CHAPTER 25

Blood on the Canvas

It is well known that when the night thrush dies, the bird still sings the same song from its everyday life. Whether it is the winter frost or a hunter’s arrow that takes the thrush, its tune remains constant. Such a death should be noted.

Passage Six, One Hundred Thirty-Second Precept of the Combat Codes

Solara Halberd, Level Three!”

The crowd roared as Sol walked the long path from the sidelines to the glistening Circle waiting for her.

She was the last of the Level Threes to stand. Sol looked to the other purple-uniformed students, each atop their platforms and ready to fight in their own Circles. She saw Cego across from Gryfin Thurgood.

“Halberd! Halberd! Halberd!”

The Ezonian crowd beat the sides of their seats and roared her name. But Sol knew it wasn’t her they were cheering for. It was the name of Artemis Halberd that sent them into a frenzy. They cheered for the feats of her father, the legendary Grievar Knight.

Sol tried to tune the crowd out and focus her full attention on the opponent waiting for her within the crimson light.

Kōri Shimo stood completely still, just as he’d waited for her in the sweltering heat of Venturi’s Fire Can.

She climbed the slope of the platform, feeling the hairs on her arms prickle as she closed in on the rubellium. She stepped over the ring and crouched. The redlight spectrals swirled around her, whispering in her ear, asking her to be furious that the crowd dare chant her father’s name when it was she that stood in the Circle before them today.

Her skin tingled beneath her uniform, her long braid brushing against the small of her back. She saw the Ezonian crowd standing from their seats, their cheers drowned out by the pulse of her own heartbeat, the adrenaline racing through her veins.

Sol didn’t even hear the sounding bell ring; she didn’t acknowledge the melees that had broken out in the Circles surrounding her. Shimo stayed completely still and Sol met his blank stare.

Why had Cego trained with Kōri Shimo this semester? How could he do that when he knew what this boy was, what he’d done? Jealousy and anger bubbled up, a tumultuous pair that tore at her insides.

Sol knew she must master her emotions. She swallowed them like a bitter pill and stepped toward Shimo cautiously. She couldn’t stray from her game plan.

Shimo met her at the center of the ring, and the two stood just beyond striking distance, waiting for the first move.

Sol wondered if Wraith was somewhere up in that crowd, watching her from the Flux section in the stands. She’d stood in the same position against Wraith only a year before, in Lord Cantino’s training Circle. She could remember the man’s advice, telling her of Bythardi, of how she needed to anticipate not only Shimo’s next move but his final move.

Sol threw a front kick, not expecting it to make contact, already feeling the empty space it met before Shimo turned away. She knew his low kick was on its way before he threw it, and she already knew that he would duck her counter cross and shoot for a low single. Sol sprawled, exhaling, wrapping her arm around Shimo’s neck and dropping back for the tight guillotine.

Four moves. She’d anticipated four moves ahead.

She angled her body for the proper finish, feeling her wrist cut into Shimo’s arteries. But Shimo leapt over her legs, throwing his entire body upside down to escape the strangle. He passed into top-side control.

She’d been four moves up and still, Kōri Shimo had been further ahead. It was like he could see the future before it happened; he was always ready for what came next.

Shimo’s sharp elbow dropped against her head, split her skin above the eyebrow. Sol quickly shifted her hips and put her legs in front of her. She pushed off Shimo and stood up.

Sol blinked as blood dripped into her eye. Shimo stood across from her, and though he didn’t advance for the finish, Sol felt it coming. She sensed his suffocating presence, as if no matter how good she was, she’d never beat him.

She looked out to the crowd, still cheering, still thundering the Halberd name. The rage started to build within her again, and this time, she let it come. She let the fire light and burn.

Sol wouldn’t play it safe; it did her no good against this opponent. She wouldn’t wait for a counter, try to plan several moves ahead.

She’d traveled across the great sea, fought in the sand pits of Besayd. She’d helped overthrow the Daimyo Lord Cantino and brought her father’s body home. She’d ridden her great roc across the vast Venturian desert and saved her friend from the Flux army.

She was the Firebird. She was Solara Halberd.

The rage drove Sol forward; she let it inside and she was flying across the Circle.

She didn’t care that Shimo anticipated each of her strikes before they came; she simply threw, letting her entire arsenal loose. She released every technique and lesson she knew, from when she was a glassy-eyed little girl learning under her father’s tutelage to when she’d sat beneath the stars beside Murray Pearson.

Sol didn’t feel her limbs tire and the blood and sweat spatter her face. She was lost in time, in the dance of violence and pain and beauty that defined her.

For once, as she embraced the rage within her, Solara Halberd was whole. Not some half-blood, not Grievar or Daimyo, but a fighter.

The crimson cast around her dropped from sight and the fiery spectrals floated downward, simmering like hot coals on the elemental steel.

She awoke from her trance of combat and saw the Circles around her. All the Level Three fights had finished. None of her friends were even in their rings any longer; they’d stepped out and were watching her.

But Shimo still stood across from her.

How could this be?

“A draw between Solara Halberd and Kōri Shimo!” the announcer’s voice rang out. “Given these are exhibitions before our main event, the two fought like demons until the expiration period.”

A draw. Even giving it all, she couldn’t defeat Kōri Shimo.

Sol fell to her knees, exhausted, the exertion and anger taking its toll.

Kōri Shimo was standing in front of her and his hand was extended.

Was this some trick? Some final way to win though they’d matched up evenly?

Still, Sol couldn’t do anything but take the boy’s hand, and he pulled her from the ground. He raised her hand to the air and the two turned to the crowd together.

The cheers erupted again, the loudest Sol had ever heard. But this time they were different. They did not cheer for Halberd. They called a different name.

“Solara! Solara! Solara!”

They lowered their arms as the crowd continued the chant. Shimo met Sol’s eyes, and for the first time, she saw him. There was something beneath that blank stare, something besides a fighting machine within the boy.

“I know your secret, Solara Halberd. I know the truth that flows through your veins,” Shimo said. “And soon, you will know my truth as well.”

“The commanders of the Citadel are here in attendance today,” the announcer’s voice rang out across Albright Stadium. “Before we proceed to the main event, let us honor these great men who work in service of our nation. Those who fight tirelessly so that we can sit and witness greatness!”

Memnon could tell Callen was primed to stand and take his applause. This was why the man was there. So that he could be seen.

“Please stand and acknowledge your deserved praise, High Commander Callen Albright, for whose pure family line this stadium is named!”

Callen stood and raised his hands to the air as the crowd cheered, a smile painted across his face. Memnon, Dakar, and Adrienne followed suit.

Memnon looked down to Sam, sitting listlessly in his seat as the crowd continued to shower praise on them. The boy hadn’t even reacted during the most heated bouts of the day, those Lyceum challenges that had lasted to the final breath or those bouts between Flux rebels and Ezonian students that had gone back and forth frenetically.

Even when the boy’s brother had fought in the Circle, Sam had shown no interest in the events.

“Let’s get on with it already,” Dakar grumbled as he flopped back into his seat.

“The high commander has some words,” the announcer said as his audio feed switched over to the small device planted on Callen’s lapel.

“Let us not forget those who have led our great nation to the place it is today,” Callen’s nasal voice boomed out across the stadium. The giant SystemView feed framed Callen in his pressed uniform.

“You mean about to be sacked by a rebel force?” Dakar chortled from beside Memnon.

Callen’s eyes flicked to Dakar but returned to his captive audience. “We have the honor of hosting our leaders from Governance today. These are the men behind the curtain, those who ask for no glory. They wish only to be the benefactors that help guide Ezo to a better tomorrow. We owe both our praise and allegiance to the Operators of Ezo!”

The massive SystemView feed at the center of the arena zoomed to the Daimyo section. None of the Operators stood or smiled as Callen did. They sat motionless, their depthless black eyes staring out at the crowd.

Memnon knew these men didn’t care for pomp and circumstance. They were there to be seen: those who finally put down Silas the Slayer. They needed the citizens of Ezo to fear them.

“And now!” The audio feed returned to the announcer, who was nearly screaming. “I hope you are prepared for our main event of the day, a historic meeting of the greatest fighters of our time!”

“First, the challenger, representing the nation of Kiroth…”

The Flux army was silent, obedient, uncaring that they were being labeled as Kirothians though they’d fought to dismantle the empire.

“The undefeated Knight, fighting for the Empire of Kiroth, Silas the Slayer!”

Memnon stared across the stadium, looking for the man who’d set this world on fire, the man who had single-handedly led the rebellion to overthrow the empire and now threatened to do the same to his nation. The man who had killed Murray Pearson.

The sea of Flux fighters parted and a figure in black strode down the arena’s stairs. He stopped at the top of the high wall and paused to survey the surroundings, as if he’d just arrived and realized he was about to fight.

“What’s he doing?” Dakar slurred from beside Murray.

“He’s scared,” Callen said. “I’d be surprised if he doesn’t turn back and hide behind his—”

Silas launched himself into the air, seeming to float at the apex of his jump before landing in a crouch. He stood and threw the cloak off his back. A billow of white smoke drifted from his black leathers and streamed to the sky.

“Don’t think he looks scared,” Dakar said as Silas stalked up the slope toward the onyx Circle at the center of the arena.

“And… the man most of us have come to see.” The announcer’s voice got even louder. “The champion of Ezo, one who needs no introduction, homegrown from within our own Lyceum. Undefeated and the rising star of the west.… Kal Yang!”

The crowd erupted, nearly unable to contain themselves as the massive Grievar Knight strode out from the eastern gates. The entire Knight team trailed him with their hands on his shoulders, forming the famed Citadel line.

As Yang climbed the platform and stepped into the Circle to face Silas, the other Knights stood around the bottom of the ring, ready to step in to take Yang’s place if he fell.

“Let us show the best of our nature, the reason why we are all here.” The announcer’s voice became somber. “We are here so that blood does not have to be spilled, so that wars do not have to be fought, so that the great weapons can be stored in safety. This is why we have always been here. We fight so the rest shall not have to.”

The crowd went silent, staring at the intense face-off between Silas and Yang.

“I hope Yang is ready for this,” Callen said, nervousness now tingeing the high commander’s voice.

“He’s the best we have,” Memnon said. “Perhaps the best we’ve ever had.”

The sounding bell was struck, a piercing call across the arena for violence within the ten-meter-diameter Circle set at the center.

Yang rushed Silas, an unfurled ball of aggression, screaming the shout of his purelight ancestors. All he’d trained for and sacrificed, a lifetime of practice and enhancement would be hurled at the man across from him.

Silas crouched, spun on his heels, and moved so fast, Memnon could barely see what had happened.

“What the—” Dakar said.

“Was it a kick?” Adrienne Larkspur asked in confusion. She’d seen more fights than anyone at the Lyceum.

Memnon looked across the Circle.

Yang was down, his back flat against the canvas, his eyes wide open and staring to the grey sky above.

Cego had seen the kick from the sidelines.

He’d watched his brother turn on his hip, pop up on one leg, throw his full force into the spinning strike. He’d seen the foot connect with the side of Yang’s head, watched as the man’s skull caved in. He’d seen the Citadel’s champion fall like a tree, bounce against the canvas, and lie still.

Not only had Cego seen the fatal strike, he’d known it was coming. For a moment, Cego had been on the island, beneath those dark skies again. He’d watched from afar to see Silas throw the kick before it happened within the Circle in Albright Stadium.

“Spirits help us,” Brynn breathed from beside him on the sidelines.

Silas stood over Yang’s body, steam still rising from his shoulders. The crowd was silent before one entire side of the stadium started to shake, thrumming with the boots of five thousand rebels stamping the ground in approval.

Silas reached down and grabbed a tuft of Yang’s long hair. He dragged the dead Knight to the edge of the Circle and rolled the body down the slope. Yang’s lifeless form tumbled to the flat ground and sprawled in front of his companions.

Silas raised his hand and beckoned to the remaining Knights surrounding the Circle.

Raymol Tarsis stepped forward, climbing the slope into the onyx.

The Knights’ captain raised a fist to the Ezonian crowd in salute before shuffling toward Silas. No sounding bell or announcer was needed. All in attendance now understood what was happening. Silas meant to fight every Knight on the team in a row.

Ray was a veteran southpaw who had developed an admirable reputation over his years of service. He’d won more lands for Ezo over the past decade than any other fighter, always coming out on top when it mattered most.

Cego watched Tarsis rush Silas with a flurry of punches. The Slayer weaved, closed the distance, and slammed a foot into Raymol’s knee. The captain screamed and stumbled forward as Silas seemed to teleport onto the man’s back to wrap a strangle on.

Silas looked up toward the high rafters, where the Daimyo Operators sat, as he choked the life from Raymol Tarsis, the man’s eyes bulging from his head.

The Slayer dragged Ray’s body to the edge and tossed it off the platform before motioning for the next.

Tullen Thurgood stepped forward, born of the purelight Twelve Houses. Tullen had always been top of his class, top of his teams, until he made it as an elite Knight of the Citadel. He could have commanded a handsome bit-price fighting for any noble house, yet he chose to serve his nation with honor.

Tullen’s little brother Gryfin watched from the sidelines, wearing a frown. Cego had fought Gryfin a moment before in his finals challenge. He’d seen the boy’s movements before they came. Cego could have toyed with Thurgood, but he’d put him out, left him otherwise unharmed.

He knew Gryfin’s brother Tullen would not receive the same mercy now against the Slayer.

Silas ducked a hook and slammed a fist into Tullen’s liver. When the Knight started to ball up on the canvas, Silas stomped his head into the ground, not stopping until Tullen’s skull was a mess of blood and bone and Gryfin was screaming from the sidelines.

The platform’s incline became a slick trail of blood as Silas rolled another body down it.

Jora Anik was a lanky Knight known to barrage his opponents at range. He had a lethal triangle choke with his long legs and had amassed a winning record of twenty-five fights over the past year.

Jora fell within a minute, Silas taking his time to rip the man’s knees apart before bludgeoning his face with lethal elbows.

Mal Takis was the best wrestler Ezo had seen in two decades, a high-profile Myrkonian trade to the Knights’ team several years back.

Silas slammed Takis to the canvas with a swift double-leg takedown. He mounted the wrestler and strangled the life out of him with a head-and-arm choke.

Masa Kurasame was a Jadean immigrant. He’d come to Ezo at the age of ten.

Murray Pearson had taken Masa and his twin brother into his barracks, trained the two to take the Lyceum’s Trials. They’d graduated with honors and then returned to Murray’s side. The two Jadeans had fought for PublicJustice, where Masa’s brother had lost his life in service. Masa had returned to the Citadel, joining the Knights’ team a year ago.

Masa lasted the longest of any of the Knights against Silas.

Cego watched his old friend move around the ring rapidly, managing to evade the Slayer as he gave chase. But Masa eventually got cornered, like a hare running from a wolf.

Cego watched as Silas put Masa on the ground, mounted him, and dropped a high cross that broke the Jadean’s jaw. Still, Masa fought on, squirming free and getting back to his feet. He yelled and charged Silas, and was stopped in his tracks with a flying knee. The blow rocked Masa’s head with such force that he pitched backward off the platform.

Cego saw Masa fall on the island first. He saw his old friend shudder on the black sand beach before his body hit the floor of the arena.

Masa was with Murray now.