CHAPTER 21

Into the Darkness

A Grievar shall not burden themselves with the society around them. Whether the squawks of merchants, the goading of politicians, or the coos of sirens, a Grievar must stand apart. In doing so, one can enter the Circle with a clear mind.

Sixteenth Precept of the Combat Codes

Murray always got stares when he entered the Daimyo districts. He hated it. Not only was he at least two heads taller than most Daimyo, which naturally drew their gaze to him, but some still recognized Murray from his fighting days. Though combat was a Grievar lightpath, spectating fights was a Daimyo pastime—cheering and jeering, betting, criticizing, sitting idly, and watching SystemView.

Already, two of them had stopped Murray on the street, one trying to hire him for merc work and the other berating him for a fight he’d lost twenty years ago.

Murray walked beneath the shadows of towering skyscrapers in the Capital’s Tendrum District—Daimyo territory. Not many traveled the lower street levels anymore, mostly Grunts and sweepers set on picking up refuse. The Daimyo preferred mech transport, most having forgone walking or any sort of physical activity long ago.

Murray glanced up as one of the transports briefly hovered above him. Images flashed across the pod’s translucent windshield, giving the operator access to various information feeds, probably displaying Murray’s complete history on the glassy surface.

Murray shook his head in disgust.

Transports sped back and forth between the tall buildings that surrounded Murray, crisscrossing lanes of aerial traffic and merging with docks set along each floor of the skyscrapers. The Daimyo were always speeding from one place to another to do so-called business, making goods, products, and tools to enhance their lives. They were never happy with what they already had.

Another broke from the aerial traffic to get a better look at Murray, gazing down from its mech like a floating deity. It was rare for a Grievar to enter the Tendrum, dangerous even, but Murray had business to handle.

Murray stopped at an intersection as a wide-mouthed sweeper methodically sucked up the debris on the street, picking up piles of refuse cast from the pod traffic above. Daimyo weren’t all bad folk, naturally—Murray knew that. Coach had taught him to keep an open mind. The Codes called for it.

Murray crossed the intersection just as an Enforcer rounded the corner. Nine feet of rippling steel stomped purposefully toward Murray. Of course they would know he was here—a Grievar couldn’t walk into a Daimyo district without having security called on him.

The Enforcer was imposing coming from a distance, its pulse cannon radiating with charge, the mech’s frame looking like an impenetrable wall of metal. But as the beast closed in, Murray saw the little Daimyo pilot hiding in the cockpit.

He met the Daimyo’s pupilless black eyes and wondered whether he could plant a punch through the layer of reinforced glass to crush the creature’s skull.

“Grievar, state your purpose here in the Capital’s Tendrum, designated Daimyo housing and mercantile district,” the little man said with authority through the mech’s speaker.

Murray brought out his Citadel badge. Though it certainly didn’t give him free rein in the Daimyo district, it would at least assure the man he was here on official business.

“Citadel Scout Murray Pearson,” Murray growled under his breath.

“Scout, you say? Aren’t you a bit far from Citadel grounds?” the Enforcer asked suspiciously.

“I’m on assignment. I have a meeting at the Codex.”

The Daimyo lifted his eyebrow. “A Grievar with a meeting at the Codex? What business do you have with the Bit-Minders?”

“What darkin’ business is it of yours?” Murray growled.

“You’re no longer within the Citadel’s walls or in one of your slums, beast,” the Daimyo spat. “It is my business to ask you whatever I want.”

Murray felt his blood vessels constricting and expanding, the adrenaline pumping into his veins. These creatures believed themselves to be protected by the layers they put in front of them. Steel and glass and cloth. A mere illusion that Murray might dispel with a well-placed fist.

That’s not what he was here for, though. He was here for Cego. Murray exhaled quickly to steady himself.

“Citadel Commander Callen gave me direct orders to report to the Codex,” Murray said. “If you want to check back with him, go ahead. Course, I’ll need to tell him you’ve held me back here.”

At the mention of Callen, the Enforcer backed down. The Scout commander had a direct line to Ezo’s Daimyo Governance.

“No need for that,” the Enforcer said. “Just make sure you stay off these main streets. You’re making the citizens uneasy.”

Murray nodded. “I’ll be sure to do that. Wouldn’t want the citizens to get uneasy,” he said.

Murray continued on his way, turning off the main thoroughfare into a side alley between two of the massive buildings. He passed several neon signs with stairs that led to lower-level establishments—stores hawking goods and products of some sort, more useless items that these creatures collected.

Though Murray had only come this way once before, he remembered the path to the Capital’s Codex clearly. He’d visited the place when he was under Coach’s tutelage. Out on a learning mission, as Coach called them—exploring the city with his team to see what and who they were fighting for.

As a young Grievar Knight, fresh out of the Lyceum, Murray had tried to keep an open mind. Seeing the makers at ArkTech, the hawkers in the mercantile districts, the clerics in the medwards—Murray could rationalize how those Daimyo had a place in the world. They made medicines, sold goods, created foods. Even if he didn’t agree with how the Daimyo lived their lives, he had a basic understanding of why they were necessary in society.

When Coach had the team visit the Codex, though, Murray hadn’t been able to fathom why they needed those… things.

Though Bit-Minders were Daimyo by breed, they were the farthest on the spectrum from the Grievar. Which is why Murray despised them.

The Bit-Minders had no allegiance to any nation. They sold their technology to the highest bidder, feeding off the ongoing Grievar arms race. They had a Codex planted in nearly every major city around the world, where they programmed the transports, the sweepers, biometrics, arrays, lightboards, SystemView. And the Sim. The Bit-Minders had created the Sim.

Murray emerged from the alley and crossed another major intersection, keeping his hood down. There it was across the street—a short, flat building, out of place in comparison to the towering skyscrapers around it. The Codex looked like a structure that had been chopped down to a stump.

In a sense, the Codex was as tall as the surrounding skyscrapers, but most of its floors were belowground. A network of System nodes grew beneath the earth like a maze of roots.

Murray shivered as he walked into the Codex through the steel sliding doors, emerging into a square, sterile room of polished black-metal walls. The room clearly was not built for a Grievar—Murray needed to duck his head to avoid brushing against the ceiling.

In fact, the room didn’t seem like it was made to welcome any sort of visitor. It was empty, as if he’d entered an abandoned building. No receptionist for greeting or even security forces—just a large lightboard up against the wall in front of him, staring at him in silence. He knew they were watching him.

Murray took a deep breath and stepped up to the board, placing his head in front of the display panel to let it scan him. Light flashed in front of Murray’s eyes, flickering back and forth. A previously invisible elliptical door swished open across the room from him.

Murray entered a brightly lit hallway with no doors or windows, made of the same obsidian metal. With no direction, he began to head down the corridor, listen to the echoing of his own footsteps.

Murray realized he was sweating. He’d barely broken a sweat before his fight at Lampai—and yet here, with no discernible threat, Murray felt his heart rate increasing, his palms getting clammy.

Another previously invisible door gaped open as if it had been ready for him. He was being herded, like some rat in a maze. Murray ducked into the doorway, entering a tiny room, the ceiling so low that he was forced into a crouch.

The room suddenly dropped, Murray’s stomach dropping along with it as he braced his hands against the ceiling to steady himself. He could feel the transporter twisting rapidly in different directions, moving through the intricate network of the Codex. He imagined himself like a piece of food being digested, sent through the inner tract of some gargantuan beast. Finally, the transporter stopped and the door opened.

He exited to another unmarked, sterile hallway, completely silent. Sweat was pouring off his brow. Murray stopped and steadied himself, trying to take a few breaths. He walked for several minutes down the blank hallway before another little door opened to his right, goading him to enter. There was nowhere else to go.

Murray ducked into a circular room, this one with no perceptible light beyond a soft glow at one end.

“Murray Pearson, Grievar brood,” a monotone voice said. “Controlled birth, year eight twenty-one, Underground, Zone Three medward. Purelight heritage, father Mirko Pearson, mother Samelia,” the voice continued.

Murray walked toward the glow.

“Age, fifty-two. Height, six feet, ten inches. Weight, three hundred fifteen pounds. Heart rate, one hundred ninety-seven beats per minute. Blood pressure—”

“Stop!” Murray yelled. “Stop with this darkin’ blather.” The voice stopped.

“Blather? I merely speak the truth, Murray Pearson. Data. Every moment we live in this world, the data reveals the truth.” Murray shivered as the creature came into view. It floated within a glowing tube, staring out at him with two tiny black eyes.

It looked like a deformed baby, with tiny vestigial arms and legs and a massive bald head. The creature’s head made up the majority of its body mass, a pulsing bundle of veins and nerves. “Blood pressure, two hundred over one hundred fifty-two… Do I scare you, Grievar?” the Bit-Minder asked Murray, its mouth not moving but its voice reverberating through audio boxes planted around the room. “I am so small compared to you. Three hundred fifteen pounds of muscle, built to rend limbs and crush bones. Why would you be scared of me?”

“Not scared. I just don’t… can’t believe something like you actually exists,” Murray admitted. To a Grievar, a body was a sacred tool, a sword to be sharpened throughout life. A Grievar’s physical prowess was their link to the world around them—how they communicated with it, how they stacked up in society. Bit-Minders didn’t even use their bodies. They were nearly mechs. How could Bit-Minders be trusted if they had no physical stake, no roots planted in the earth?

“Exists. What a strange word,” the Bit-Minder said. “Do you exist more than me because you have a body that does as you tell it? You tell your body to walk, to punch, to kick, to eat, to defecate, and you think, with your simple mind, that you have control. That you are free to do as you wish. And yet I, floating here, trapped in this space, who cannot walk the ground that you walk, have no control, no freedom to follow a lightpath. Is that what you think, Grievar?”

“I don’t think any of that,” Murray said. “I’m here because I’ve been told you can help me.”

“Yes. I know this already, of course. Help. You, with your fine-tuned body and your fists, you need help from me—floating here so helplessly. Why is that?” the Bit-Minder asked. “Perhaps what you think of as control is not really so. Perhaps your actions, where and when you move your body, are not entirely your own idea. After all, like everyone on this planet, you follow the light. And where does that light come from—who determines where that light shines?”

“I control my own actions,” Murray growled, knowing what the creature was suggesting. “Just like how I can decide to plant my fist through this tube of yours.”

“The path is already set for you, Murray Pearson,” the thing said. “You might think of me as small, weak. But you are the insect, following a trail of crumbs that we have set for you. You will not deviate from that path; you will not harm me as your kind typically threatens to do. You need to follow your path, eat up your little crumbs, and keep moving forward. Is that not so?”

Murray wanted to prove the Bit-Minder wrong. He forcefully steadied his hand.

“You’re right,” Murray said. “Whatever you say.”

“As long as we know which side of the glass each of us is on, Murray Pearson, I can help you,” the Bit-Minder said. “We are not so different, as strange as it seems for me to say so. I know your kind thinks of all Bit-Minders as the same, one indistinguishable from another, but just like you, we have designations. My real name is a list of numbers too complicated for your simple Grievar brain… but you can refer to as me Zero.”

“Zero it is,” Murray said.

“I have been informed you are interested in a particular point of System activity within the Citadel, is that so? That is why you are in the Codex, where I can see you are clearly uncomfortable, as you have already lost seven-point-three ounces of water weight since entering our doors,” Zero said with precision.

Murray wiped the sweat pouring off his brow. “How did you know what I was here for?”

“We see everywhere the light shines,” Zero replied. “We are everywhere and nowhere.”

“That’s comforting,” Murray said. “And yes, I want to know what’s going on with the Sim. How did a Trial-taker, my kid Cego… How did he perform so well? How did he resist the blacklight in the Time Trial for so long?”

“The Sim. It has been an asset to Ezo’s Grievar program over the past decade; is that not so?” Zero asked.

Murray wished this brain in a jar would just answer his questions. He knew he needed to play its game, though. “The Training Sim lets our Knights practice more often without getting hurt. I’ll give you that much. But the Trial Sim is different. I’ve seen it break kids. Too many times, I’ve seen a kid come out of that thing and there just isn’t anything left. Like they’ve been burned from the inside.”

“Some Grievar minds, especially those still developing, are not strong enough to recover from an immersed Sim experience. An unfortunate side effect,” Zero said dismissively. “But for the good of the nation, the Sim has improved Ezo’s winning percentage. Is that not what the Grievar at the Citadel wanted?”

Murray shook his head warily. For the good of the nation, again with that. “Yes… that is what the Citadel wanted. But we both know the Citadel is being run by Governance at this point, so really we’re talkin’ what you Daimyo wanted.”

“Semantics. Grievar fighting for Daimyo. Daimyo working for the Grievar. Though technically we are Daimyo, we Bit-Minders choose not to participate in such senseless politiks,” Zero said. “It is beside the point. We designed the Sim programming to improve Ezo’s win percentage, and that is exactly what it did.”

Murray was growing tired of this runaround. “Your point?”

“You grow tired of me?” Zero said, as if reading Murray’s mind. “Your heart rate has slowed by four percent while your pupils have diminished in size by two millimeters. Perhaps we should end this meeting.”

“No, no.” Murray backtracked. “I just want to know what happened to Cego.”

“As I was telling you. The first Sim, the Trainer, was designed to improve the Knights. The second Sim, the Trials, was made to test Grievar brood entering the Lyceum. The programs were certainly helpful, but they were not enough. Though Ezo became more competitive, they did not dominate as they set out to do. That is why there was a third Sim being tested simultaneously.”

Murray looked at Zero’s tiny black eyes. He felt his heart getting faster again. “Third Sim?”

“Yes. Something that would change the game entirely, not push a nation forward inches at a time like the other two programs. Something that would give a nation the clear advantage, making their Grievar second to none. We called it the Cradle.”

Murray couldn’t help himself. “You Daimyo are always trying to make the Grievar better. Breeding programs, stims, and now the darkin’ Cradle. Call it what you will. When will you learn that it’s not some fancy new technology that makes a champion? It’s hard work, a warrior’s spirit, honor. Artemis Halberd, probably the greatest that has ever lived, he was born without training in any of your Sims,” Murray stated.

“Yes. Exactly the point, Murray Pearson. Artemis Halberd was born without any of the Sims. But he is a rarity. For every Artemis Halberd the Citadel produces, there are thousands of Grievar who are not champions. Ezo’s wasted bits, resources, opportunities,” Zero said.

“Wasted?” Murray yelled, his face up against the tube. “Do you know the kind of work our Grievar put in? The blood and sweat that soak the training mats every day? How the dark could you even understand?”

Zero was silent for a moment, staring at Murray as his breath steamed up the tube’s glass. “Now, there, does that feel better? Heart rate two hundred twenty, two hundred nineteen, two hundred eighteen… I find it so strange how you beasts need to revert to fits of rage. Like some sort of pressure valve release. Are you ready for me to continue again?”

“Yes,” Murray said blankly. He was already so sick of this creature. He had to get what he needed and get out.

“As I was detailing before your tantrum,” Zero said, “that was the problem with the first two Sim programs. They were already too late. The Trials were designed to test young students entering the Lyceum. The Trainer was made to test Knights before they entered the Circle. But both were too late. They did not reach the Grievar until after the formative processes in their brains had already solidified—the wiring and chemistry that determine the difference between a run-of-the-mill Grievar Knight and a true champion. The Third Sim, the Cradle—it overcomes this deficiency. It starts its work at the very beginning. It will make every Grievar who goes through it a champion.”

“That’s impossible,” Murray said. “Distinct body types, multiple strengths and weaknesses, quality of the opposition—every Grievar is different.”

“Not impossible, Murray Pearson,” Zero said. “Statistically improbable, correct. However, with the Cradle, we cut out that statistical improbability.”

“Clearly, it’s not working,” Murray responded. “You say the program started over a decade ago? Kiroth’s still ahead of us. I don’t see champions being churned out of the Citadel in the droves…”

“Do you not see?” Zero asked. “Of course you do not. Your kind never sees what is truly in front of them. Grievar are always living second by second, getting thrown helplessly down the rapids of time. We Bit-Minders are able to step out of that stream of time and truly see cause and effect. Which is what the Cradle is—an experiment in time. It enables the Citadel to truly use time to their advantage—without any wasted years. But it requires patience. Just about thirteen years, in fact.”

“Thirteen years. Why does that…?” Murray’s eyes widened.

“Cego was one of the Cradle’s first subjects. Birthed and raised from childhood within the Sim, within the blacklight,” Zero said without inflection.

Somehow, in the back of his mind, Murray had known it. It all made sense now. Everything about Cego made sense. But that didn’t mean the words weren’t shocking to hear. How could the Citadel knowingly be part of a program like this?

“How. Tell me how they do it,” Murray said, his voice like ice. “Where do they keep the kids… the babies?”

“You were badly injured twenty-two years ago, Murray Pearson,” Zero said. “Severed vertebrae—you spent almost a year in the medward. You were in stasis. Do you remember that time?”

“No. What does that have to do with this?” Murray growled.

“The Cradle uses a similar protocol that the clerics use to put Grievar in stasis. Except the clerics run very base code to keep the brain occupied and working for such long periods of time while the body repairs. The Cradle is far more complex—it not only keeps the brain occupied, it enhances the wiring. The Cradle exposes the subject to blacklight from birth, allows them to experience decades of training in mere months.”

Murray thought about the Knight suspended in the gelatinous liquid in the medward. In a tube, much like Zero was floating in, right in front of his eyes. “You mean to say there are tubes of Grievar babies floating somewhere? You’re growing them like that?”

“Put in very simple terms that you can understand… yes,” Zero said.

Murray’s body trembled. How had it gotten to this? How could the very folk that he had fought for, given his lightpath for, be a part of something like this?

“Where… where are they kept?” Murray asked, trying to keep his voice steady.

“Unfortunately, I cannot disclose that particular bit of information, Murray Pearson,” Zero said. “Our assets are very valuable. Many nations have a vested interest in their proper development.”

“If Cego was one of the first… why’d I end up finding him clawing his way through some slave Circle in the Deep? Why wasn’t he being pampered at the Citadel, getting groomed to be Ezo’s next champ?”

“Ah. And that is how we have arrived at the present,” Zero said. “Cego was an anomaly. He was birthed into the Cradle before some newer modifications were made to the Sim code. There were certain… conditions included in the program that were determined to be superfluous to winning, which have since been cut out. Because of that, Cego’s lightpath was to be terminated, as we determined it was statistically improbable he would become a champion.”

“Terminated? Don’t darkin’ tell me you’re saying…” Murray growled.

“It is all data, Murray Pearson; why can you not see that? Whereas you see lives, we see numbers, statistics. Nothing more. In fact, a large percentage of our Cradle subjects are terminated before fruition.”

Murray was speechless. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“As I said—the Cradle is only made to produce champions. The perfect Grievar. Those subjects that are determined to have imperfection… Well, they cannot be simply released into the world. They need to be wiped clean.”

“Why is Cego alive, then?” Murray heard himself ask. He felt like he could hear his voice from afar, a distant echo, as if he were floating in the vat beside the Bit-Minder.

“There was a glitch. The first version of the Cradle—it had some bad code, which we have since eradicated. Somehow, it shut itself down. It released Cego into the world. The real world. One he was never meant to live in.”

“And, as smart as you Bit-Minders here at the Codex think you are, as smart as the Governance and the Citadel thinks they are… none of you knew what happened to Cego, your glitch, until he walked right back into the doors of the Lyceum and took the Trials?” Murray asked.

“Yes,” Zero said.

Murray felt a knot form in his stomach. He’d brought Cego back to them. To the very folk who were planning on terminating the kid because he was some failed experiment. And now they knew. Memnon and Callen and the Governance politiks they were working for, they knew that their failed experiment had returned.

Murray had to get back to the Lyceum. Fast.

Dozer was holding pads for Cego, warming him up for his upcoming fight.

The Rocs were the first team the Whelps would need to get through, and Cego was going up against their captain, Gryfin Thurgood. Those who had faced Gryfin described it as akin to going up against an enraged Jadean bull, strong as the dark with an initial charge meant to take your head off.

Cego tried to throw a quick one-two combination, ducking under a looping roundhouse and following up with a swift body shot into Dozer’s padding. His left arm screamed with pain as his fist made impact.

Out of the corner of his eye, Cego checked on the prep work of the other two Whelps set to fight in the first round.

Abel was warming up with Joba, leaping in to fire a series of quick punches and kicks and then springing back out of range. They’d selected the little Desovian to go up against Mos Aberdome, the Rocs’ resident power puncher known for his notoriously thick skull. Abel’s game plan had been meticulously mapped out, just like the Whelps had done for every other upcoming fight today. He’d use his superior speed to jump in and out of Aberdome’s striking range while peppering him with leg kicks to sap his punching power.

Mateus Winterfowl was practicing quick sprawls as Sol shot in on him.

“That the best you got?” the purelight said as he threw his legs backward to fend off Sol’s double-leg takedown attempt. Sol smiled and deftly swooped in again, this time transitioning to a quick single-leg and putting Mateus on his back.

The Whelps had selected Mateus to go up against the Rocs’ weakest member—Jozlyn Fritz. Fritz was known for her highly technical grappling ability, but the girl had shown holes throughout the semester in her standing game. If Mateus could prevent the takedown, he’d be able to pick Fritz apart on the feet. Cego had warned Mateus about being too cocky, though—underestimating any opponent today would be a serious misstep.

Just as Cego threw another combo, he noticed a familiar blocky form emerge from around the corner of the prep room. Murray-Ku.

Murray smiled as he took the pads from Dozer and continued with Cego’s warm-up, just as he’d done numerous times in the barracks. Murray turned the pads to face the ground as Cego responded with a series of uppercuts.

“Thurgood. He’s going to bring you into a clinch war. You know that, right?” Murray asked Cego, as if the man hadn’t been missing a single day over these past months.

“Yeah. I suspected as much,” Cego said. “I’ve seen him do it to other kids.”

“Use your dirty boxing, like this,” Murray instructed as he yanked Cego’s neck in and held one pad on the inside. Cego threw a series of uppercuts and body shots into the pad, grimacing as his left elbow buckled again.

“You all right?” Murray asked.

“Yeah… just a little stiff,” Cego lied. He couldn’t worry about his injury going into this challenge. He couldn’t worry about the many questions he had for Murray-Ku after his long absence.

“You’ll want to go for a takedown after he wears you down in the clinch. Get the fight to where you feel comfortable. Don’t do that,” Murray said.

Cego looked at Murray quizzically.

“You need to show him you’re fine in the clinch because that’s his best weapon. Once you take that away from him, he won’t have anything left for you. Then you can break him,” Murray said.

Cego nodded. Classic Circle strategy. Fire with fire.

“Don’t forget your inside knees too,” Murray said, prompting Cego to throw sharp knees into the pad.

“Speaking of knees,” Murray said as he swiveled Cego around. “Is that who you’re doing this for? Either that or you’ve taken too many hits to the head… Three challenges in one darkin’ day.”

Cego stayed silent as he continued to mix in body punches and knees.

Murray nodded. “That’s good,” he said. “They’ll keep telling you not to do things like that. After all, it’s not in the interest of your lightpath. You’re taking a risk.”

Cego pushed Murray out and launched a quick front kick into the pad before shooting in for a single-leg. Murray half sprawled, letting Cego stand before pulling him back into the clinch.

“They’ll tell you not to take those risks. They’ll tell you to do things for the greater good. They’ll have you forsake the Codes.” The old Grievar said the last part with spite, tossing Cego backward.

“What I’m saying is… you’re doing it right. Fight for what you believe in, kid.”

Cego nodded; he didn’t know what to say. Murray was giving him a strange look.

“I got something to talk to you about, but it can wait until after your fights,” Murray said. “I don’t want your mind wandering when you got a job to do in the Circle. Never helps.”

Had Murray found what he was looking for? Cego couldn’t wait. “I need to know—”

“It doesn’t matter,” Murray said, stopping Cego. “You think finding out will fix everything. It won’t.”

Cego looked at the floor.

“Whatever I tell you, it won’t change anything. You will still be Cego. The same dirt-encrusted kid I met down in the Deep. The same kid who fought for the weak in the slave Circles. The kid who busted through the Trials like butter and is here now prepping to fight again for what’s right. Not for the bits or for a nation—for what’s right. For the Codes.”

Murray placed his hand on Cego’s shoulder and squeezed. “We fight so the rest shall not have to.”

Cego thought about what Aon Farstead had asked in his class at the start of the semester. Why was he fighting? Not for Ezo. Not for the Daimyo. Not even for Grievar-kin.

He was fighting for Knees. For the Whelps. For Murray.

For Farmer and his brothers, wherever they were.

“We fight so the rest shall not have to,” Cego repeated.

Cego stood on the sidelines, trying to shake out his throbbing arm. He was already sweating beneath his bleached-white second skin. A student announcer was breaking down the challenges for the audience, laying out what was at stake in the upcoming fights. Cego wasn’t listening.

If the plan failed, his entire team would be held back from advancing to Level Two. Everything they’d worked for this semester would be for nothing. If the plan failed, Knees would be left with Shiar and the Bayhounds—the trade clause they’d invoked would be repealed. All because of Cego’s plan, his need to do things the honorable way.

His arms and legs felt heavy, his breath shallow. He looked across the grounds at the three gleaming Circles laid side by side on the tan canvas. Each Circle shone with a distinct elemental hue: the noble blue cast of auralite, the fiery glint of rubellium, and the hollow blacklight of onyx.

Cego couldn’t peel his eyes from the onyx Circle. It wasn’t supposed to be here. At the last minute, the Lyceum administration had replaced the standard emeralyis alloy typically used for Level One challenges. When Murray-Ku had seen the onyx Circle dragged onto the canvas, he’d been furious.

“What’s that darkin’ coward Callen up to?” Murray-Ku had growled under his breath. “Onyx hasn’t been used in lower-level challenges for decades.” The man had stormed into the stands, leaving Cego with his team to warm up on the sidelines.

Abel and Mateus stretched out beside Cego. Abel was bouncing up and down on his toes, an unending ball of energy. Cego wondered how the Desovian ever managed to sleep. Mateus looked nervous, a frown etched onto his thin face.

Cego tried to loosen his shoulders, bending over and dropping his hands to his feet in a long stretch. He took a deep breath as he slowly stood upright, closing his eyes and trying to flush out the chatter of the crowd around him.

Accept it. Cego took another deep breath. He was already here fighting. There was no other path forward. He needed to accept the crushing pressure, the judging eyes of the crowd, the fate of his teammates and friends.

But the trepidation wouldn’t leave him. It hung on him like a hostile partner during sloth carries. His eyes kept returning to the onyx Circle. He would be fighting in that ring of blacklight in moments. Because the Whelps had gotten their pick of matchups, the Rocs had their choice of Circles. Gryfin Thurgood has chosen the infamous dark alloy in a heartbeat, likely thinking he’d have a future story to impress the ladies with.

“Cego!”

The announcer’s voice cut through the chatter like a razor. The crowd hushed.

Though he was only a Level One, Cego had built quite a reputation for himself during his first semester at the Lyceum. He wasn’t leading his class scores, but that was due to the singular way in which he’d finished all his opponents during challenges so far. Submissions. As always, he’d rather put someone out with a choke than beat them bloody.

Abel and Mateus were also called forward to their Circles. Cego nodded at the two and stepped onto the canvas, the floor cold against his bare feet. He jogged over to the onyx, keeping his gaze straight, not daring to peer into the crowd to see familiar faces.

He paused before entering the Circle. Shadows were slithering off the onyx surface and pooling around Cego’s feet. The blacklight was reaching for him already. He had no idea how he’d react within that black ring.

Cego thought about turning around. He could bring Dozer in from the sidelines as a replacement. Or he could call over the cleric in attendance to check on his broken arm. His mind began to churn out excuses, looking for every way to avoid the next step forward. But Cego knew there was no other path.

One step forward is one step where you are not standing still. Farmer’s voice whispered to Cego as he stepped over the onyx threshold to stand at the center of the Circle. The blacklight shadows swarmed toward him like razor sharks on fresh meat.

Cego expected to see the auditorium dissipate around him. He expected to wake up in some other place or time, as he’d experienced within the onyx in Professor Larkspur’s classroom. But nothing of the sort happened. The crowd still cheered from the stands. His teammates still awaited their opponents in their own Circles.

“Gryfin Thurgood!” The audio boxes around the room reverberated with his opponent’s name.

Gryfin jogged to his side of the Circle and stood across from Cego. He looked larger than Cego remembered, his thickly muscled shoulders rippling beneath his second skin. He ran his hand through his golden hair and cracked his neck left, then right, keeping his eyes directly on Cego. He smiled broadly, and some adoring girls in the stands screeched his name.

Cego didn’t have anything against Gryfin personally. In fact, of all the purelights in the class, Thurgood was among the better ones. He’d never taunted Cego or any of the lacklights like Shiar would.

Gryfin was complicit, though. He was the product of centuries of purelight breeding—the Thurgood family was the elite of the elite; only the best in their line were ever given permission to produce offspring. Each of Gryfin’s distinct features—his chiseled jaw, his broad shoulders, his blocklike fists, his tree-trunk thighs—was artificially selected. All for one sole purpose: winning.

Why should Thurgood get all the glory when there were lacklights living in the dregs, fighting fruitlessly in the slave Circles?

Cego felt the hairs on his neck rising up. A tingling sensation crept up his arms and legs, as if a line of ants had found their way into his second skin. The strange buzz spread through his body, settling in his gut and vibrating at the top of his skull.

Cego was suddenly watching from the stands. He could see himself: the rings under his eyes, his limp arm hanging by his side, the blacklight emanating from the onyx Circle surrounding him. He saw Abel and Mateus to either side of him in their own Circles, standing across from their opponents in tense anticipation.

The tone rang out, a high-pitched buzzer that transformed the coiled combatants into creatures of action, and Cego snapped back into his body.

Gryfin morphed as he charged across the Circle. All his niceties fell aside—his polite manner, his charming smile. The boy’s eyes blazed with purposeful rage. This was what Gryfin was born for, centuries of purelight breeding—for this very purpose. He was put in this Circle to destroy Cego.

Cego brought his hands up just as the Thurgood boy was about to crash into him. He swiveled to the side, dodging a barrage of lightning-fast punches. Gryfin followed, a torrent of energy, sending more punches at Cego, one grazing his brow and snapping his head to the side. Another elbow followed, catching Cego’s shoulder and sliding up his collar to slam into his neck. A knee slipped through, blasting into Cego’s midsection.

Gryfin’s attack was seamless, without any moment for Cego to counter, think, or even breathe. Cego had no choice but to step inside and clinch up with his opponent, hunkering into him with the hope of slowing down the barrage. But the clinch was where Gryfin thrived.

Gryfin pulled Cego in violently with a plum clinch, yanking his head forward into waiting knees. Traditional strategy told Cego to battle for the plum, to drive his hands inward to gain the controlling points at the back of his opponent’s skull. Cego knew that fight was already lost, though—Gryfin was a master of the clinch. He’d seen the boy in class. Thurgood was an expert at regaining the hold to throw devastating knees and elbows during the transitions.

Cego let Gryfin have the clinch. He wouldn’t fight the current; he’d go along with it. It wouldn’t be easy, though. The boy had freakish strength. Every inch of his body felt as if it were hammered from stone.

Gryfin followed another knee to the body with a quick elbow that sliced across Cego’s face, gashing him just below the eye and throwing his head to the side. Cego instinctively shot in for the takedown, but Gryfin easily stiff-armed him.

The current was taking Cego away. He needed to do something.

Cego slammed his forehead into Gryfin’s chest, creating some space, and followed up with two quick body shots, his left elbow buckling on impact. Gryfin grunted and threw two alternating knees. One skimmed off Cego’s elbow and into his ribs again with a thud. Cego couldn’t take many more of those. The two traded body shots and knees, rounding the onyx Circle as Gryfin yanked Cego forward and then pushed him backward into the range of snapping elbows. Though Cego kept his hands up and angled his body to avoid the knees, several more broke through into his stomach and ribs. He felt his organs groaning with the sustained damage.

Cego slammed the crown of his head against Gryfin’s chest again, blocking a knee and then following up with an uppercut through the middle that caught Gryfin under the nose. A stream of blood gushed down onto Cego’s matted hair. Gryfin still held on to the clinch.

Cego would make him pay for being a purelight. For having it so easy—for getting his path handed to him on a silver platter.

He stomped Gryfin’s foot with his heel, smashing down on the thin bones in the boy’s toes. He slammed his head repeatedly into Gryfin’s chest, aiming to shatter the boy’s sternum. He threw more shots into Gryfin’s ribs and uppercuts to blast through into his chin. Gryfin responded every step of the way, continuing to hold Cego in the clinch, countering with a steady stream of battering knees and elbows.

Soon, Cego didn’t know whether it was Gryfin’s blood or his own covering his shoulders, the slick ichor painting his second skin red, as if he had suddenly become a Level Sixer. Cego slammed another shot into Gryfin’s body. He felt a rib crack. Gryfin groaned but kept his clinch tight.

As blood blurred his field of vision, Cego forgot why he was here. He forgot about Abel and Mateus battling in the Circles beside him. He forgot about Sol, Dozer, and Joba coaching from the sidelines. He forgot about Murray and his professors watching from the crowd and the rest of the Lyceum students appraising his performance. He forgot about Professor Aon’s question: Why do we fight? Cego even forgot about Knees.

Cego spat blood from his mouth and slammed the ball of his heel into Gryfin’s foot again. For some reason, Cego listened for the crackling of bones, as if he could hear each individual bone shatter. He threw more rapid body shots. He felt like he was working a heavy bag now, smiling through his bloody teeth as he slammed his fists into the hunk of meat in front of him, digging his knuckles in to soften up the boy’s innards.

Cego felt something rising within him, trying to escape. Something forgotten but vivid, like the pungent smell of calendula flowers from the island or the memory of scraping his knee against the slippery tidal rocks.

He heard Gryfin gasping for breath. Cego savored his own breath, taking a deep one through his nose to let the boy hear it before slamming his fist into his solar plexus. He would suck the life from his opponent.

Cego continued to pound at Gryfin’s body, ignoring the knees that desperately came in response, letting them openly smash into his own torso. The two traded blow for blow. Gryfin was a purelight, bred for fighting, trained to become a champion. He was fighting for his bloodline, for his prestige, perhaps even for his nation.

But Cego had become whole in this whirlwind of violence, as if the many shattered parts of him had suddenly stitched together. Cego wasn’t born for combat like Gryfin—he was combat. This was his purpose, his path on this planet.

Gryfin was falling then. The boy was on his back and Cego was following, continuing to pound his fists into him. Gryfin was lying there, completely still, and Cego was on top of him, his fists digging into his body, now a bloody mass of flesh staining the canvas. Cego heard the buzzer ring; he noticed the light dying. But he felt the tendrils of darkness seeking a path out of him, reaching to consume Gryfin’s body.

Hands were grabbing at Cego, pulling him off the lifeless boy. He looked up and saw Sol’s face, her sunflower eyes staring at him like he was some sort of animal.

Cego felt his lips curl up. He was smiling.

Cego floated in the inky waters again.

He struggled with all his might against the weight of the water bearing down on him. His eyes bulged as if they would burst, water straining behind them into his skull.

He clawed his way upward, slowly climbing a pillar of bubbles, rising until he could touch the light, reaching with his outstretched arms, bursting through to the world above.

Cego’s hands slammed into a cold, hard surface. He traced his fingers along an invisible wall surrounding him, trapping him within. He could see outside his prison—the wisp of light was hovering out there, peering in at him and illuminating the craggy grey walls behind it.

He needed to get out.

Cego dashed toward one end of the invisible wall, slamming his shoulder against it. The entire world shook around him. He propelled himself backward, bouncing off the other side of the barrier, creating another shock wave, a vibration deep in his bones.

Cego thrust himself forward again, and with a final explosive push, his world was suddenly tipping over. He felt the ground rush up to meet him amid an explosion of invisible shards, gnashing at his skin like a swarm of angry hornets.

“Cego.” A voice cut through the void, reaching out to him.

Farmer?

“Cego,” the voice was louder this time. Someone grabbed his wrist.

Murray was standing over him.

“We really got to get out of this habit, kid,” Murray said gruffly.

The medward again? No. Cego was back in the practice room. He could hear the cheers from beyond the walls, the challenges ongoing.

He sat up from the flat bench he was lying on. A lightboard across the room was displaying the ongoing fights. He could see Sol, Dozer, and Joba on the screen. They were up against the second round of opponents from team Jab Mantis. Joba was fighting Kōri Shimo. Cego should have been in there, coaching him.

“What… what happened? Did we win?” Cego asked. He remembered entering the Circle, squaring up with Gryfin in the last round of challenges. After that, his memory was blank.

“Yeah. You won,” Murray said quietly. “But… at a cost.”

Cego put his hand to his face. He could feel the bruises along his cheek and a large hematoma on his forehead, though he couldn’t feel any open wounds. He gingerly slid off the bench and stood. His legs were in working order, but his upper body felt tattered, like it was barely holding together at the seams.

“Your Daimyo friend… the little cleric. She stopped by,” Murray said. “She helped fix you up. You were far worse for wear when I carried you from the Circle.”

Xenalia. Cego smiled, thinking about the disapproving frown Xenalia must have worn when she saw his battered body.

Grievar, breaking themselves over and over.

Murray did not smile along with him.

“Compared to Gryfin, though… you were in great shape,” Murray said.

“What… what do you mean?” Cego asked. “What happened in there?”

“You really don’t remember anything, kid? The whole fight?”

“No… I just remember standing in the onyx Circle. Then nothing else. Darkness.”

Murray was silent, staring at Cego with those piercing yellow eyes, as if he were trying to look through him.

“You… you won,” Murray said again.

Cego knew something was dreadfully wrong then. Murray didn’t sound like himself. He was talking to Cego like he was a stranger.

“Murray-Ku. Tell me what’s going on,” Cego said. Murray lifted his chest in a heaving, bearlike sigh but stayed stubbornly silent.

Cego suddenly saw himself on the lightboard above. SystemView was showing a replay from the last round. He was standing over Gryfin—both boys were covered head to toe in blood. Gryfin was out, his eyes were closed, and yet Cego was slamming his fist into him over and over.

Murray quickly switched the feed off. Cego stared at the blank screen.

“You were different in there. Something happened to you. Even after the bell sounded… You couldn’t stop. I think it must have been the onyx. The blacklight.”

Cego’s stomach sank. Gryfin.

“Do you mean…? It can’t be,” Cego said. The words came out as a whimper. “Is he dead?”

“No. Nearly, though,” Murray whispered. “They have him in a tube at the medward. Keeping his brain steady to see if he can repair.”

Cego closed his eyes. He didn’t want to open them again. His worst fear had been realized. He was no better than Shiar now. He was as heartless as Kōri Shimo.

A memory flashed across the surface of Cego’s mind. Sol looking down at him like he was some sort of beast.

He was. He couldn’t control himself.

Murray grasped Cego’s shoulder and shook him until he opened his eyes. Tears were streaming out of them.

“It’s not your fault, kid,” Murray said.

“How can it not be my fault?” Cego yelled. “You saw it! I didn’t stop! He was out, and I kept attacking!”

“It’s not your fault,” Murray repeated quietly. “You were made to do that. All this time… you’ve been holding back.”

Cego stopped in his tracks. Made?

“What do you mean… made…?”

“I got some answers for you, kid, like I said I would,” the big Grievar started. “You need to know that it won’t change anything, though; you’re still the same—”

“Tell me,” Cego said.

“The reason you performed so well during the Trials. The way you sat in the Sim’s blacklight for so long. It’s because you were made in there. You were born of the blacklight,” Murray said.

“It can’t be… I was born on the island…” Cego’s heart fluttered.

“They call it the Cradle. The Daimyo… Their Bit-Minders created it as a program to develop Grievar from birth in a simulated environment. They isolated Grievar brood, grew them, wired them into the Sim so that they could program them and make them into the perfect fighters.”

Somehow, Cego had known. When he’d seen Marvin floating in the vat in the medward, he’d felt it. Cego had been the one floating in there.

Maybe he’d known even before that. Clawing his way across the Underground’s streets, blinded by the unfamiliar light, his muscles weak from years of inactivity. Grown in a vat.

Had he just blocked out the memories this whole time? Or was he made to not know? Programmed like some mech to perform his specific function. To win. To kill.

“Far—The old master. He was all part of the Sim too? He doesn’t really exist?”

“I’m afraid not,” Murray said.

“And… my brothers. Silas and Sam. They grew up on the island with me…” Cego trailed off.

Murray shook his head slowly.

The room outside suddenly shook with a roar of applause as the buzzer sounded. Murray flicked the feed back on. The second round of fights had already finished—Sol and Dozer were done; he saw them standing in their Circles. Joba was on the ground with Kōri Shimo standing over him.

Cego didn’t meet Murray’s eyes as he moved toward the exit for the challenge grounds.

“What are you going to do?” Murray asked.

“What I was made for,” Cego replied.