.”

“Right, even though he already be punishing us by making us do exactly this.” Knees smirked as he threw several more punches. “Having us spend extra time training here, running laps, shadowboxing.”

“It’s about control,” Cego said. “Ozark doesn’t care if you’re improving, or helping the crew, or even helping him. He wants to be the one to make the decisions.”

“You be right.” Knees nodded. “So, if you don’t mind, I’d like to be getting back to my illegal training session.”

“Why are you here?” Cego asked. “Ozark already had us worn to the bone with a full day… Aren’t you tired?”

“Yeah,” Knees said. “I am. But if the rest of you be sleeping, then I’m getting ahead.”

“You want to get a patron that much?” Cego asked.

“I don’t care about no patron,” Knees said.

“So, why?”

“I want to be stronger.” The boy’s eyes glimmered in the dark.

“To become a Knight?” Cego asked. “Like Dozer wants?”

“No… I be wantin’ revenge,” Knees said. “Against those stronger than me. Against those I couldn’t do anything against when I was still small, still weak.”

Knees started to throw his hands again, harder, clenching his teeth as if striking at some imaginary opponent. Cego knew that look in Knees’s eyes.

“I understand wanting to get stronger. But it can change you,” Cego said. “Like Shiar, he preys on the weak. He looks for blood, for injury, for any opening he can take advantage of. But it’s because he’s fearful. Because he’s full of hatred.”

Knees looked at the ground, but when he stared back at Cego, there was no shame in his eyes. “Shiar always be the strongest down here. I wanted to be like him. That’s why I followed him.”

“And now?”

“And now…” Knees trailed off. “Maybe he don’t seem as strong anymore.”

Another flash of light from a passing transport illuminated Knees’s face.

“There’s a cost to becoming better, you know that, right?” Cego said.

Knees glared back at him. “I already paid the price.”

“I understand,” Cego said. “We’ve all had to leave our homes… the places we remember. We’re here now—”

“My price is not that I be here in this shithole,” Knees interrupted. “My uncle put me up for sale soon as I be havin’ some muscle to me. Man likely spent the bits on ale. My price already be paid. Myself and my little sis, havin’ to live with that man, under that monster’s roof.”

“I’m sorry,” Cego said. The old master had always been hard on Cego, forcing him to train until he couldn’t stand anymore, but he’d never gone beyond that.

“Don’t be,” Knees growled as he started to throw punches again. “I’ll return to where I’m from someday… to Venturi. And I’ll be ready. My past be makin’ me stronger.”

Cego nodded as he looked for the little spectral that had brought him here, out to the yard and to Knees. It was gone.

“Guys?” A timid voice emerged from the shadows near the yard’s entrance. A small form stepped forward. Weep hadn’t been asleep after all.

“You be shittin’ me.” Knees shook his head, narrowing his eyes at Cego. “What, you be tellin’ the entire crew to follow me out here?”

“Cego, I saw you leave the bunk and wanted to see what you were doing.” Weep looked down at the dirt.

“Weep, I was just following…” Cego thought it best if he didn’t mention the strange spectral that kept visiting him. “I just wanted to check where Knees went off to.”

“I thought you might be showing off some more techniques I could use,” Weep said as he stepped closer. The little boy had a black eye from training and he was walking with a limp.

“Weep…” Cego was about to tell the boy he should get some rest, but he stopped himself. “Weep, why are we even calling you that name anymore? Look how far you’ve come. What’s your real name?”

Weep took a moment to think about the question, as if he were trying to remember his name before he’d been sold to the slave Circles. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It matters, we don’t want to—” Cego started, but Weep spoke up with a sudden confidence.

“It doesn’t matter, because my old name is a part of my past now. And whatever is in our past, whatever we once were, it can make us stronger.” The boy looked at Knees and raised his chin proudly. He’d been listening.

Cego breathed out and nodded. Down here in the slave Circles, where they were all sold like pieces of meat to the highest bidder, it seemed none of their pasts mattered.

“Seems as good a time as any to be learnin’ more of those secret techniques of yours.” Knees nodded to Cego. “I could also be usin’ them.”

Cego looked at the two members of Crew Nine standing next to him. Perhaps he had made some new friends down here besides the little glowing spectral.

“Yes, there’s a certain spiral arm lock I’d like to show you…” Cego began.

The fighting at Thaloo’s blurred together for Murray. The Circle’s spectral light collapsed and hundreds of punches and kicks melded into one seamless whirlwind of violence. The stench of sweat and smoke, the ceaseless clamor of the crowd, the faceless figures dressed in dirt and blood—Murray was done with it.

He’d already decided to return Surface-side empty-handed this year. Better than hauling one of these broken kids back with him again. Better than building a kid up, mending their wounds, training them, giving them hope, only to see them break again during the Trials.

The Scout commander wanted him to fail—he’d be happy when Murray returned without any talent in tow. He could already picture the sneer across Callen Albright’s face as he reprimanded him.

Murray had just downed his seventh ale and was about to head for the exit when he saw the blind boy again. He’d been keeping an eye out for the boy for the past several weeks but hadn’t seen him back in the Circle yet.

The boy’s head was now shaved and he wore standard crew-issued white pants. He’d been processed, designated as fit enough to be assigned to a Tasker.

At first, Murray thought he’d had far too much to drink when he saw the boy’s eyes—wide-open and glimmering like golden nuggets. There was no mistaking him. The boy maintained the same relaxed posture, looking like he was about to sit down for tea instead of fight for his survival. The boy was as blind as Murray was sober. He shook his head and smiled as he made his way to the Circle’s edge.

This time, the boy was up against N’jal, one of Thaloo’s in-house Grievar. Thaloo had shipped the thick fighter all the way from the ice flats of Myrkos. N’jal was notorious for his ground-and-pound style of combat. Murray had seen the type before: N’jal would wrap both his opponent’s legs up in a double-leg takedown, pin them to the ground, and throw powerful body and head shots to finish them. It was an extremely effective style that Murray himself had employed on many occasions during his path.

The crowd grew for this fight, many folk shouting N’jal’s name in recognition. All of Thaloo’s in-house crew were fairly well-known, and many ended up fighting at Lampai. Most of the crowd probably had bits riding on N’jal and hoped to continue their streak.

The Circle flared to life and biometrics flashed on the lightboard above. The disparity could not have been more apparent. N’jal, although only fourteen, weighed nearly two hundred fifty pounds. He stalked into the Circle like a budding silverback, his shoulders thickly muscled and his shovel-like forearms already covered with flux ink.

The golden-eyed boy once again looked calm, not even glancing at his formidable opponent. Murray breathed as he steadied himself. He felt nervous for this fight, for this boy in particular. He could feel the spectral light from within the Circle perking him up as if he were the one about to fight.

Thaloo himself sat on one edge of the Circle in a gold-studded chair, one of his cronies fanning him with a large teva leaf. The boss appeared mildly disinterested as he tossed small dried fruits into his mouth.

Thaloo casually waved his hand as the light pulsed and the fight began.

N’jal set himself to a low crouch with his elbows tucked, moving toward the boy with deliberate aggression. The boy waited for him, unmoving, breathing as Murray had seen him do in his last fight. Unused to the lack of aggression, N’jal hesitated for a moment as he closed in on the boy. However, instinct took over and he shot in for the takedown.

The boy, lightning fast, threw his legs backward in a sprawl, distributing his upper body weight to the ground to prevent N’jal from getting underneath him. N’jal surged forward, grasping for a leg as the boy bore down on his shoulders. They moved across the Circle, the boy shuffling his feet and using his full body weight to keep N’jal from getting the takedown.

The boy was too small to keep the pressure on, though. N’jal burst forward and grabbed hold of the boy’s knee, driving him onto his back down in the dirt.

N’jal smirked and launched a quick volley of punches at the boy’s head. The boy managed to block several of them with his hands to his face but took one square in the side of the nose, opening up a steady stream of blood. Unfazed, the boy squirmed his hips out from under N’jal, pushing against his attacker’s head as he got back to his feet. The boy’s face was covered in red.

Seeing blood, N’jal moved forward more haphazardly this time, abandoning the crouch and swatting at the boy with a winging right hook before trying to wrap his body up. The boy ducked the punch and threw a quick cross to N’jal’s midsection, which produced an oomph from the bigger Grievar. Again, N’jal shot in, only to be sidestepped by the boy and caught with a quick body punch, to the liver this time, followed by a heel stomp delivered to the top of the foot.

The boy was dancing on the balls of his feet now, feinting in and out as his golden eyes twinkled.

N’jal growled in pain, incensed, and charged, this time with his head down, swatting at the boy with his outstretched arms. The boy anticipated N’jal’s overhead swings, ducking under and going for a takedown of his own.

The boy grasped behind N’jal’s knees, driving forward with his full body weight. His opponent was too strong, though. N’jal kicked one of his legs out from the boy’s grasp and brought it back sharply as a knee to the head. The knee caught the boy squarely in the temple, throwing him back to the dirt in a heap.

N’jal went in for the kill as the boy lay stunned on the ground. He threw his full weight behind an overhand right, drilling his fist through the air toward his downed opponent. The boy barely got an arm in the way, which was smashed to the side as the punch glanced across his bloody face. Now N’jal was on top of him, squeezing the breath from the boy as he reared up for his specialty: ground-and-pound.

Murray knew this would be the end. N’jal was too large, too high in his mount, the boy too inexperienced to know how to escape. The question was, how much damage would the golden-eyed boy sustain? Murray knew Thaloo and other Circle owners were notorious for setting dangerously high biometric thresholds for their slave brood, not caring if they were badly injured or killed.

N’jal began the onslaught with glee, sitting on top of the boy’s midsection to throw shots at his face, aiming to drive the boy’s head through the dirt with his fists. The boy did his best to defend, moving his head, grasping for N’jal’s arms, bucking left and right.

Several glancing blows caught the boy on the side of his face, streaking the blood and dirt already there. A new gash opened up just above the boy’s eyebrow. He didn’t panic—he continued to parry and move with the little room he had.

N’jal looked at the boy beneath him, perhaps puzzled that his victim hadn’t broken yet. He attempted to grab the boy’s throat with one hand to hold his head down, but the boy wriggled free—a tiny victory.

Murray looked to Thaloo, who now had a smirk on his face as his Grievar continued to deliver blow after blow to the downed boy.

N’jal growled, breathing hard now from his onslaught as he arced a sweeping elbow down into the boy’s defending arms. He followed up with a straight elbow, the sharp part of the bone drilling directly toward the boy’s head, who barely managed to get two cupped hands in front of his face to soften the blow. N’jal pinned one of the boy’s wrists to the ground and dropped another elbow.

Just as the elbow fell and N’jal’s balance was centered forward, the boy bucked his hips, throwing N’jal’s head toward the ground. He squeezed out from underneath N’jal’s legs. The boy somersaulted forward and nimbly sprang to his feet. Blood was now pouring from the boy’s nose and the nasty gash over his eyebrow.

Murray shook his head in amazement.

The sag in N’jal’s shoulders was noticeable as he edged toward his opponent, heaving as he tried to catch a quick breath. The smaller boy was light on his feet despite the fact that he was drenched in his own blood. He bounced and feinted in and out of N’jal’s range like a cat.

The boy connected with a series of quick low kicks to N’jal’s shin, more annoying than damaging to the bigger Grievar. Just before he threw each kick, the boy looked down at the spot he was aiming for. N’jal grinned slightly as he caught the boy looking down. Catching one of those kicks would mean getting the boy back on the dirt, where he could finish the fight.

The boy looked down again, and this time, N’jal preempted the kick, dropping his hand to catch the incoming foot. To his surprise, the boy instead came in with a quick cross, finding N’jal’s eye socket and sending him reeling. The boy followed his opponent, hitting him with two more jabs to the face that brought N’jal’s hands high and then a winging left that thudded into N’jal’s liver.

Murray had seen and felt many well-placed liver shots before, and this was one of them: a second or two of delay after the punch connected, followed by overwhelming pain and the body’s refusal to answer the brain’s commands. N’jal toppled face-first into the dirt and curled into a ball.

The boy stood above his downed opponent, wobbling on his feet. The dirt under him was steeped in red.

Murray looked over to Thaloo, who now had a frown on his walrus-like face. N’jal would need to sustain far more damage for the Circle to recognize a finish.

The boy seemed conflicted, standing over N’jal with a blank stare on his face. Most Grievar would have waded in without hesitation, paying no heed to the Codes. A kick to the head would do the job. Listened to the light, they would say afterward to excuse themselves from the dishonorable attack.

Instead, the boy fell toward N’jal, his legs giving way as he landed next to his opponent in the dirt. He grasped N’jal’s bulky body with one arm, tugging himself against the big Grievar’s shoulders and reaching for his neck.

N’jal was still conscious. He feebly attempted to defend the north–south choke, fighting off the circling hand, but the boy’s bloodied forearm slipped beneath the big Grievar’s head. The boy dropped his shoulder into N’jal’s neck and squeezed, his eyes closed, using the last of his energy to go for the finish.

N’jal went out. The light above dimmed as the mass of spectrals broke apart.

Murray released his breath, which he realized he’d been holding for the last minute of the fight.

The golden-eyed boy had won. He’d beaten one of Thaloo’s in-house Grievar, one ranked far above him. That kind of upset in a slave Circle was unheard of. The strong always beat the weak here.

Murray heard some of Tasker Ozark’s crew cheering from the sidelines. They were yelling, “Cego.” More often, the boys rooted against members of their own crew.

The boy, Cego, attempted to stand, but his knees wobbled and his eyes rolled back into his head. He fell to the dirt beside his unconscious opponent.

Murray downed his ale and headed toward the back of the large den.

Two mercs stood posted in front of an ornate doorframe. “I’m here to see Thaloo,” Murray growled.

They clearly recognized him. The one on the right stared at Murray’s flux tattoo sleeve cut with Grievar Knight ink in obvious admiration. The merc quickly recovered and asked suspiciously, “Do you have an appointment with the boss?”

“No, but he’ll see me just fine.”

“No one is allowed to see the boss without a—” the merc started, but Murray shouldered his way past the two, moving with a quickness that wouldn’t be suspected of a big man.

Murray entered a lavish room filled with plush pillows and thick carpets. Marble statues stood in the nooks lining the back wall. Golden standing lamps shined dull light into the room, illuminating the pockmarked face of the fat man sitting at a polished desk.

“Thaloo,” Murray said. The man did not seem surprised to see Murray barge into his office with two guards at his tail.

“Ah, the Mighty Murray Pearson; a pleasure as always.” Thaloo’s jowls undulated as he spoke. He looked up indifferently with his dulled yellow eyes.

“Boss… he pushed past us.” One of the mercs moved toward Murray as if to grab him. Murray’s eyes latched on to the man midmovement, stopping him in his tracks, promising him that making contact would be a very bad move.

“Leave us.” Thaloo waved his hand and the mercs made a hasty exit.

Thaloo smacked his lips like a hungry toad as he stared up at Murray. “Come to make a bit in my Circle? I know certain influential folk that have been waiting a long time to put some bits on the back of the Mighty Murray Pearson.”

“As much as I’d like to pad your purse with my blood, that’s not why I’m here,” Murray said.

Thaloo frowned. “Ah. That’s a pity. You were a pleasure to watch, once upon a time.” The man swiveled his chair to face the statues along the wall and stood. “Perhaps you were once even good enough to stand here along with Ezo’s other great champions.”

Murray narrowed his eyes, breathing out, reminding himself why he was visiting this man. “I’m not here to reminisce, Thaloo. I’m here for patron rights; I want to make a purchase.”

“You know what made all these Knights great champions, Pearson?” Thaloo asked, not waiting for a response. “They stuck to their lightpath.” Thaloo ran his hand along one of the statues lovingly. “It’s all a script. A path written for us. Those highbred Daimyo say the script is written by their Bit-Minders. From the Codex, they program the spectrals and plot our destinies, like gods from above. Do you believe that, Pearson?”

Murray opened his mouth, but Thaloo continued to speak. “Now, the Grunts, those harvesters and builders and drudgers, the diggers and reapers and haulers… toiling ceaselessly. Most Grunts believe the spectral light came from the stars, floating down from the night sky like angels to guide them on their lightpath. Those brainless fools actually believe they were put on this world to grovel for the Daimyo.” Thaloo chuckled. “And the Grievar. Well… you know what the Grievar believe, of course. The spectrals came from deep within the earth, their light illuminating the darkness of the Underground, casting away the shadows on the snowy peaks, cutting through the thick jungles of the Emerald Isles… shining down on the Circles and finding us… the chosen ones. The champions to lead the rest. That garbage from the Codes, about fighting so the rest shall not have to.” Thaloo theatrically rolled his eyes.

Thaloo sat and swiveled his chair back toward Murray. “I know you’re smarter than the average merc, Pearson. Unlike those dolts outside my door, you’re a Citadel-trained Grievar. Exposed to those highbrow Surface-side minds. What do you believe?”

Murray snorted. “I believe that you don’t care what I think, Thaloo. I believe that you’re just running your mouth while you figure out how you can get something out of me.”

Thaloo completely ignored Murray and continued to forge ahead with his monologue. “What do I believe, you ask?” Thaloo croaked. “I don’t care where the light came from. All I know is everyone has a script. I’m a Grievar, yes, but I was never a real fighter; I knew that right off. Don’t like to get hit. I like the business of fighting, though. That’s my path, Pearson.

“Do you know how many out-of-work Grievar come my way looking for bit-heavy patrons? I connect them. Or how many of these little scumling lacklight kids I bring through my door, sniveling off the street without a bit to their name? I play my part and I put them on their path. Most of them won’t make it or even survive, but I give them a chance to do nature’s bidding, to find their place in this world of ours.”

Murray didn’t try to speak, knowing the toad would continue smacking his lips until he caught his fly.

“I know that we each must play our part. I’m not meant for the Circle, but without me, how would others survive? You just needed to play your part, too, Pearson. You are a Grievar Knight through and through, meant for the Circle, meant for the Citadel. And yet… you forgot how to follow your path. You forgot how to play your part.”

“I didn’t forget anything. That’s exactly why I’m here. To play my part. I’m a Grievar Scout and the Citadel has tasked me with bringing prospects Upworld,” Murray said.

Thaloo grabbed a small wad of gummy material from a vat on his desk, shoving it into his mouth and chewing voraciously. “Your part is to take the batch of kids we’ve set aside for you, like every year. And yet, like you did during your Knight days, you are trying to deviate from that path.”

“Those kids you send up with me every year aren’t Citadel material. You know that. They can barely walk, let alone fight. We both know the deal you have here. You send the Citadel your scraps and keep the meat to yourself, and for that luxury, you have the honor of lining their war chest with every sale you make.”

“Very perceptive, Pearson.” Thaloo slurped. “What would you have me do? Send my finest Grievar with you? Why not take my top ten? What you ask does not make sense. However, with the Citadel’s purse behind you, you could take my very best.”

“I only want one, though. A boy called Cego—he arrived recently.”

Thaloo raised an eyebrow. “Ah. The blind boy who suddenly opened his eyes. He certainly surprised many of our patrons, defeating N’jal like that.”

Murray knew he had to downplay the potential he saw in Cego. “He’s fast and quick-witted. I think I can make something of him.”

Thaloo was silent for several moments, his dull eyes shifting side to side. “Clearly, you see something more than is apparent in this Cego. Why else would you force your way into my office and cause such a stir? Why deviate from your path again, Pearson? Perhaps you have an eye for things like this. Perhaps you have foreseen this boy to be next Artemis Halberd himself.”

“I’ll give you the standard purse for just Cego,” Murray said. “Usually I bring up a dozen kids for that price.”

“Clearly, you aren’t authorized to expand the Citadel’s purse beyond these meager sums; otherwise, you would have just bought him outright. So, why should I just give him to you? What will you give me for this favor, Pearson?”

Murray breathed out. He knew it would come to this. “I’ll fight for him.”

Thaloo stopped chewing. A wide, toothy grin spread across the man’s face.

Cego listened to the lapping of the tide against the shore. He dug his hands into the black sand beneath him, feeling the tiny granules slip between his fingers and fall back to the beach.

He sat cross-legged in the surf, the breeze flattening his hair across his forehead. The sky was a crisp, unwavering blue and the sea lay before him like a treasure trove of sparkling emeralds. Cego tried to match his breath to the tide, exhaling as a wave crashed onto the shore, the water flicking at his toes and caressing his calves, and inhaling as the tide receded, rolling back out into deep.

Over and over, the tide rolled in and receded again, and Cego attempted to match the water’s rhythm with his own breathing, just as the old master had taught them. Without beginning or end, rolling like a wave, he’d say.

Cego couldn’t do it as well as Silas always had. His elder brother had been better at most of the master’s teachings—ki-breath included. Silas could sit on the shore for hours without moving an inch, looking like an immovable statue swept with sand by the end of the exercise.

The three brothers used to practice ki-breath together every morning. They were instructed to never shut their eyes, to always keep their gaze to the sea even when the breeze kicked up stinging sand.

Little Sam would always be the first to break, his wild beach-grass eyes darting to some distraction, a scuttling crab or silvery fish in the surf he would chase. Cego would try to concentrate and keep pace with Silas, but he never lasted long. He would feel a restlessness build within him, urging him to leap up and sprint across the beach after Sam.

Silas had always been the strongest of the three brothers. He was always one step ahead in the Circle. He’d flash that wry, mocking grin at Cego, standing above him after knocking him down repeatedly.

Cego placed his hand to his lip, rubbing the jagged scar he’d received from his last bout with his brother.

And now Silas was gone.

Cego trained his golden eyes across the sea, toward the horizon. During daylight, he could only make out a faint glimmer, but when night fell on the island, the crest of every wave glowed with a vibrant green luminescence.

When he was younger, Silas had told him that the glowing trail was a great serpent slithering toward the horizon. Though he’d believed his elder brother then, Cego had discovered diving beneath the waves that the luminescence came from a much smaller creature—tiny wisps of plankton blooming along the ocean’s surface.

The old master called the glowing trail the Path.

Cego and Sam had watched from the black sand beach as their elder brother swam the Path a thousand nights ago, following the trail of luminescence until he disappeared from view. Cego remembered Silas appearing small, just another shadow rolling atop the breakers. That was the only time he could remember Silas seeming small like that.

Since then, the old master had kept the remaining two brothers on their same rigorous training routine. Cego had expected something to change—a shifting of schedule or a mere mention of Silas’s departure. Instead, the master acted as if nothing had changed at all. He ignored the fact that there were only two boys remaining on the island.

Today would be no different from any other day.

Morning ki-breath, followed by techniques with the master. Then endurance training on the black sand beach, including sprints and boulder carries beneath the waves. Shin conditioning by kicking the trees in the ironwood grove as the sun reached its height. Hard sparring throughout the afternoon. More technique refinement as the daylight faded.

Today wasn’t the same, though. It hadn’t been the same since Silas had left.

Cego stood up in the sand, his ki-breath exercise clearly finished because of his wandering mind.

Where had Sam run off to this time?

Cego dusted the sand off his tanned legs and briskly jogged down the beach toward the cliffs on the western edge of the island. Sam liked to explore the tide pools at the base of the cliffs, where the water was calmer and a plethora of strange creatures made their homes in the stony nooks.

The island only had one expanse of black sand beach on the northern edge. The old master’s compound perched atop it. The smaller outlets on the southern side of the island were mostly made of jagged rock.

Though the black sand beach was certainly beautiful, it made Cego think of training. Racing full speed along the shore until his breath became ragged, swimming out into the strong current until he needed to float on his back to regain his strength, carrying heavy boulders beneath the waves until his lungs were on fire. The beach was not a place of relaxation for the brothers.

A sharp series of barks broke Cego from his reverie. Arry would always give away Sam’s location.

Just as Cego suspected, his little brother was crouched in one of the tide pools beneath the cliffs, peering into the murky water. The grey pup, Arry, was at the edge of the pool, barking at Sam but too timid to join him in the cold water.

“Sam, it’s time to head back,” Cego said as his brother tried his hardest to ignore him. “Come on!”

“I’ve almost got one of the big blue crabs, though! He’s pinned down inside his lair,” the small flaxen-haired boy pleaded as he jabbed a piece of driftwood into the water.

“Farmer’s gonna pin you down worse than that crab if you don’t come quick,” Cego said flatly.

Sam stood, his eyes darting to Cego. “Silas never would have made me come back so early…”

Sam had been using Silas as an excuse lately. He’d always let the littlest brother get away with small delinquencies. Probably because Silas had never cared about Sam. Not like Cego did.

Cego sharpened his voice. “Silas is gone. It’s just us and Farmer now. And he wouldn’t be happy to hear you’re stalling on your training.”

A familiar wrinkle curled on Sam’s forehead as he held his ground stubbornly in the water. “Why are we even training? Why do we have to keep fighting?”

Cego hardened his gaze and replied with the same answer the old master had given him so many times. “We fight so the rest shall not have to.”

It wasn’t a real answer. Cego didn’t really know what it meant. The mantra had become the master’s all-encompassing response to their many questions. Why were they training? Why did Silas have to leave? Where did the Path end? The old master would always return the same answer, flicking out each syllable like a well-honed jab.

We fight so the rest shall not have to.

Who were the rest the old master spoke of, and why were they fighting for them? Beyond the two brothers and their old master, the island was only ever visited by nearby Hlai fishermen looking to trade their wares. Cego couldn’t believe the Hlai fishers, on their rickety boats with their stinky sacks of sarpin, were the reason that he and his brother were constantly honing their combat skills.

Sam huffed and made his way through the tide pool to Cego’s side. The answer had been sufficient, as usual.

The two brothers jogged back toward the compound, Arry in tow, the ocean wind blowing against them and whipping sand into their faces. Several times during the run, Cego caught his brother glancing uneasily toward the sea. The little boy was uncharacteristically quiet, not full of the incessant questions he’d usually pester Cego with.

The brothers ran up the tall sand dune and passed through the old master’s rock garden set at the periphery of the compound. The garden was filled with tiny potted trees and makeshift trickling streams where the man would often sit and stare for hours at the sea while the boys were training.

The various sections of the home were connected via an outdoor gravel path. The rooms were framed with ironwood planks and separated by thin, translucent walls that glowed in the sunlight.

The two boys cut between the living quarters toward the large courtyard at the center of the compound.

As usual, they found the old master sitting within the ironwood Circle, waiting for them with his eyes closed.

Farmer.

The old master’s grey hair fell to his shoulders from a topknot. He breathed quietly and forcefully all at once, his entire body heaving and cresting like the ocean’s current. His eyes fluttered open, brilliant, glowing, and locked on to Cego.

Cego awoke in a cold sweat.

He tried to hold on to the dream, mark it in his memory like a new technique, but it faded rapidly as the fight rushed back to him.

N’jal on top of him for what seemed like hours, raining down punches and elbows. Blood on his face, barely able to see. Trying to win little victories, concentrating on every fist that came his way.

Cego wiggled his fingers and toes. Surprisingly, he didn’t hurt badly, though he knew he should be in considerable pain. He brought a hand up to his face, gingerly touching his nose. It was there for sure and only ached a bit.

He slowly turned his neck to see a mountain of a man sitting by the bed, staring at him with tiger-yellow eyes.

The bearded man barely fit in the small chair by the cot. He looked uncomfortable. Flux tattoos flowed from the tops of his forearms to his hands. The man was grinding his knuckles together, staring forward like he expected Cego to say something.

Cego pushed himself up, looking around the small room. It was primarily red and white, with a metallic counter against the wall.

“Clerics had you all neuro’d up, if you’re wondering why everything is a bit hazy.” The bearded man spoke in a baritone.

Cego figured he was talking to him, since no one else was in the room. “Clerics?”

The man pointed to the door. “They finished workin’ on you an hour ago.”

Cego nodded. Why is this man here? Where is here?

The bearded man spoke again. “They said you had a few broken ribs, orbital bone fracture, broken nose, lot of lost blood—nothing they couldn’t fix up, though. They’re Daimyo, so don’t get to trusting them… but the clerics do a fine job of fixing folk.”

Cego sat up in his little cot. Besides his back being a bit stiff, he felt all right.

“That was a darkin’ stupid move.” The bearded man looked at him seriously.

Cego had no idea what this man was talking about.

“You risked getting pounded senseless with N’jal mounted on you for so long. Trying to wear him down? Too risky. How could you know that he didn’t have the gas tank to finish the job? Sure, it paid off and he got tired, but I’d say you’re lucky you didn’t get finished under him.”

The man continued, as if he’d been waiting to lecture Cego. “You should’ve given him your back right off. He had a solid mount, but I doubt he’d be able to get his hooks in if you turned on him. Thick types like him, especially from the Northlands, they don’t often get the hooks in. I should know. You could’ve walked out of that Circle instead of getting carried out.”

Cego thought about it seriously, reviewing the fight in his mind. Would that have worked?

The man seemed to sense his questions. “I’ll show it to you; you’ll see.”

They sat in the room for several minutes in silence, neither boy nor man thrilled to engage the other in conversation. Cego could hear whispering voices from outside the door.

Cego finally broke the silence. “Where are we?” After he’d choked N’jal, he couldn’t remember leaving the Circle or anything beyond that.

“Cleric’s medward, south of the steppe. I paid for your fixin’,” the man stated.

“Why?”

“I figure I didn’t want my new Grievar kid to be all busted up.”

“You… you bought me?” Cego asked, his eyes wide.

“Far as Underground Circles are concerned, yeah.” The man sighed. “But no, I’m not your patron. Dark all this patron talk. Thaloo and his whole operation—doing all this for the bits. It’s a disgrace to the Grievar. No honor in it. I didn’t buy you to make bits off you like that Deep scum.”

Cego had seen some other kids get bought, but their prospective patrons had visited first and haggled with a Tasker over the course of several days before finally agreeing on a price.

“Why did you buy me, then?” Cego asked.

The man scratched his grey beard. “I’ve been watching you, kid. I’ve seen you fight. You move well. Your hips, your head—you know how to use them.”

“There’s a lot of kids that move well down here,” Cego responded.

“True,” the man said. “You could use fixin’ in places. But that’s fine; you’ve got the right framework. Like a new rig before some two-bit maker messes with it too much, you can be fixed.”

Cego looked at the big man quizzically. His head felt even hazier than when he’d first woken.

“Speaking of rigs,” the man said. “That was impressive what you did out there. Blocked the auralite’s effect altogether. Where’d you learn to do that?”

“Auralite effect?” Cego asked.

“You know… the crowd push—” the man started, then paused. He shook his head and sighed. “I forget scum like Thaloo don’t bother to teach their kids about the Circles they fight in, let alone any decent technique. I can’t explain it well as some Circle engineer, but I’ll give you an old Grievar’s version.”

Cego nodded.

“Thaloo’s Circle is built mostly of auralite-compound steel. Not the purest sort, but does the job. It’s one of the alloys that interacts with the spectrals—which is why you see them swarming around it during your fights,” the man said.

Cego thought back to his fights—seeing the spectrals buzzing around the Circle. He’d never even considered why they were there.

“Different alloys attract different sorts of spectrals. Each gives off a different light. Varying wavelengths is what Tachi would say,” the man muttered. “Each type of spectral light influences a Grievar fighting in the Circle differently.”

It made sense to Cego as he thought back to his fights. He’d felt the light seeping into him, communicating with his body.

“Circles like Thaloo’s—built of auralite alloy—attract bluelight spectrals. Makes a Grievar… convincible. The crowd around you gets louder. Makes you want to do what they say, to please ’em whether they’re cheering or hissing at you. Auralite effect is a hard one to overcome, which is why I say I’m impressed you resisted the urge twice now to kick some kid when he was down even though the crowd was pushing for it,” the man said.

“There are other types of Circles out there?” Cego asked. Though he was more than familiar with combat, it was starting to seem more complicated than simply beating his opponent.

“Yeah. Auralite, rubellium, emeralyis, cytrine… just to name a few. Each one does somethin’ different to you. My team will train you for all that when we get back Surface-side, though,” the man said.

“We’re going… to the Surface?” Cego asked, his eyes wide.

“Well, that’s the plan. If I can work this rusty rig into combat shape real soon.” The man slapped at his protruding stomach. “I’m not buying you—I’m fighting for you. In three weeks’ time, under the lights of Lampai.”

Cego knew he shouldn’t trust this man. Why would he fight for him? Ever since Cego had ended up in the Underground, folk had only used him. They had locked him away in the darkness. They had tossed him in the Circle and made him fight for their own greed.

How could he know this man was any different? He was surely using him in some way, no different from anyone else in the Underground.

“I’m bringing you Upworld, kid. Surface-side to the Citadel. To the Lyceum,” the man said.

The Lyceum. Since he’d first arrived at Thaloo’s, Cego had heard other kids often whispering of the Lyceum. It was Ezo’s national combat school—a prestigious place of learning where the greatest Grievar passed techniques down only to the best students. Dozer had said that many of Ezo’s famed Knights were now professors at the Lyceum. Dozer had also told Crew Nine that the Lyceum kept wild tuskers down in its catacombs, so Cego wasn’t sure what to believe.

The Lyceum didn’t matter, though. Cego didn’t understand this man’s motives. What could he possibly gain from his release from Thaloo’s? Why would the man risk his own life and fight for Cego?

“We fight so the rest shall not have to,” the man whispered.

The familiar mantra triggered a wave of memories that rushed back to Cego. He breathed the salty sea air and heard the lapping of the tide. He saw Sam running beside him on the shore of the black sand beach and Silas swimming out atop the green glow of the Path. He saw the old master’s face, rough and wrinkled like tree bark.

In the back of his mind, Cego had known it since he’d arrived, bloody and beaten on the Underground’s streets. He’d known it sitting alone in his little dungeon cell beneath Thaloo’s. He’d known it training in the yard and fighting in the slave Circle. He was far from home.

Though he had no idea how to get back, this man was the first person that had reminded him that home even existed. The burly Grievar had said the words with conviction, as if he truly believed them.

We fight so the rest shall not have to.

Cego nodded at the bearded Grievar. He would go with him to the Surface. He would find his brothers, Sam and Silas. He would get back to the old master.

The man reached forward with a gnarled hand, grasping Cego’s. His grip was like a vise, but it was warm.

“Murray Pearson.”