The Arena blurred, spun around, and then the floor rushed up to slam into his face. Scorio rolled onto his back, tried to rise, fell back.
He couldn’t focus. The man was a shadow above him, grim and heaving for breath.
A second. That’s all he had.
Scorio went to reach blindly for Iron again, then stopped.
No.
Instead, he reached for the Coal. For that dross, that despicable mana that all others despised.
Come to me, my old friend, he thought, and sank his fingers into that heavy, sluggish mass. So familiar, so right. It was stubborn, foul, and barely moved, but he knew it like he knew the walls of his room in his ruined home, and with a great burst of need, he got the Coal moving, swept it once, twice, thrice around his Heart and then slammed it home with all the violence and satisfaction of a janitor dumping a bucket of ashes into a waste pit.
The man raised his leg with remarkable control, extended it straight and true above, and then with a convulsive flex brought his heel whistling down toward Scorio’s face.
No time. He willed his Heart to ignite, his wretched, wounded Heart, and despite the pain, the fractures, the Coal burst into flame, wreathing him in black tongues, and Scorio brought up his hand to catch the man’s descending heel in the palm of his hand.
The man froze, still perfectly balanced on his other foot, eyes narrowing in confusion, but Scorio didn’t give him the chance to react. He sat up and slammed his other fist into the inside of his knee with as much strength as he could manage; not enough leverage to break the joint, but enough to send the other reeling and hobbling away.
Scorio flipped to his feet and dove after him. Caught him in a tackle around the waist and drove him to the ground. The other tried to twist onto his side, arms grasping Scorio, but he was unable to prevent Scorio from surging up to smash his brow into the bridge of his nose.
It felt like using a mallet to drive a wooden peg deep into clay soil. The man’s head cracked back, his hands tried to close on Scorio’s neck, but Scorio’s mind was screaming, raging, aflame with pain and raw, wounded need. He fended off the man’s hands and drove his head down again, reckless, wild, burying his forehead into the man’s face.
He heard the man’s nose break, felt hot blood spatter across his face.
Reared up just enough to drive his head down again, and again, and again.
The man punched and gouged, knees and flexed his hips, trying to shove him off, but Scorio held on with every vanishing ounce of his Coal-born strength. Took blows but focused on one thing: smacking away the man’s arms every time he tried to block so he could drive his head down, again, and again, and again.
His mind was a rushing roar, he felt the Coal mana burning away, heard the flames, saw them all around him. There was nothing but this immolation, he was in a pyre of black rage, and it was burning, consuming him, feeding him an impossible strength that would never end. A strength with which he could tear raw chunks of stone right out of the ground with which to break in his foe’s head, the strength of titans, all the strength in hell.
The man was now just feebly pushing at him, gasping, making wet noises, and Scorio couldn’t see for all the blood in his eyes. He reared up one last time and with a scream brought his brow crashing down as if it were a five-hundred-pound stone.
Bone cracked and the man went still.
Scorio remained on all fours, heaving for breath, unable to think, to see. With a heave, he sat up, wiped his sleeve across his face, but the blood wasn’t just the man’s, he could feel his own torn flesh.
And still, the Coal mana burned, the black flames wreathing his mind, promising more power, an eternal source. It was his greatest companion, his truest love, ready to feed his every desire.
All he had to do was reach for it and it would be there, ready to burn, ready to consume, to deliver his every wish.
He heard Helminth’s voice speaking from above, could hear the crowd cheering, but the sound felt indiscriminate, not for him alone, a general, bland voicing of approval. He heard the cries of victory from other contestants around him, and some bleary, bloody-minded part of him wanted to leap to their circles, to chase them down and tear them apart.
He rose to his feet, reeling, blinking, tried to orient on the next enemy. But his legs weren’t working right, or perhaps he was dizzy; he staggered and fell to his knees, reached up again to wipe at his eyes.
Black fire. Through the blood that was all he could see. Black fire, burning from the truest source. He was sweating, rivulets streaming from his face, his hair plastered. Couldn’t breathe, his entire body aflame, feverish.
With a cry, he tore his robes open. The world faded and sweet, merciful darkness swept in to carry the Arena away.
Chapter 50
Scorio came to atop the jeweled bier, and for a long, aching moment he didn’t know where he was, what had happened, and why he was staring up at the sun-sluiced interior of a vast dome. Words and voices of other awakening people washed over him like surf washing up the beach, then a hand gripped his shoulder, shook him, and he blinked, turned his head to see Leonis’s astonished face.
“What was that? I thought you were done for, and then you just went crazy on him—”
Lianshi was there, on his other side, trying to smile, to hide her alarm. “Are you all right, Scorio?”
“He’s not all right.” Naomi stepped in beside Leonis and placed her hand on his brow. “That victory came at a cost.”
“Cost?” Leonis frowned at her.
With a groan, Scorio sat up. Across the basilica’s floor, students were clustering, either congratulating victors or consoling those who had lost. The guests and House elites were also gathering, looking animated as they conferred. “I’m not sure what happened. I just… I couldn’t afford to lose.”
Naomi’s scowl was familiar, almost comforting. It meant he’d acted like himself, annoyed her through some means of achieving the impossible that nobody in their right mind would have considered. “Well, it’s not like anybody ever warned you to not burn your Heart like that before. So of course it was a completely innocent mistake.”
“Burned his Heart?” Lianshi’s eyes went wide. “Scorio!”
“Summon it,” said Naomi. “Go on. See what you did.”
Matching Naomi’s frown, Scorio called his Heart into being, and saw that indeed it was diminished; the angular shoulder on the upper left looked sanded down, worn and smoothed. Not nearly as much damage as he’d feared, but a clear change.
He placed his hand to his chest, inhaled deeply, focused on himself. Was he different? Did he no longer care about the same things?
No—he felt an upwelling of concern and love for his friends, the same determination to succeed at all costs, the low-lying bitterness, rage, and resentment over how he and Naomi had been treated. Had he lost anything? The only emotion that came to his attention was a cold acceptance of the damage he’d done for himself. He knew without a doubt that if placed in the same situation again, he’d make the exact same decision. If advancement came at the expense of his soul, then right now that was a fair exchange.
“No, you’re not a monster yet,” snapped Naomi. “But keep it up, keep borrowing power from yourself in your time of need, and you’ll become one soon enough.”
“Easy,” said Leonis. “So he borrowed a little of his strength so that he could heal his Heart. It’s a rough deal, but one he stands to benefit from in the long run.”
“That’s what everyone always says, at first,” said Naomi, and turned away.
“That was brutal,” said Leonis, squeezing Scorio’s shoulder again. “At first you both seemed evenly matched, though it was hard to make you out. We were placed pretty far away from your circle—”
“Students!” The chancellor’s voice rang out, quelling the conversations. Praximar had regained the stage, and stood with arms outraised, his expression beaming, proud. “What heroism and valor we just witnessed! To those who fought bravely and lost, know that to a student you did well, and none here think any less of you for having fallen out of the tournament. To those of you who persisted and won, congratulations! You shall pass into the eighth round, where the winner’s bracket will winnow their number down to thirty-two, sending another thirty-two contestants into your own category. You have two Eighthdays in which to prepare for your next bout, so use that time wisely.”