CHAPTER 11

Trials and Tribulations

A Grievar must respect the dream as much as any waking moment. Shadows passing in the night may not emerge to be blood-starved wolves, and yet there is always a chance a shadow can bite with ferocity.

Passage Three, One Hundred Sixty-Third Precept of the Combat Codes

A blast of frigid air hit Cego.

The cold seemed to crystallize the air itself as shards of frost swirled across the tundra. The landscape was barren but for a few trees pushing through the hard ground like skeletal hands reaching from their graves.

Cego was wearing standard-issue trousers and a skin guard the Lyceum had provided him, but nothing had prepared him for this. His hands were already streaked with veins of frost, and he couldn’t feel his feet through his vat-hide boots.

As he stepped forward, the cold sucked the air out of his lungs like a knee to the stomach. The cold of the tiny cell in Thaloo’s dungeon was a warm bath compared to what Cego now faced. In this place, the cold was an opponent about to lock on a choke; Cego had to deal with it, or he would die.

Another wave of frostbitten air swept across the tundra, blanketing Cego’s vision with white crystals and bringing him to his knees.

How did I arrive here?

Cego had already taken some sort of test. It hadn’t been what he’d expected.

He’d waited for several hours in the Lyceum’s great hall until a grey-haired clerk had called for him. “Charge of Scout Murray Pearson! Number ninety-six.”

Murray had grabbed Cego’s shoulder to meet his eyes before he was escorted away.

The clerk had directed Cego into a small, sterile room with a single chair at the center. He’d taken the seat and the man had brought out a strange device, a lightdeck sprouting wires with metallic clips at each end. The clips had attached to the base of Cego’s scalp, pinching at his skin. The clerk had then pricked Cego in the neck with a small needle.

“Provide brief responses to each of the questions,” the man had said in a monotone as he swept his hand across the lightdeck.

“You find yourself in the aquatic markets of the Emerald Isles,” the clerk started. “Two hawkers approach you, one speaking common tongue and the other babbling in ancient Tikretian, which you can’t understand. The common-tongued hawker offers to sell you two pounds of water fruit for a clearly rotten price. The Tikretian speaker makes another offer, though you can’t understand what it is.” The grey-haired man paused. “Do you take the horrendous offer, or do you attempt to bargain with the man you don’t understand?”

“Well, I guess that depends on the look of the man I don’t understand. Does he look trustworthy?” Cego had asked.

“No questions, just answers,” the clerk had replied.

“All right. Well, first, I’d make sure the two hawkers weren’t working together to—”

“Choose one of the two options,” the clerk had interrupted him.

Cego thought for several moments before going with his gut. “I’d take the bad offer.”

The clerk hadn’t provided any indication as to whether Cego had answered correctly; he swept his hand across his lightdeck and continued.

“You find yourself in the marshes of Swampskil, suddenly stricken with rotworm and utterly lost…” The clerk had asked similar questions for the better part of an hour.

Cego couldn’t remember how the Trial had ended. He remembered a final question regarding the plight of the harvesters in the borderlands, and then suddenly he was here, forced to his knees on the ice, barely able to keep his eyes open as the frost accumulated on his lashes.

A quick flash of movement near one of the few trees sprouting from the tundra caught Cego’s attention. Something was whipping around in the wind, attached to one of the tree’s emaciated branches. From a distance, it looked like a flag.

Cego gritted his teeth and slowly pushed himself off the ground, taking a slow step forward against the wind. This was his Trial. They were watching him.

Cego closed in on the tree, peering out from beneath his heavy eyelids. A white piece of cloth jumped back and forth like a ghost dancing on the gusts of frigid air, strung to the branch with a thin rope.

He reached out and grabbed it. It wasn’t a flag at all. It was made of a thick, rough, woven material—all too familiar to Cego after the past month of training in Murray’s barracks. A gi jacket.

Cego didn’t even hesitate; he needed the layer of warmth or he wouldn’t last. He untethered the uniform from the rope and slipped into it. The gi fit perfectly, the sleeves reaching just to the end of his wrists.

To Cego’s surprise, the inside of the gi wasn’t laden with frost as he expected. The soft inner fabric felt warm to the touch. He felt heat surge through his veins, as if the gi were boiling the blood running through them. He took a deep breath—the air didn’t burn his lungs any longer.

Cego looked at the gi in wonder. What sort of tech was this?

The wind softened along with the cold. Cego could suddenly see across the white-cast tundra, as if a blustery veil had been lifted.

Across the barren landscape, a solitary patch of green stood out in the distance. Could grass somehow be growing in this desolate climate?

Walking with more confidence in the newfound warmth of the gi, Cego made his way toward the green oasis.

As he got closer, Cego saw the patch of green was not grass but ice. An ice field, glimmering green—the source of its strange color was the glowing Circle planted dead at its center. Emeralyis.

A stocky figure stood within the Circle, unmoving. The figure was facing away, clad in a white gi jacket similar to his own.

“Professor?” Cego shouted over the wind as he neared. He assumed the man was one of the teachers at the Lyceum. “What would you have me do?”

The figure did not respond or turn to face him.

Cego stepped onto the sheet of ice and nearly lost his footing. It was as slippery as a wet moss-rock. He could remember the old master testing his balance on the rocks that dotted the island’s tide pools. He’d stand across from Sam, and the two brothers would vigorously attempt to push each other into the water.

Cego slowly started to shuffle along the ice toward the pulsing green Circle ahead. Perhaps that would be the aim of this Trial—a test of his balance, fighting on this slick surface.

“Professor, I’m ready for your Trial,” Cego said as he entered the Circle. He’d never trained in emeralyis before, but Murray had versed him on the effects of the alloy.

“Overly creative,” Murray had told him. “Emeralyis will make you think you’re a painter, creatin’ new works across the Circle’s canvas—techniques you’ve just now invented.”

Cego didn’t feel any more creative standing just past the steel frame on the ice. He could only concentrate on the man standing across from him.

The man creaked his head from side to side, his neck popping loudly each time. He turned around. His face was completely veiled in black fabric except for a small slit above his nose, where two burning yellow eyes were set on Cego. He was thick, nearly twice Cego’s width.

The veiled man spoke in a whisper. “Take me down.”

Cego understood and approached in a crouch. He’d practiced in the gi with Murray for the past several weeks. The uniforms would make this a game of grips. The fighter who established dominant grips on his opponent’s gi uniform would have the control for a proper throw or takedown.

Cego feinted as if he were about to shoot low before taking a quick inside step and reaching for his opponent’s lapel. Just as he expected, the man’s arm fired out like a piston, reaching for his own lapel. Though Cego was able to secure a grip, the man mirrored it and grabbed on to his collar.

Now the real test began. Cego pulled with his grip, testing his opponent’s reaction. The man was like a rock. He didn’t waver. Cego tested him on both sides, seeing if he’d shuffle his feet, but again, he didn’t react.

Cego knew he needed to take action fast or his opponent would. He yanked on the man’s collar again, hard this time, looking for any reaction. The man’s feet slid forward on the ice slightly.

It was enough of a sign for Cego. As his opponent’s body moved toward him, he stepped between the man’s legs with one foot and swiveled his other foot outward. He bent his knees while launching his hip into the man’s waist, attempting to leverage him up and over in seoi nage. Cego had practiced the shoulder throw with Murray for the past several weeks.

His opponent countered expertly. As Cego pushed into him, the man arched his back, drove his hips forward, and lifted Cego into the air, heaving him up to eye level and letting him fall onto the ice with a thud. Urisho goshi. The air burst from Cego’s lungs on impact, leaving him breathless on the ice.

His opponent stood above him, his eyes searing from beneath his veil. “Take me down,” he repeated.

Cego got up slowly, a dull pain arcing down his back. He approached the man again. The man’s hand shot out and grasped Cego’s lapel. Cego countered with his own grip. They circled each other, matching sleeve grips on each side.

After attempting seoi nage, Cego knew he could never win that game. His opponent’s reactions and stability were masterful. Cego’s throws were not nearly good enough. Cego needed to go after the legs. He’d drilled single- and double-leg takedowns with Farmer since he could walk. That was Cego’s game. Though the ice prevented him from initiating his attack from too far out, he knew there was an opportunity for a closer attempt.

The man was standing upright, stiff-backed, which seemed a prime opportunity. When Cego tested his reactions and lowered his base, though, he could feel the firm grips preventing him from getting any mobility. The man was like a statue, holding Cego in place. Cego needed to break a grip and get in close enough to clinch.

Cego released both of his grips and double-handed one of the man’s wrists, jerking sharply at his sleeve to try to break his grasp. It didn’t budge. The man’s viselike fingers didn’t even seem to strain as Cego tugged at them full force several times.

The man rushed forward, quick-stepping past Cego and sweeping his leg out from under him while throwing him toward the ground with his collar grip. Osoto gari. Cego’s shoulder exploded against the ice, sending a blast of pain down his spine.

The man stepped back, repeating the words in a monotone. “Take me down.”

Cego felt the doubt closing in on him, constricting his movements, making him second-guess his techniques. How would he ever get this man to the ground? He couldn’t take a long-distance shot, because of the slippery ice. He couldn’t match the man throw to throw. He was like a wall; he wouldn’t budge. His grips were viselike. There was no way Cego could execute his takedowns without breaking them.

Cego stood again, grimacing. The man didn’t move. Cego approached. They gripped up.

Cego stared into the man’s glowing yellow eyes. They were completely expressionless, robotic.

Perhaps Cego wasn’t meant for the Lyceum. Though he’d done well in the Underground, this was different. He didn’t have the training or the genetics that the purelights did. It would be easy to give up. Call out to whoever was judging him that he’d forfeit.

Sometimes, we need to lose to win, Farmer’s voice whispered. Cego wanted to yell back at the voice in his head, or wherever the old master lived in there. Hadn’t he already lost? He’d tried every course of action, and all paths led to the same result: lying flat on his back on the ice.

Suddenly, it dawned on him.

The cold. He needed to lose something in order to gain something. That was it. Cego’s mind raced as he charted a course of action.

He tugged at his opponent’s gi to assure him he was still putting up a fight. As expected, the man barely reacted, keeping his posture straight and his grips on Cego’s gi as tight as ever.

Cego yanked again, this time harder, looking for the slightest reaction. His opponent slid forward on the ice again. Just at that moment, Cego loosened his arms in his gi jacket and twisted his shoulders forward. His opponent’s hands remained viselike on the gi, allowing Cego to slide out of the jacket and into the cold air.

The frost hit Cego again like a kick to the stomach, immediately stifling his breath. It felt as if his blood had stopped flowing, frozen within his veins. But he was free.

Cego shot forward with lightning speed, unencumbered and lithe without the uniform, and wrapped his arms around his opponent’s waist, the man still grasping Cego’s empty gi. Cego drove forward with every ounce of strength he had, wrapping his foot behind the man’s knee as he pushed.

Caught off-balance, the man began to topple, his feet frantically attempting to grip the slippery ice.

Cego smiled slightly as he felt his opponent fall backward beneath him. He had sacrificed his gi, his only heat source, in order to get inside with enough speed. Just as he was congratulating himself on the crafty maneuver, Cego found himself suddenly head over heels in the air again. His opponent had framed his feet on Cego’s hips while going down.

The man pushed out with his feet as he rolled over his shoulder, slamming Cego back onto the ice. Tomoe nage. He landed on top of Cego in mount.

Farmer’s voice again echoed in Cego’s head, scolding him. Victory is sitting at home by the fire long after the fight. He’d celebrated the takedown too early. He hadn’t anticipated the counter roll.

This time, his opponent did not stand. He bore down from on top of Cego, squeezing him against the ice. The man’s bulk blocked out the light above and his weight on Cego’s chest restricted his breath. The little air he did inhale was icy frost, sending chills down his throat, paralyzing his innards.

Cego tried to escape from beneath the man’s crushing mount, but there was no space. Nowhere to move. No air to breathe. No options.

Murray couldn’t help but shiver as he watched Cego up on the lightboard. He’d seen too many fall to the ice over the years. Murray was constantly surprised at the kid’s ingenuity, though. Slipping out of the gi like that and actually bringing the Guardian to the ground—he’d only seen a handful of kids get their opponent to waver. Even the giant blond boy from the borderlands hadn’t mounted any real offense like Cego had.

The first stage of these Trials—Ice, they called it—was all about each kid’s reaction to adversity. When put up against a nearly immovable opponent and the frost, how would each respond? In addition, Ice tested the candidate’s reaction to the emeralyis Circle. Would the greenlight goad them toward trying untested, inefficient techniques, or would it inspire true innovation?

Murray sat in a circular room full of Citadelians, mostly nervous Scouts who had their careers riding on the success of their talent in the Trials today. Even Command made a point of watching every year.

There were dozens of lightboards in the room, each tuned in to the Trial of a different taker. Some of the boards had gone dark for those who were out of the running already. Cego’s board was still displaying the kid struggling beneath the Guardian’s immovable form.

Many takers hadn’t even made it to the Circle—they’d succumbed to the ice, shivering and curling up on the cold tundra grounds. Others had tried relentlessly to take the Guardian down. Even after getting slammed to the ice countless times, they’d never changed their strategy.

And then there were those who didn’t know how to handle the greenlight at all. Murray had briefly watched a board displaying Cego’s friend from the Underground, Dozer, to see the big kid attempting a flying wheel kick on the Guardian, which resulted in him getting rag-dolled to the ice.

But Cego had embraced the greenlight from the emeralyis Circle. He’d tried to stick to his game plan to start, but when it wasn’t working, he’d opened up his mind. Murray found a smile creasing his face, thinking again about how Cego had slipped out of the gi like that. Darkin’ smart kid.

Murray glanced over at Callen Albright, who was staring at Cego’s lightboard with disgust. The man had expected Cego to fail from the start.

For some, like Dakar Pugilio, who had already polished off a cask of ale, the Trials were pure entertainment. The commander of PublicJustice slapped the side of his chair as he downed another glass, his eyes intently watching Cego struggling beneath the weight of the Guardian.

“You picked a good one this year, brother Murray,” Dakar shouted. “Dark horse indeed!”

“The lacklight got lucky.” Callen sneered. “Wasn’t too smart, either, with his little maneuver there. In real combat, he’d freeze to death, crushed under his opponent.”

“That’s the point of the Trial.” Dakar straightened his back in his chair as he glowered at Callen. “Murray’s boy took a risk. He made a proper sacrifice to take the Guardian down. That’s admirable.”

“When Ezo’s Knights are fighting for us in Circles around the world, do we want them to be admirable? Or do we want them to win? Perhaps they all should make the sacrifice of dignity like you’ve clearly done long ago, Pugilio,” Callen retorted.

Dakar stood, red-faced. “You gutless worm, why don’t we—”

“Enough,” High Commander Memnon said from his seat in the center of the room. “We are here to watch the Trials, not participate in senseless arguments. Sit down, Dakar.”

Dakar slowly sank back into his seat, glowering.

Memnon glanced up at the screen of a girl who’d just taken a vicious throw from the Guardian, rendering her unconscious against the ice. The girl’s screen flickered before fading to black.

“Your boy has fared well in this Trial, Murray,” Callen said from beside Memnon. “But we’ll see how he does in the Arena.” He was the type to always get in the last word.

Murray didn’t respond, keeping his eyes on Cego’s lightboard above. Cego was still pinned beneath the Guardian, struggling to escape from beneath the bulk of his opponent. His efforts would be fruitless, though; a Guardian was not just any other opponent.

The kid didn’t know the truth about the Trials. That they were part of the Sim, Daimyo tech designed to replicate real combat in a variety of environments.

Not that the Trials didn’t feel completely real. The Sim was seamless—the pain Cego was feeling right now, getting crushed against the ice by the Guardian on him, was real in his head. Though any physical wounds Cego sustained in the simulation would be gone when he woke, many kids were plagued for years with mental scars from their Trials. The Guardian was a part of the Sim. It was a near-perfect machine of combat, its only flaws purposeful parts of the code. The Guardian could appear in any number of forms—huge and immovable as a Desovian Juggernaut or wispy and untouchable as a Besaydian Vapoeria. Though the Guardian wasn’t real, it felt real when it was breaking your arms or choking the life out of you.

Murray felt something gnawing at him as he watched Cego succumb to the crushing pressure and the frigid temperature. He’d grown attached to the kid over the past few months.

Murray had told himself he wouldn’t do it again. Invest himself in one of these kids. Watch them go from scrawny, dirt-covered urchins to proud Grievar, filled with confidence and hopes of becoming a Knight someday. He’d trained countless kids in his barracks just as he’d trained Cego, watching them harness the techniques and teachings he had passed down.

They had all broken.

Of all the talent Murray had recruited over the past decade, one boy named Tarick had gotten the furthest in Trials. But he’d still broken.

Murray could vividly remember visiting Tarick in the medward for the next month, the boy feverishly screaming in his sleep. The kid hadn’t been able to wake up. The Sim was too powerful—it could trap minds within those strange, foreign environments. Eventually, Tarick’s body had given way.

After Tarick, Murray had sworn he wouldn’t get attached again. He’d keep doing what the Citadel forced on him, but he wouldn’t invest himself in their sick experiments. The whole thing—digging up kids from the Deep, building them up, and breaking them again during the Trials. Just to test them. To see if they had what it took to become a Knight.

The worst part of it was the Sim. Grievar using Daimyo tech. High Commander Memnon had worked with the Bit-Minders to develop the technology as another weapon to give Ezo’s Grievar the edge. A way to keep their Knights training day and night without wearing out. A new tool to test his Knights in various environments from the comfort of the Citadel’s walls.

They had expanded the Sim from training environments for the Knights to the Trials. The Citadel didn’t want its newest and most promising students to be physically injured going into the Lyceum, so they were put through the Sim. Within the virtual environment, they could probe at every potential weakness a Trial-taker might have.

A few of the smaller nations still ran live Trials, but the Citadel had long advanced past those times. The last live Trials had been during Murray’s schooling, when prospective students did sprints up Kalabasas Hill and took beatings from the upper-level students. But the Sim was more efficient and, in some ways, more brutal. It got inside the kids’ heads.

Murray watched helplessly as another of his kids was broken. Cego was strong, but Tarick had also been strong. And Cego still could not escape the Guardian. Murray watched as the kid screamed voicelessly for space and air, his golden eyes bulging in his skull.

Why is Cego’s Sim still running?

Nearly all the other screens had flicked off when the Guardian had smothered its opponent against the ice. Only one other Trial-taker was standing against the Guardian, the bald boy whose name, Murray had learned, was Shimo.

Murray swiveled his head to see Callen lean over and whisper something in the high commander’s ear. They both were observing Cego’s screen, unflinchingly watching the kid get brutalized beneath the Guardian.

“Why the dark isn’t—” Murray stood and started to move toward the high commander, but suddenly Cego’s lightboard wavered.

Murray met Memnon’s eyes before he looked back toward Cego’s fading screen.

It wasn’t the screen itself that was shifting—the Sim was changing. The frosty tundra began to dissipate around Cego’s inert body. The Guardian on top of Cego shimmered and faded as well, just another part of the Sim. Another illusion of the Bit-Minders. A theater of light and dark, particles playing their parts to simulate reality.

Soon, only Cego remained on the screen, a boy floating in a sea of darkness.

Cego’s eyes fluttered open.

Instinctively, he thrust his hips backward, escaping from the immovable weight he believed to still be mounted on top of him. There was no resistance, though. His opponent was gone. He was alone in the darkness.

Cego stood gingerly, his body beaten and bruised from getting thrown against the ice so many times. He put his hand to his cheek. His skin was raw, ripped from the man’s gi grinding against it.

Had he failed the Trials? Though Cego had initiated a takedown and thrown his opponent off-balance, he had ended up on the bottom. It had seemed he’d been stuck beneath that man for an eternity, unable to move or breathe. Perhaps this was where they transferred the kids who didn’t pass the Trials, keeping them in the dark until the rest had finished.

Cego crept forward in the darkness, his eyes eagerly searching for the slightest prick of light, his ears perked for any sound beyond his own rapid breathing.

Though his senses had little to work with, he sought out every detail of the world around him. The floor was covered in thick cobwebs, like soft tufts of grass beneath Cego’s naked feet. His vat-hide boots were gone.

Cego took a deep breath. He savored the air in his lungs. Warm, thick air. He certainly wasn’t on the icy tundra any longer.

He listened to his heartbeat. It was heavier than usual—he felt the blood pumping in his arms, at the base of his skull.

As he focused, Cego began to see the darkness. Maybe it was in his mind—it certainly did not become lighter—yet he could see its form now, the empty corridor a flat plane in front of him.

Just as light has form, so does darkness, said Farmer.

Suddenly, the darkness was pierced by a glowing wisp igniting in front of Cego’s eyes, casting shadows along the long stone walls. A spectral.

Though the wisp didn’t look any different from the multitude floating across the Capital, Cego knew the spectral hovering in front of his face. It was the same spectral that had kept him company for so long in his little cell in the Deep. It was the same spectral that had appeared in Thaloo’s yard on the day he’d faced off with Weep. This was his spectral. Cego could feel its light, like the warm embrace of an old friend.

The spectral slowly floated away from him, pulsing as if it were bidding him to follow.

“Where are you taking me, little one?” Cego whispered as he stepped forward. Speaking with the wisp again somehow felt right, and it certainly wasn’t the strangest thing going on in the Trials.

As Cego moved farther down the corridor, he noticed a faint thumping. At first, he thought the rhythm was his own heightened heartbeat—he half expected some horror to leap from the shadows ahead. Cego realized the thumping wasn’t coming from within, though. The webs along the wall were bouncing to the rhythm. The beat became louder as he continued; he felt the vibrations in the floor beneath him.

The little spectral stopped several meters ahead of Cego. The wisp cast its light on a dead end, a solid stone wall standing in his path. Was he trapped in here? Perhaps he’d missed some passage hidden by the thick cobwebs.

The spectral pulsed with urgency this time, getting brighter for a moment and then dimming as if it had exhausted its energy. The thumping was louder here. Cego felt the reverberations coming from beyond the wall. He stepped forward to stand beside the little wisp, placing his hand against the stone.

What he’d thought was a wall slid open with a sudden swish, showering Cego in light and noise.

Cego stepped forward as the spectral catapulted itself into the bright light. He watched as the wisp careened upward toward the blue above, joining thousands of other spectrals swirling across the sky like tufts of dandelion hair.

Cego lowered his gaze from the piercing blue sky and saw people everywhere, standing around him on elevated platforms, slamming their hands against the metal frames set in front of them.

Though the arena wasn’t quite as big as Lampai, it was far louder. The sound was overbearing, as if the stadium itself had a heartbeat, a forceful pulse that Cego felt deep in his bones.

Cego peered into the stands, looking for any familiar faces. Was Murray up there somewhere, watching over him?

Cego directed his attention in front of him. A glistening steel Circle was planted at the center of the arena’s dirt floor. It pulsed with a luminous blue glow. Auralite alloy.

A man, covered head to toe in a black second skin, stood at the center of the Circle.

The man’s face was completely blanketed except for two yellow eyes burning from beneath his mask. Expressionless yet calculating. It was the same man Cego had faced moments ago in the gi. The same man who had crushed him against the ice.

Cego neared the Circle. Though he was familiar with auralite, this was different.

This Circle pulsed with the strength of a raging river, fed by the swarm of bluelight spectrals circling overhead. Even before he entered the Circle, Cego felt the pull of the crowd from around him, rhythmically slamming their hands against railings, urging him to spring forward and attack.

He stepped into the Circle, facing the man in black. It was hot, wherever he was. He could already feel beads of sweat forming on his brow.

“Strike me down,” the man said in the same monotone voice.

Cego readied himself, his hands up by his chin. He shuffled toward his opponent across the Circle. The man raised his fists. He rotated slowly as Cego circled to his right and threw a few feinting jabs to gauge his reactions. Nothing. He didn’t even flinch as the punches came within inches of his face.

Cego threw a low cross at the man’s midsection, this time aiming to connect. His opponent shifted his hips back slightly to avoid it and followed with a lightning-fast counter jab. Cego barely turned his chin in time as the punch shaved his face, throwing him off-balance.

His opponent was a counterpuncher. He was baiting Cego’s attack out and would respond with his own aggression. Farmer had played this same game. It was frustrating and required patience to overcome. Cego needed to attack, expect the counter, and then respond with a counter of his own. To succeed, he would need to be several steps ahead of his opponent.

“Strike me down,” the man repeated.

Cego circled again, trying to look for some opening in the man’s defense. He breathed out, steadying himself.

The rhythmic drumming of the crowd picked up pace. Cego attempted to ignore it, but the beat reverberated in his skull. He felt the impatience of the crowd, as if they were prodding him to move forward, to increase his tempo. Though he knew he shouldn’t listen, he wanted to please them. He switched directions, circling to the man’s left, then stopped and circled to the right. He shuffled his feet faster, moving back and forth, trying to catch the man off guard as he pivoted.

Cego jumped in and threw a quick inside leg kick, the same kick he had often employed against Masa during training. The man in black was lightning fast with his parry, bringing up his shin and angling his bone at Cego’s own shin, pushing down right before impact. Cego felt an electric jolt shoot up his spine as their shins clashed. He stumbled backward and fell to one knee, his leg quivering. The man didn’t even register the attack.

Cego knelt on the ground, trying to suck in a breath of the humid air. The beat of the crowd continued to heighten, getting louder and faster.

He got up and began to circle again. The man in black rotated, his defenses up. Cego desperately looked for an opening, his heart beating rapidly along with the crowd’s clamor.

He threw a series of jabs again at the man, still not getting any reaction. He quick-stepped in and let a jab loose, following it with a cross. His opponent weaved his head, letting both punches slip by at the last moment. The man countered, a stiff jab of his own that smashed into Cego’s nose with an explosion of white, then followed it with a roundhouse that clipped Cego’s temple, sending him to the ground in a heap.

The arena spun around Cego, interspersed with flashes of light and the blur of the crowd.

Why was he here? To complete the Trials? To enter the Lyceum? To become a Knight? The goals were distant now, like dreams fading in the sleepy seconds of waking.

Cego’s vision steadied. His opponent stood before him, steadfast, unwavering, without any apparent chinks in his armor. The crowd got louder, as if they’d synced with the pulse of Cego’s heart—every beat roared against the inside of his skull. Though he was beaten down and bloodied, he had to answer the crowd.

Cego slowly stood, his legs wavering.

It seemed impossible to even land one strike against such an opponent. The man’s counterattacks were flawless. Every time Cego went on the offensive, the man retaliated with deadly precision.

Often, the fight is won before the first punch is thrown.

Farmer would emphasize that point before Cego’s sparring sessions. He said that Cego’s mindset going into a fight was as important as his physical conditioning or repertoire of techniques.

Before the first punch.

The crowd wanted him to attack. He felt it, as if he were a marionette dancing under their strings. Cego knew he must not listen to them. He needed to counter their influence and regain control of the situation. It was as much of a fight against the crowd as it was against the man standing across the Circle.

Cego stepped toward his opponent, his hands down at his side. He walked just out of the man’s range and stopped in front of him. Cego stood completely still, staring at the man’s blazing eyes. The crowd thundered around him, their rhythm urging him to move forward, to attack, and to win.

“Strike me down,” the man said.

Cego breathed deeply, unmoving like his opponent. He focused on the spectral bluelight around him, soaking it in. He thought about Dozer and Knees—perhaps his two friends were facing the same unmovable opponent in their Trial. He thought about Murray, who truly believed in him, who had welcomed him into his home like family. He wouldn’t let them down.

The crowd’s roar quieted and the world around him dimmed. He saw only his opponent. Though the man did not move, Cego was mindful of every part of his body—ready to react to the slightest quiver.

Then, as if the man in black had snapped out of a deep slumber, he suddenly shot his leg forward into a push kick, aimed directly at Cego’s midsection. Cego had forced the man to attack.

He couldn’t completely evade the kick—it was far too fast—but he was able to suck in his stomach at the last moment to reduce the impact. He felt the ball of the man’s foot blast into his lower rib cage. Something cracked.

Cego was the one ready to counter this time.

He wrapped the man’s kicking foot up under one of his arms and dropped levels, hoisting the man’s leg on top of his shoulder. Cego surged forward, throwing his opponent off-balance as he launched a cross at his face. The punch caught the man on the chin, though he barely registered it.

Cego let go of the leg and continued moving forward with a flurry of punches while he was inside the man’s range. The man in black expertly bobbed and weaved, evading the punches easily.

Cego growled. If he couldn’t hurt his opponent, he’d at least take something from him. He threw another jab, this time with an open hand. As the man weaved his head to the side, Cego grasped at the man’s mask, getting ahold of the slick material and pulling his hand back. The mask came off.

Cego gasped, falling backward, away from the sight.

He didn’t have time to get his hands up as the man moved in like a blur. A kick slammed into Cego’s ribs, followed by a fist exploding against his temple. And then there was only darkness again.

Murray stared at the lightboard as Cego fell to the Guardian.

The look in the kid’s eyes had been one of pure terror.

Now Cego needed to come to terms with the truth that the Trials weren’t of this world—that he wasn’t walking within the concrete walls of the Lyceum and battling flesh-and-blood opponents.

“Boy let curiosity get the best of ’im,” Dakar slurred. “No one, ’specially not a kid, should have to come face-to-face with a Guardian.”

“He needed better preparation. If he’d known about the true nature of the simulation, he could have readied himself for such an outcome,” Callen said as he glanced smugly over at Murray from his seat.

“Each child needs a different sort of preparation, Commander Albright,” Memnon interjected. “If Scout Pearson deemed it necessary to keep his talent in the dark on the true nature of the Trials, he must have had good reason to.”

“Yes, yes. Of course, High Commander,” Callen replied. “I was just saying that perhaps Murray’s… talent was simply unprepared for the rigors that he would encounter in the Trials.”

Murray couldn’t hold out any longer. “Cego darkin’ put his fist into the Guardian’s face; did anyone else even see that? How many Trial-takers can you recall that did so?”

“Yes, and then he proceeded to completely let his defenses down, Scout Pearson. Your boy got picked apart like the swollen bit-purse of a nobleman wandering the hawkers’ market.” Callen spoke loudly enough for the entire room to hear. Scout Cydek snickered.

“Commander Farstead and the teachers of the Lyceum will be the judges of each child’s performance. It is not for us to speculate upon,” Memnon said with finality.

Murray fell back into silence, staring at the screen as the Arena simulation around Cego began to shimmer and fade. The screen was black for a moment before it lightened again, swelling to a hazy tangerine like the early moments of a dawning day.

Cego had scored highly enough to make it to the final stage of the Trials. The majority of the lightboards in the room were dark now; only a select group of kids had progressed this far.

Murray shivered as he thought about what was to come. The last stage of the Trials had broken many minds. Murray would never be able to dispel the image of Tarick’s wide, empty eyes, the kid’s body lying inert in the medward. Murray had done his best to prepare Cego for the Trial over the past month, but in the end, it would be the kid’s own spirit that determined his success.

Murray had seen it in the Underground. He’d seen it during Cego’s training in the barracks. Beyond the technique and endurance that were required of a Knight, the kid grasped something more—honor, sacrifice, spirit. The qualities the Codes emphasized, which were lacking in even some of the high-ranking Grievar around him.

Qualities that would desperately be needed in the days to come.