CHAPTER 20

Operation Recovery

A Grievar who perishes in the Circle has fulfilled their path. If this is the manner of death, it should not be celebrated or mourned. Death should be viewed as the passage of seasons, as the summer’s last warmth gives way to the chill of frost.

Passage Two, Seventeenth Precept of the Combat Codes

Dozer was the first cog of Operation Recovery, as it ironically came to be known. It was either that or Operation Self-Damage, which Cego thought had too much of an ominous ring to it. And though the big kid hadn’t agreed to help Knees yet, Cego could only hope that Dozer would come to his senses in the moment.

Cego and Sol had mapped out every possibility and combination of fights that needed to occur for Operation Recovery to work, and unfortunately, the plan first required Dozer to take a fall during Professor Tefo’s striking class.

Cego knew he’d have to actually hurt his friend, as Dozer certainly wasn’t known for his acting abilities. He just had to make sure he didn’t hurt him too badly. Dozer would need to make a full recovery by the time the Bayhounds issued their challenge.

Tefo had the class hitting pads to start, as usual, and Cego paired up with Dozer. Though his mind still felt hazy after coming out of the onyx Circle, Cego’s encounter with Joba had given him a renewed vigor to take on the task. If Joba could be so steady in the face of pain and hatred, then Cego could be a leader.

“You know what we need to do.” He stood in front of Dozer, circling his hips in preparation for the drill.

Dozer’s brow furrowed as he strapped a kick pad onto his forearm. “I know the plan. Doesn’t mean I like it.”

“Look at him.” Cego gestured across the room at Knees, who was paired up with Shiar. The jackal was holding his arms out like some noble lord, waiting for Knees to strap him up.

“It’s too tight, idiot,” Shiar complained to Knees as the Venturian refastened the straps.

“Don’t think you’re due a squire until you graduate as a Knight,” Professor Tefo said with a frown as he passed the pair.

Cego turned back to Dozer. The stubbornness in the boy’s face had fled, replaced with a look of grim determination.

“Let’s do this,” Dozer growled.

Cego nodded. “For Knees.”

“For Knees,” Dozer said as he clenched his jaw and held the large kick pad up. It was time for builders. Cego would slowly build the number of kicks he landed, each subsequent strike aimed with increased power.

Tefo bellowed, “Go!” and the sound of shins slapping against the rubber pads echoed across the classroom.

Dozer was crouched over the pad in the proper position, with his face tucked behind it to prevent any errant kicks. One. Cego slammed his shin into the pad. Two. He kicked the pad twice in rapid succession, harder this time. Three. Three kicks in a row, with even more force. Four. Cego slammed his shin into the pad four times, almost as hard as he could.

Five. Cego saw out of the corner of his eye Dozer had raised his face above the top of the pad. His eyes were closed—he was bracing himself. Cego didn’t want to do this.

Cego threw four full-force kicks directly into the center of the pad. On his fifth kick, he aimed toward the top of the pad. His shin slid along and off the edge, slamming into Dozer’s exposed chin and knocking his friend flat to the ground like a toppled tree.

Cego knelt over Dozer, wincing as he saw the awkward angle his jaw was hanging at. Dozer opened his eyes and looked up at Cego. He tried to smile but grimaced in pain instead. Cego had done it—Dozer’s jaw was certainly broken.

“Sorry,” Cego whispered before Tefo arrived at their side. “Let one get away from you there, eh, Cego?” Professor Tefo asked.

“Yeah… I don’t know what happened,” Cego said. Some of the class had come to stand in a circle around Dozer, who was lying inert on the floor.

“I guess I’m just tired from all the extra classes.” Cego made sure to say that part loud enough for Shiar to hear, who, as expected, was among the group standing around Dozer. He was smiling as he looked down at the fallen boy.

“Looks like these lacklights will end up knocking each other out of the running. No need for any of us to help out,” Shiar said sarcastically.

“Mistimed kick. Happens to the best of us,” Professor Tefo said, defending Cego. “Why, I can remember when I was at the Lyceum, we had a fella in class by the name of Tamarind Kormary, immigrant from Besayd. Huge—with thighs like tree trunks. I ended up holding pads for him, don’t know how it ended up like that, maybe I drew the short end of the straw, but anyways…”

“Professor, don’t you think we should get Dozer to the medward?” Cego interrupted Tefo’s story, knowing the professor wouldn’t approach the end of it anytime soon.

“Oh, yes, yes, of course.” Tefo helped Dozer off the ground. “I’ve seen my share of broken jaws. Looking at this one, it’ll be at least two days to get that jaw wired and set. Definitely not the worst that I’ve seen, though. Class, keep up with the builders!”

Cego caught Shiar eyeing Dozer as he slowly walked away with Professor Tefo’s aid. The jackal had caught the scent of blood.

Joba was the next piece to put into play for Operation Recovery. Though he was young, the other teams had already seen the great strength the boy possessed. A healthy Joba would be a huge disincentive for the Bayhounds to make their challenge.

Abel excused himself from Professor Aon’s lecture early, leaving Cego and Sol sitting in the musty study.

“I believe Abel has the right idea, students. If you’ll excuse me momentarily as well, a Grievar of my age needs to use the toilet more often than I’d like to admit.” Aon chuckled as he slowly made his way out the door.

Cego and Sol sat quietly for a minute before Sol spoke up.

“Do you really think this plan will work?” she asked. “What makes you think Shiar will actually take the bait? I mean, if it were me, I’d have made the challenge right off the bat if I thought I could beat your team.”

“Yes. But you have honor, Sol. Shiar does not. The reason I know this plan will work is because Shiar goes after weakness. That’s how he works. It was the same in the Deep. He knew Weep was injured, literally fighting with his last breath. And he took that opportunity to attack him. This time… we’ll be ready for him,” Cego said as he clenched his fists.

Sol regarded him silently. “Weep. You and Dozer mention him all the time. He must have been quite a Grievar to have made such an impression on you guys.”

“Yes. He was. Not in the way you’d think, though,” Cego said. “He wasn’t stronger or faster, or even more skilled than anyone. In fact, he was the weakest of our crew. But he overcame that weakness and he kept fighting. He kept wanting to become better. I think that’s what being a Grievar is about. Not strength, or speed, or even skill, but wanting to become better.”

Sol nodded. “My father used to tell me something like that. We learn more in defeat than we do in victory.”

Cego had heard the famous saying before. Farmer had repeated it on regular occasion as well. “Will your father be back from his fight in Kiroth soon?” Cego asked. He knew there was fanfare whenever Ezo’s champion returned home, victorious.

Sol looked down. “I don’t know. And even if he’s back training at the Knight Tower, I won’t be expecting a visit.”

“I’m sorry,” Cego said. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Don’t be,” Sol said with sudden fire. “I’ve had more opportunity than most Grievar out there. And my father’s absence has made me stronger. I’ve had to figure things out for myself.”

Cego could tell Sol wanted to leave the conversation at that, so he stayed quiet until Professor Aon returned.

After Aon’s lecture, Sol and Cego returned to Quarter D, where Abel was hunched over a desk with several half-full canisters of liquid set around him. The little Grievar was singing a Desovian tune as he worked, his hands expertly distributing the liquids into a glass bottle.

He turned as they moved forward to examine his work. “Ah—my friends! How was rest of lecture? I can take notes I miss?” Abel asked Cego.

“I think you’d be better off with Sol’s notes,” Cego said. “But tell us about your work here. Is it ready?”

“Yes, yes. Is ready.” Abel held up the bottle of liquid in front of his eyes and swished it around. “Was difficult to find right ingredients. Abel looks in dining hall, cleaning supply, everywhere. But I make work. Will work.”

“How did you learn how to do this, by the way?” Sol asked Abel.

“Old Desovian recipe,” he replied. “I have many sisters at home. Use recipe for… how do you say, make man friend sick. Then sister take care him when he sick. He very happy, stay, make baby.”

Sol and Cego looked at each other, quiet for a moment, and then broke out in laughter.

“What so funny?” Abel asked. “This not how baby made here in Ezo?”

Cego tried to calm himself. “Well, I’m not an expert on the subject… but I don’t think so.”

“Let’s hope Joba doesn’t run into any problems like that!” Sol added.

The rest of the crew, except for Dozer, who was at the medward, soon returned after their classes. Abel patted Joba on the back and handed him the bottle of liquid. Joba looked at it, shrugged, and downed it in one huge gulp.

“Okay.” Cego reached up and gripped Joba’s shoulder. The giant boy had given Cego strength when he needed it most and now Joba was sacrificing his own strength for the team. “Let’s get to the dining hall in time. We’ll need to make sure the Bayhounds are there for this.”

The dining hall was completely full, but Cego directed his team to sit beside the Bayhounds. Shiar was bragging loudly about how he’d knocked someone out in striking class that day.

The Whelps sat silently. They were all waiting, their eyes occasionally flitting to Joba, who sat with an unperturbed smile on his face as he downed another glass of insta-carbs. Cego needed his crew to appear natural.

“Mateus, pretty great that you are taking Stratagems and Maneuvers. Mind telling us how the class is going so far?” Cego asked Mateus, who was sitting across from him.

Mateus appeared to be put off by the question at first, but as he caught Cego staring at him intensely, he took the hint. “Oh, yes… yes. Professor Dynari is truly a genius,” he said loudly. “He showed us this one strategy today. It was amazing. Completely designed to make your opponent think you’re hurt when really you’re just waiting to throw the counter. In fact, ooof—”

Sol had elbowed Mateus under the table. “What the? Why’d you—” Mateus suddenly realized what he’d been saying. Cego glared at him. Luckily, Shiar didn’t seem to be paying attention.

Cego checked on Joba and had to double-take as he stared at the giant boy. Joba’s face had gone ghost white. He looked panicked.

“Um… you all right there, Joba?” Cego asked, though he knew his friend was not all right.

Joba shook his head and stood up in a hurry, shaking the whole table with his bulk. The neighboring teams were looking at the boy now, Shiar’s included.

Joba tried to cup his hands around his mouth, but it was useless. With a noise that sounded to Cego like a bullfrog in labor, Joba jerked his head forward violently as waterfalls of vomit poured from his hands. The poor boy tried to wipe his hands on his shirt, just as the next eruption burst from his mouth, splashing onto the table in front of him and, to Cego’s amazement, onto Mateus Winterfowl’s head, which happened to be perfectly positioned in Joba’s zone of havoc.

The whole dining hall was watching the spectacle. Even the seasoned Level Sixers had expressions on their faces that said they’d never seen anything like it before. The smell was already pungent, and many of the students started to filter out of the hall rapidly.

Joba fell to his knees, his hands back over his mouth, trying to stop the next eruption unsuccessfully. Cego caught Shiar’s gaze as he evacuated with the rest of the nearby students. The jackal’s eyes were wide in amusement, watching the big kid hurl his last few meals across the floor.

The job was done. Now his friend needed some attention. “Someone get a cleric in here! My friend is sick!” Cego yelled.

There would be nothing to do at this point but wait. Cego stood above Joba as he lay on the floor like a fallen beast, taking deep breaths between his bouts of sickness. “You did good, my friend,” Cego said, putting a hand on Joba’s back.

Hopefully, Joba would recover in time—they would need him. Abel had said that the sickness should last for only one day, but looking at Joba’s chest rise and fall fitfully, Cego wasn’t so sure.

Cego nodded to Sol, who was smiling for some reason. He took one look at Mateus Winterfowl, covered in Joba’s handiwork, and Cego smiled too.

With both Dozer and Joba out at the medward, Cego was ready to put the final piece of Operation Recovery into play—himself.

He looked into the bunk mirror prior to heading down to Grappling Level One. Between his recent bout in the blacklight, training every day, studying for his Codes test, and the late nights planning Operation Recovery, he felt weaker than ever.

Cego had dark circles beneath his eyes, and a bruise was swelling on his cheek from an errant knee during training yesterday. He ran his hand through his hair—it was getting quite long and unruly at this point. Cego’s back was stiff and his neck felt like a vise was clamping down on it. He was starting to understand what Murray-Ku was complaining about all the time—the constant aches and pains that wore his body down.

As was his habit every day before he left Quarter D, Cego rolled down the nape of his second skin and checked on the flux tattoo. He watched the little dragon’s snout poke out first before its serpentine body emerged onto his neck.

“Wow, doesn’t look like you’ll need to do much to convince Shiar that you’re beat up,” Sol said from behind him, looking into the mirror.

“That’s what I was thinking,” Cego replied. “Walking around like this, I’m surprised the challenge hasn’t come already.”

“Ah, I wouldn’t worry about it,” Sol said. “You still look better than any of those prissy purelight boys, always making sure their hair is combed.”

Cego felt warmth flush his cheeks as he stuttered, “Uh… yeah. What’s with that, anyways? Who combs their hair before getting in a fight?”

“I think it’s another custom they picked up from the Daimyo,” she replied, turning her face in disgust. “Father used to bring me to Daimyo gatherings along with the Grievar from the rest of the Twelve. Before we could sit with them, a servicer would comb my hair and put makeup on my face. I hated it.”

“Makeup?” Cego asked.

“Yes… It’s a set of powders and creams that Daimyo use to cover up bruises and scars on their faces. Both the men and women, they put it on whenever they leave their homes.”

“Why would anyone want to cover up their scars? What strange creatures…”

“Strange… and weak. Yet they control us,” Sol said grimly before changing the subject. “Guess who wears it here, though?”

Cego shrugged. He couldn’t fathom doing something like that.

“Mateus,” Sol whispered. “I saw him putting some powder on in this very mirror to cover up a bump on his cheek.”

Cego shook his head in disbelief. “No!”

“Yes!” Sol smiled as they both tried to contain their laughter.

Cego hurried over to Grappling Level One with the rest of his team. He was still thinking about his conversation with Sol, but he needed to concentrate on the task at hand. He needed to isolate Shiar and convince the Bayhounds to make their challenge. This was the final touch. If he didn’t pull this off, Operation Recovery would be stopped in its tracks.

The class began as usual—Professor Sapao leading warm-ups and then showing a series of basic techniques for the class to drill. Though Cego usually enjoyed the drilling, he couldn’t focus today. He was looking ahead to the free-rolling period of the class.

During free rolling, the students paired up and grappled for ten-minute rounds, with the goal of submitting their partner as many times as possible during that period. After each round, the students would switch partners. There were five rounds total, so Cego needed to make sure the Whelps timed this right.

Cego started off the period with members of his own team—Abel, Sol, and Mateus. He kept it relaxed with Abel, letting the small boy gain top position to hunt for submissions. With Sol, Cego fought harder. He’d never submitted her, though he’d tried to some extent. Her defense was excellent. With Mateus, Cego loved to attack—he really didn’t feel so bad about taking the purelight’s arms and legs at will. As the end of the round neared, Cego pushed off Mateus’s chest and swung around to attack his exposed arm. Mateus wisely tapped as Cego cranked on his elbow.

The bell sounded and the students began to search for new partners for the fourth round. Sol, Mateus, and Cego headed directly for the clump of Bayhounds nearby.

Cego needed to get on the mat with Shiar.

Sol and Mateus successfully initiated rolls with two of the Bayhounds. Though it was a student’s choice to accept or decline a roll, it would be seen as a sign of weakness to turn someone from an opposing team down.

Cego sought Shiar’s eyes but the boy had already partnered up with a member of his own team. Instead, Knees stood directly in front of Cego.

“Let’s be doing this,” Knees said, his face expressionless. Cego hadn’t even thought about the possibility of rolling with Knees. Though Operation Recovery was entirely for the Venturian, Cego had nearly forgotten the reality that his old friend was a member of the Bayhounds, standing right in front of his face.

“Knees… Thanks for the roll,” Cego managed to say, though he was caught off guard.

Knees and Cego squared off.

The Venturian attacked with a ferocity Cego had never seen before—his expressionless demeanor shattered the second the buzzer sounded. Knees leapt at Cego, growling like a beast, trying to pass his guard in every direction. Cego tried to stay calm, but it was difficult with the frantic pace. This wasn’t part of the plan.

Cego wanted to tell his friend about the details of Operation Recovery, about all they were doing to get him back. He wanted to tell Knees they hadn’t abandoned him—he wasn’t alone. But he couldn’t say anything. It was too dangerous. He didn’t know how indoctrinated Knees was as a member of the Bayhounds.

Though striking was prohibited during free rolling, Knees caught Cego with several cutting elbows to the face as he tried to smash past his guard. Cego didn’t want to believe the strikes were on purpose—but looking into Knees’s wild eyes, he wasn’t so sure.

Cego panted on the floor after the roll was over. Knees didn’t meet his eyes or clasp his hand; he got up and looked for his next partner.

Shiar. Cego had completely forgotten why he was here, rolling on Bayhound mat turf. He looked around desperately. If Shiar already had a partner for the fifth and final round, the plan would fall apart.

Luckily, Sol, Mateus, and Abel had intercepted and taken some of Shiar’s potential picks. Shiar was about to match up with Andrew Antonius from the Rocs.

“Shiar!” Cego shouted from his spot on the ground.

Shiar swiveled and met Cego’s eyes. The jackal smirked when he saw Cego on the floor, panting from his heated bout with Knees. Cego didn’t need to pretend he was tired at this point.

“Looking for someone to put you out of your misery, lacklight?” Shiar said as he walked over to stand above Cego.

Cego didn’t say anything. He couldn’t look into the boy’s eyes without seeing Weep in their reflection. The two did not bump fists as the round began.

Shiar attacked furiously from the top, switching side to side to pass Cego’s guard just as Knees had done. He tried to take hold of Cego’s foot and yank it upward into a leg drag, but Cego swiveled his leg to break the grip, recovering his defense.

Shiar drove in for a double-under pass, attempting to stack both Cego’s legs onto his shoulders, but Cego pushed backward to recover with his feet hooked in the crooks of Shiar’s knees. Cego shoved one of Shiar’s knees out from under him and looped his hand around his neck, attacking with the guillotine choke.

Cego felt it immediately—he had just the right angle, the blade of his hand was just deep enough, he could finish Shiar right now. He could tighten the guillotine, and even as Shiar tapped in submission, he could keep squeezing until those jackal eyes were shut for good. Why shouldn’t he?

The jackal had been yapping and gnawing at Cego since they were in the Deep. The boy only looked out for himself here at the Lyceum. The entire school would be better served if he weren’t here. Shiar had killed Weep.

As Cego felt rage build in him, as his choke tightened on Shiar’s neck, he saw Knees across the training room, fighting from the ground. He heard the words Knees had whispered to him about the Trials.

I was weak for so long in that place. I was helpless.

Cego breathed out steadily. This fight wasn’t about his revenge. Or even about avenging Weep. This was about helping Knees. Cego needed to do something far more difficult than showing strength or fighting through the fatigue. He needed to show weakness. He needed to let Shiar win.

Cego loosened his grip on the choke, barely—he couldn’t let Shiar know he wasn’t going for the finish. The jackal now had just enough room to get his fingers beneath his chin and push his head to the ground. Taking the opportunity for survival, Shiar threw his legs over Cego’s guard and passed to his side.

Snarling and savoring his newfound advantageous position, Shiar glanced over to make sure Professor Sapao wasn’t watching, and then drove two quick knees into Cego’s rib cage. He ground the point of his elbow into Cego’s face, forcing him to turn away, and then sharply rode his knee along Cego’s ribs as he swung his foot over into mount. Cego looked up into Shiar’s eyes. The jackal was out for blood.

Shiar squeezed down from mount, applying pressure as he slid an arm beneath Cego’s head. Even though he was weary, Cego could predict Shiar’s moves several steps ahead. The jackal was going for an arm triangle, and when Cego defended it, he would pivot to an arm bar.

Just as expected, Shiar started using his head to push Cego’s arm across his face. Cego gave him adequate resistance. Shiar didn’t like that. The jackal snaked one hand over Cego’s face and started to dig his thumb into his eye socket. Cego immediately protected his eye as he thought of the gruesome injury Murray had taken at Lampai. Cego shoved Shiar’s hand away from his face. The jackal took the opportunity—swinging around into the arm bar.

Cego tapped quickly; the lock was tight. Shiar didn’t stop, though; he thrust his hips forward into the elbow joint. Cego heard several loud pops, and then numbness slithered up his arm.

The Whelps met on the common ground after their last class of the day, their eyes glued to the big lightboard in the center of the room. Any challenges would be posted on the board in the next few minutes, and they were all eager to see if their plan had worked.

The team really did look broken. Even if Xenalia had been accurate in her predictions on each of their recovery times, his crew’s current state worried Cego.

Joba sat hunched forward in his chair, the rest of the Whelps giving him a wide berth after the mess in the dining hall. The normal color had returned to his face, though the boy still didn’t look quite right, as if he were making an effort to make sure everything stayed down.

Cego had taken a quick trip to the medward after Shiar had broken his arm. Xenalia had muttered something about her job being pointless and Grievar always re-breaking themselves as she stuck a needle into Cego’s arm. Whatever it was, it had numbed the pain, but Cego knew that his left arm would be useless for a few days.

Dozer was in good spirits after returning from his medward stay. He kept reassuring the team that he was okay, though whenever he tried to speak, it was nearly indecipherable. Cego couldn’t tell if it was due to Dozer’s jaw or the meds they’d pumped into him.

“Awl I know is dat darkin’ dackal… eel be oming fer us soon,” Dozer slurred, wincing in pain as his jaw cracked.

“What did you say, Dozer?” Mateus asked, smiling slyly. “I couldn’t quite hear you.”

“Dat darkin’ dackal Shiar! Ee’ll be oming for us—soon!” Dozer tried to raise his voice.

“Stop messing with him.” Sol glared at Mateus. “You’re trying too hard. And look, it’s smudged your makeup.”

Mateus inadvertently placed a hand up to his face and then glared back at Sol as the rest of the Whelps laughed at him.

“Hahah-agh!” Dozer tried valiantly to join in the laughter.

A crowd of students had gathered around the challenge lightboard, chattering about the new matchups that had just been posted. The Whelps hurried over.

Cego scanned the screen, looking past the higher-level challenges to the bottom of the board. There were three Level One challenges posted:

TEAM JAB MANTIS (LV. 1) CHALLENGES TEAM WHELP (LV. 1)

TEAM ROC (LV 1) CHALLENGES TEAM WHELP (LV. 1)

TEAM BAYHOUND (LV. 1) CHALLENGES TEAM WHELP (LV. 1)

Cego’s stomach sank. All three Level One teams had challenged them. Their plan had worked—they’d appeared weak and Shiar’s Bayhounds had taken the bait. But so had the rest of the class.

Cego paced Quarter D, shaking his left elbow out as if it would somehow magically heal within the next forty-eight hours.

“I ay we akem all on! Bring em!” Dozer was attempting to shout as he boxed the air emphatically.

“The odds are formidable,” Sol said, levelheaded as always. “Accepting all the challenges means nine fights in one day, back-to-back. We do have the option of just accepting the Bayhounds’ challenge—isn’t that the point of this whole plan?”

“Yes, it is,” Cego said. “Though if we decline the other two challenges, it will hurt our score. Even if we do pull it off against the Bayhounds, we’ll be near to last place. We wouldn’t have time to recover from that by end of cycle.”

Sol nodded, swiping at her lightdeck to check on Cego’s calculations.

“You’re right. But we wouldn’t be in last place. We’d be solidly in the third spot. Which means we’d be safe from getting held back,” Sol said.

Mateus chimed in, “That settles it, then. Stick to the plan. We decline the first two challenges, accept Team Bayhound’s, win your boy back, and I get traded back to some more cultured Grievar for the next cycle.”

“This is very good for you, no, Mateus?” Abel said. “We win, you be trade to Bayhounds, and then you in first-place team. But we drop down, third place for us.”

“Er… no. That’s not what I was saying,” Mateus said defensively. “I’m just saying we can’t take the risk of fighting more than one team. That’s lunacy. We’re broken as it is.”

“As much as I hate to agree with him,” Sol said. “Mateus is right. We are broken. Look at us. We hardly have three fully healthy Whelps right now.”

Cego nodded slowly in agreement.

“Joba, what do you think?” Cego asked. He wanted everyone to have their say before the team made a decision.

Joba smiled good-naturedly and shrugged his big shoulders. Cego looked to Abel for translation.

“Joba say he in for whatever,” Abel replied quickly, smiling up at his huge friend.

Cego nodded. “Okay, then, let’s take it to a vote. I don’t want to make the decision for everybody else. We’re part of a team here. We need to make decisions as a team.”

“Wait,” Sol said, eyeing Cego suspiciously. “You haven’t said what you thought yet. Don’t think we can take a vote before hearing what everyone thinks.”

“I don’t know if people want to hear what I think,” Cego replied softly.

“Well, I do,” Sol said emphatically. “In fact, I’m not voting until I hear it.”

“Ee too!” Dozer yelled.

“Now we’re in for it…” Mateus sighed.

Cego took a deep breath. “I think what you’ve said is completely true. Our goal was to get Knees back and accept the Bayhounds’ challenge. And it’s true that if we decline the first two challenges, we take far less risk—we’ll be in better shape for our challenge against the Bayhounds and we also won’t risk last place and getting held back.

“But if we decline the first two challenges, we’ve lost it all anyways,” Cego said. “Yes, we might get Knees back onto our team—but what sort of team will it be? We’ll have that mark on us forever—backing down from those challenges. Without honor. Knees will be forced onto a team of cowards. If it were me in Knees’s place, I’d rather stay where I was, despite the horrible company.”

“But—but—” Mateus started to interject, but Cego continued, his voice strong and steady.

“From where I stand, that’s what separates us from them. From Shiar and the Bayhounds. From the Daimyo. From everyone trying to use the Grievar for their own selfish purposes.” Cego thought about the many innocent kids just like Weep, still fighting for their lives in the Deep.

“It’s not even about winning. It’s about following the Codes. The other teams think we’re cowering and ready to be crushed. If we decline their challenges, we’re agreeing with them. We’re telling them that we’re afraid, that we don’t have what it takes to stand in front of them. We’re telling them that we have no choice but to concede.”

Cego was silent for a moment as his team waited for his conclusion.

“If it were my choice alone—and I know it isn’t—I’d accept all three challenges. I’d have us decisively win the first two, then I’d stare Shiar in the eyes and watch him cower as we take the third challenge. I’d have Knees back on a team with honor. A team in first place.”

Dozer bellowed, “Ats what I’ve been sayin’ da ole time! I’m in!”

Sol stared into Cego’s eyes. He did not avert his gaze this time. Cego meant everything he’d said. Farmer would do the same. Murray would do the same.

“I’m in,” Sol said quietly.

“Oh, blasted lacklights,” Mateus screamed. “I can’t believe you fools are actually—”

“In Desovi, we Grievar say something,” Abel interrupted the furious purelight boy. “If you need to cross field, and step in arnyx dung, no use in trying to clean off. Better to continue to step in dung until you cross field. Clean off later.”

The team looked at Abel with wide eyes. “I in too,” Abel said as he looked up to Joba, who was smiling as usual and nodding. “And Joba in. Joba likes Cego’s plan.”