“Ouch,” winced Scorio. “We’re going to have to brainstorm the best ways to use your invulnerability.”
“I…” She paused, frowned, then met his gaze. “You said Naomi killed him easily, didn’t you?”
“I don’t know about easily,” said Scorio, but in his mind’s eye, he saw the Nightmare Lady’s tail whipping out to stab into the hollow of the monster’s throat as she darted past. “But yes. She did defeat it without taking a wound.”
Lianshi punched the bier lightly and looked away.
“Naomi’s no slouch,” said Leonis, easing off his bier. “And as Scorio said, she’s had years of practice. She’s utterly lethal in combat, but she’s not invulnerable. No one is, except you.”
Lianshi sighed. “Thanks. I… You’re right. I shouldn’t compare.”
“And think of it this way,” continued Leonis. “Our powers are supposed to grow and meld with whatever new abilities we develop, right? Who’s to say how long your invulnerability will last when you’re a Dread Blaze? And what else you’ll be able to do at that point? I mean, it kills me to counsel patience when I’m dying to make Emberling myself, but relax, Lianshi. Try a little patience.”
“We did make it much further than we’ve ever done before,” said Scorio, wincing and stretching out his back. “To go from the hall of statues to the climbing room is a huge leap, especially with both Leonis and I as dead weight.”
“Speak for yourself,” said Leonis. “I am a force of—”
“Yeah,” said Lianshi, then sighed again. “True.” Then she held up her hand, and in Scorio’s darkvision a wash of translucent energy washed over it. “And I could get used to being invulnerable when I need it most.”
Leonis laughed hoarsely. “Are you even listening to yourself? Get used to being invulnerable? Damn me to the Pit.”
Lianshi grinned self-consciously.
Scorio matched her smile and was about to suggest they give it another run when he caught himself. A memory came to him: Naomi having to carry him back after he’d pushed himself too hard, too far. She wasn’t here now to protect them, and if they went too hard, they’d not only suffer for it, but probably die on the return trip to the Academy.
“Good job, everyone,” he said. “Probably time we headed back.”
“Wait,” said Leonis, narrowing his eyes. “Who are you? Where’s Scorio?”
“No, I’m serious. I learned my lesson the last time. Let’s head back, get some rest. We’ve nine more tries at this Gauntlet before we must tackle the real one. Let’s not get ourselves killed on the way home.”
“Wonders never cease,” said Leonis in mock amazement.
“I made Emberling, and Scorio lost his death wish. We really have grown as a team.”
“Ha,” said Scorio. “I’d go again if it was just me, but I’d not be able to live with myself if one of you got hurt on the way back.”
Leonis raised an eyebrow. “You do realize that you’re the Cinder, and she’s the Emberling, right?”
“Not for long,” said Scorio, willing it to be true. “Soon we’ll all be Emberlings, and then this old Gauntlet won’t know what hit it.”
Chapter 59
With only seven days till his next bout in the tournament, Scorio poured his every ounce of energy into training and hunting. He woke up early and attacked the morning run with grim determination, ignoring the other Great Souls and instead attempting to draw on the different hues of mana that filled the great circuit, working on his ability to fill his Heart and run without igniting. It felt like racing with a great bowl of water balanced on his head; deprived of the adrenaline rush of imminent danger, his focus and control felt sloppy and vague, and so he ran, his pace methodical, staring through the crowds, intent on holding onto the mana for as long as he could.
Classes went by in a blur; he found it hard to focus on the academic subjects that didn’t touch on combat or direct progression. Seminars on the geography of hell, the political factions of Red Keep, the biographies of the hundred and seventy-six Imperators that had lived and died since the founding of Bastion, the commercial activities of the great Houses—all of it failed to grasp his attention, and more than once he slipped out of the Academy instead to sneak in an hour or two of hunting along the edges of the ruins. Only Instructor Hera’s class on Mana Theoretics on Fourthday held his focus, but it served only to drive home how ruined his Heart was becoming.
Which made sparring practice before lunch the perfect opportunity in which to vent his frustrations. Scorio redoubled his efforts on his First Form, again seeking to carry a Heartful of mana as he executed the scripted blocks and attacks, hearing once more Naomi’s instructions in his head even as Feng critiqued and advised: envision your opponents, remember where each is, then move to engage, to destroy.
That week, however, a new element was introduced to their sparring classes: each day, four or five of the Great Souls from the winning bracket cycled through, with each of them fighting two or three of the ten students that Feng selected as representing the best of that unit. They were working their way through every class, taking on different students as a form of reward for their success and a means to enhance their training.
“The closer to actual combat you can come,” Feng had said, repeating Naomi’s own wisdom, “the more effective your training. Thus fighting before a crowd, fighting for glory, if not your life, is a step up from any other form of sparring. And the students from the winning bracket will take your sparring to the next level, to your mutual benefit.”
Scorio had raised his hand. “Excuse me, Instructor. Is that why we hold the tournament in the first place? As a more advanced form of training?”
“Exactly so,” Feng had said, his smile quietly amused. “I forget that you missed our first classes where we reviewed such basics, Scorio. But I’m glad to see that you can put two and two together.”
Scorio had flushed but nodded; it made sense. His fights against his first two opponents in the last round had felt more intense and real than anything short of his Gauntlet runs or actual fights in the ruins. It was the pressure, he realized, the desire to advance through the tournament; it formed its own crucible in which their talents were honed and grown.
And on Sixthday, it was Jova’s turn to visit their sparring class.
Along with three others—one of them being Kuragin—she stood in the center of their modest sparring circle, hands linked behind her back, gazing out over the crowd as if unwilling to engage them even by meeting their eyes.
Scorio and the others gathered around, hair matted with sweat, bodies limber and warmed up by forty-five minutes or so of practice.
Instructor Feng hopped up onto the edge of the ring and turned to regard them. “You all know the drill. Everyone, take a seat. We’ll begin with Kuragin and… let’s see. Scorio.”
Everybody began to move toward the seats, including Jova and the other two students in the circle.
“If you please, Instructor Feng,” Scorio heard himself call out, “I’d like to request a change.”
Feng paused and looked slowly back over his shoulder at where Scorio stood, one of his arched brows rising slowly. “Oh?”
It was a dangerous sound, a clear warning that Scorio was straying far out of bounds, but with his heart pounding, Scorio didn’t care.
“With all respect, and if it is at all possible, I would like to spar with Jova Spike instead.”
Everyone stopped and stared. Jova, who’d been on the verge of leaping down off the circle, turned to regard him with an inscrutable stare.
“You do not get to pick with whom you spar,” said Feng, already turning away. “And to refuse to fight Kuragin is to insult his achievements.”
Scorio balled up his fists, his posture stiff, and raised his chin as he held Jova’s dark gaze. It had been madness to request the fight in the first place, but he wanted to test himself, to try his abilities against her own so badly.