Savage Awakening 466. Jack (IV)

The first hotel Zane saw proclaimed itself as the “Imperial Grand” in bold letters.

It towered a full 99 floors. Lots of silver and marble.

The guards—dressed in equally shiny mail—stopped him at the doors. “We’re full, sir,” said the one with the giant mustache.

The next hotel was called the Crescent Moon Abode, a squat, delicate-looking compound perched above a little lake.

The innkeeper saw him off. “Every room’s been booked out for months,” she said, wincing.

That seemed to be the case in every hotel he went to.

He might’ve thought it a bit strange. But he was far from the only one. Quite a few folk were turning up after him, only to find themselves stymied.

“Ai… at this rate we’ll have to stay off-island,” sighed a man chewing on a straw.

“Are you kidding? That’s a half-day trip just getting up here!”

“Do you see anywhere open?”

At the entrance of the ‘Jade Palace,’ a fellow with a mane of fiery red hair jabbed a finger.

“I won’t take this from a mere door guard,” he snapped. “My father is Imperial Guo! He’ll hear of this—I guarantee it!”

The guard looked unimpressed.

“General of all Kith!” the fellow added.

“You’re in Cloud City, sir,” said the guard. “Not Kith. And I’ll thank you not to shout.”

The fellow looked like he’d been slapped.

“Word of advice, sir,” said the guard. “You’re a guest in this city—a city rife with hidden tigers. It’d be wise to tread with care.”

The fellow grumbled and walked off. He spied Zane along the way. “What’re you looking at?”

Zane stood there, munching his fried dough stick. The fellow stalked away.

It did seem a pretty uptight place. Lots of nervous energy about, which made sense. This tournament meant a lot to folk.

The streets were packed. Lots of wading through crowds.

He did manage to find an open inn eventually. Not the biggest place, nor the nicest—this old wood lodge perched on one of the outer mountains. But it boasted great views.

“You’re in luck, sir!” said the desk steward brightly. She was a mousy-looking girl. “We’ve got just one room left, actually.”

“Great.”

There was a great grumbling from the line behind him. A few let out curses—‘again?’

‘This is some horseshit…’

“I’m sorry about that,” said the steward, startled.

“Excuse me,” a delicate cough came from right behind him.

Zane blinked. It was the young master he’d seen on the airship—the fellow with the snake around his neck.

“Sir?” said the steward.

“There’s been a mix-up. Our first choice of inn, the Imperial Grand, booked us the wrong dates... I’m afraid my Sect and I need new rooms. And we’ve been walking half the day... enough is enough.”

He gave Zane a passing glance. “You may leave. I’ll be taking it from here.”

The girl looked at Zane, confused. “Sir—do you know this man?”

“I do not.” Though he had a feeling he knew what this fellow’s deal was.

“Then let me make my introduction.” He smiled thinly. “My name is Lai. Young Master of the Viper’s Nest Sect.”

He nodded behind him, where six or seven slabs of muscle stood waiting. The steward gave them a worried glance.

“My companions don’t mind sleeping off-peak if they must,” Lai said. “But I am a competitor. An elite one, at that. I must stay in range of the stadium. You understand…”

He tried slipping in front of Zane, but he ran into an arm as wide as he was.

He sighed.

“You’re going to cause trouble? That’s certainly an… interesting… choice.”

He pursed his lips. “I would have more patience normally for such childishness. But travel has taken a toll on me—as has all this walking. So I’ll forgive you, this once… if you step aside.”

Zane was vaguely amused. It felt like one of these guys popped up in every city in Astra he went to. Though it had to be even more here, what with the tournament going on.

The guy was still waiting for a response. “I don’t think I will,” Zane informed him.

“…That was the wrong choice.” Lai’s eyes flickered over him like a serpent’s tongue. “There is a reason the world fears poison. It’s the most insidious of the killers. You never know when it might strike. In your sleep… after days—weeks, even… and it takes down ants as easily as—”

He looked Zane up and down and smiled wider. “Apes.”

“Killing—brawling—is expressly forbidden in Cloud City!” squeaked the steward.

“Ah, but you could never prove it. That is the beauty of poison.”

“You’re threatening me.”

“You're brighter than you look.”

“…Don’t make me bonk you.”

The guy looked baffled at first. Then he laughed. “Very good. A man who stands his ground… Just remember, this is Cloud City! A city of crouching tigers and hidden dragons, so the saying goes… you never know who you can’t offend. Sometimes, until it’s too late…”

He slapped Zane on the back gently.

Then he waited. Blinked.

Looked at his hands. Slapped him on the back again—it didn’t come off quite so casual this time.

Nothing happened.

“…Heh,” he said, grinning. “One moment.”

He tried checking his sleeve discreetly and adjusted something.

Then he raised his hand one more time.

“If you try to poison me one more time,” said Zane, bemused, “I really am going to bonk you.”

The Young Master froze.

Then he laughed—even higher than last time. “Very good! Very good—I’ll, ah, take my leave, sir—”

He shuffled outside.

“I’m not… sure what to make of that,” said the steward.

“Some people are weird,” Zane agreed. He gestured down the hall. “Lead the way.”

***

“I landed a direct hit on his dantian! Direct hit!” The Young Master was shaking.

“Are you certain you used the needles?” said an Elder.

The Young Master showed off four golden needles—all bent. “They couldn’t even break his skin…”

The Elder stared, swallowed. Shook his head. “You were lucky. We do not have experts of his caliber of physique in the Six Valleys… and he was some passing barbarian. I keep telling you—you must curb yourself here, Young Master. This is Cloud City.”

“If some no-name barbarian’s that strong,” wailed the Young Master, “how strong are the real competitors?!”

***

The next day, Zane checked in with the officials.

His age was verified as under 1000. His aura—scanned by the crystals—was verified as Ascendant. He met the basic qualifications, in other words.

The Summit was a tournament of geniuses. And that was the definition.

The thing was—there were hundreds of billions of folk in this realm. Or so he’d gathered. The qualification process spanned continents upon continents—drawing from tens of billions…

The realm was called Dragonspire, to his surprise. He wondered how it related to his world.

…He had met Aiwe here. But that was an Aiwe from ages ago. And Friend of the System seemed to point to some of it being real.

In any case.

Right now, there were over 100,000 top talents in Cloud City. That was what happened when you drew from so many.

Looking around even this registration hall, Zane could pick up a thick anticipation—hopes and dreams, all bubbling up in this great pressure cooker.

It was an oddly intriguing position, watching from the outside.

He left with his ticket in hand. His first bout was at 10 AM sharp the next day.

Just the next week, he’d have to go through ten bouts of prelims. He’d have to go 10-0 in order to qualify.

By the end, it’d be whittled down to the best of the best: the top 128.

Then the real show would begin.

He wandered down streets festooned with red-and-gold ribbons and banners—bustling stalls dishing out noodles, fried dough sticks, and lamb skewers coated in chili sauce. The theaters, bars, and brothels were stuffed to overflowing.

There was almost too much going on.

Then there were the dojos, popping up on every street. They might’ve been the most packed of all—full of hopefuls training hard the night before. Flashes of essence lit up the roads deep into the night.

For his part, Zane just ambled along, munching on street food. He made a lap of the mountains—taking in the views. It was one of the prettier places he’d ever seen: a land of thousands of lakes and rivers, strewn with cottony clouds; he could see whales breaching in the distance. The sky was clear tonight, speckled with stars, and up this high, the air was very cool.

He sat and watched swans come in over the fountain and fed a few.

It was a good time.

***

The next day, prelims began.

He was assigned to Qualification Tower #9. It looked like something the Romans might’ve built and called a wonder of the world; marble archways reaching into the heavens. A broad shaft of sunlight streaked from the ceiling to the ground, passing floor after floor.

Each floor was stuffed to the brim with fighters.

There had to be five hundred or so mats on each floor—countless fights going on all at once. Techniques flaring, shouts, blasts…

It wasn’t just the fighting making the commotion. There was the bustle surrounding it all—so many stalls it felt like a convention. He passed a stall that looked like a mad scientist’s lab, selling suspect supplements. Another, dragon-themed, sold fake dragonscale armor. A chicken-leg stall. A smith’s repair shop, complete with anvil and a drake as bellows.

At the edges of the hall, busy stone elevators shuffled fighters up and down.

The edge of each floor was given over to the sects. They’d prep there and warm up for fights.

He passed a sect of shirtless folks carrying torches. They breathed hard into the flames, which burst out in animal shapes—charging bulls and such. Pretty neat stuff.

Another sect was dressed like a performer troupe; they were all tuning zithers. He wasn’t sure how that worked, but he was curious.

He even saw folks using animals—one with a lesser dragon companion, another riding a tiger. He supposed that snake fellow from earlier wasn't unique.

Then there were the normal martial artists, too.

He found it all quite interesting. He just went around, munching a fried dough stick or lamb skewer, checking stuff out as he waited.

They gave him a charm. Soon his name got buzzed.

Floor #8. Mat #1195.

He headed on up.

***

First fight of the day.

Fresh meat.

Verm licked his lips as he surveyed the floors. Thousands of competitors…

All he saw was prey.

Like the one across from him. One look, and he could tell—this man didn’t have it.

He stood there relaxed. Distracted.

In the wild, you could never relax.

This ‘Jack’ might have big muscles. But the bigger they were, the harder they fell…

And they called him the Beast for a reason.

He’d had a civilized name once. They called him Young Master Wang of the Pearl Blossom Sect.

Then he’d spent four months out in the Wilds, living among the beasts.

The old Wang was dead. The Beast had killed him.

His old sect sneered at him now, coming out of his natural habitat. But he only came to show just how weak, how foolish their ways were.

Already he was singling out all this man’s weak points: throat, crotch, eyes. He left himself too open...

“Fighters—are you ready?” said the referee.

Verm hid a smirk.

That was the problem. All these men, in their comfortable societies, were too used to these so-called ‘fights’—fights with rules.

But in the Wild, there was only one rule:

Kill or be killed.

As the ref counted down, a familiar heat rose.

The thrill of the hunt.

“Begin!” cried the ref.

“Name’s Verm,” said Verm, grinning and holding out a hand. He could still pretend to be soft, civilized—the way the hunter traps its prey.

“Jack,” said the guy, blinking.

They shook hands.

Jack’s first and last mistake.

Guard down. Eyes undilated. Throat open…

Before they’d even finished, Verm yanked hard, shrieked, and lunged.

The last thing he saw was Jack’s confused expression.

CLANG!

***

Verm jerked awake—gasping and in a cold sweat.

“…Sir?” The ref looked concerned. “Can you stand?”

“Where am I?!”

It took about a minute for him to piece everything together.

“I… lost?”

“Yes, sir—”

“What just hit me?!”

The ref blinked. “Truthfully, I’m… not too sure either…”

Verm leaped to his feet and whirled around.

But the man was already gone.