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Street Cultivation 3: Chapter 2
🕑 Added 2020-05-02 19:37:40 +0000 UTCThis is the last oddly sized chapter. After this, double chapters every week! There's a lot to cover this book, so I tried to set the stage and get Rick on course fairly quickly.
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Chapter 2: The Showdown
His first reaction, of course, was to assume it couldn't really be the same person. Looking more carefully, he noticed several differences between the picture and the mortal opponent from his dream. In the dream, the man had shorter hair, an older face, a scar across his cheek... all those things were just convincing him that this was a younger version of the dream opponent.
"Guys, should I know who this is?" Rick turned his phone toward Adsila and Wemilat, trying to keep his face calm. "Like, is he somebody famous or something?"
"I don't recognize him," Wemilat said, "but Adsila is the one who likes to watch thugs."
"He looks more your type, Wemy." Adsila did peer closer, but then shook her head. "I don't recognize him. The caption just identifies him as one of the new contenders in the junior leagues. Why?"
Rick shook his head slowly. "He just looked weirdly familiar. So... the Showdown is this weekend?"
"The public events are. But I think they've already started some base qualifications and stuff - they're here for a whole month and they do all kinds of different things. Honestly, I don't pay attention to those parts, I just like the main events."
"Yeah, thanks." Rick put his phone away as if it didn't matter, but found himself memorizing the location. It was going to take place in the big sports arena in downtown Branton. Back when he'd commuted from his old apartment, he'd passed by it occasionally when he took a western route.
After chatting with the siblings for a while longer, Rick headed back out into the Refuge to continue patrolling. Or at least he tried. He utterly failed to focus on his work, once stumbling straight into a stream and soaking his shoes. Try as he might, he couldn't get the coincidence out of his head.
The problem was that it was all ridiculous. Even in the past eras of roaming lucrim warriors, Rick didn't think that dreams had ever been a meaningful part of anything, except in melodramatic stories. As he walked he pored over every bit of history he remembered, and he came up with a few seers or masters who claimed to have lucrim dreams, but there was some controversy about whether they had been frauds or manipulators. Dreams were just the random firing of a sleeping brain.
Yet he had seen his opponent in the dream before he saw him in real life... hadn't he? He started to wonder if he had changed his memories of the dream so that they lined up with the image he'd seen. It didn't feel that way, but of course it wouldn't if he was deceiving himself.
By the time he was mostly finished with his patrol for that day, Rick had convinced himself not to worry about it. He'd still talk to Uncle Frank, and Delsin if he could, but most likely they would just confirm what he knew. Besides, weird dreams were no help at all in deciding where he needed to go in life.
And yet, Rick found himself biking toward the stadium.
Though he'd continued using his lucrim bike, both for training and for transportation, his improvement had eventually plateaued. He could cruise in 43rd gear, which made him faster than most cars and fast enough to use the lucrim-powered lanes. Going faster than that required precise training, specialized cores, and more. Unless they were all just rich, Rick wasn't sure how bikers did it without hindering their growth otherwise.
As he reached a corner, Rick turned hard, skidding only briefly before shooting off in a new direction. One of the features of the bike he hadn't even realized existed until he reached higher speeds was a self-stabilizing element. It let him redirect his momentum with unnatural speed, and though the inertia bounced him around, his defensive core was more than up to the challenge.
Keeping one eye on traffic, Rick couldn't help but examine the city as well. Once Melissa had gone, he'd had far fewer reasons to return. It seemed like it was a little worse each time, though he suspected that was only his imagination. He wasn't imagining all the Advanced Lucrim stations, though, or how even the better districts had homeless lingering on the streets.
It was easy to ignore all of that, out at the Refuge. Every time he came back into Branton, he was reminded that doing something about one problem meant ignoring the others.
Not that he could really do anything about Maguire Incorporated and so many others squeezing those on the bottom of society. Rick was out of the lowest quartile now and didn't want to forget about how hard things could be, but without knowing where he was going, he didn't want to spend too long looking back.
When the sports stadium came into view, Rick finally pushed all other thoughts aside. There were several big ones in Branton, but most were devoted to standard sports. The largest stadium was owned by several major corporations and served to host lucrim-based events, so he knew it a little. The entire structure was ether-reinforced to avoid damage from events, which meant that it was also one of the safest places to retreat during a natural disaster.
That day, it might not have been so safe after all. Telling himself that he was just investigating a potentially interesting event, Rick hopped off his bike, retracted it into its chip, and headed up the stairs.
Though there was a small crowd around the entrance, they didn't seem to have all the ticket lines open as usual. Instead there was only one line in, a middle-aged woman in a stadium uniform interrogating each person. Well, not all. As he waited in line, Rick saw that some people simply flew in overhead, either by their own power or in lucrim vehicles.
When he came up to the gate, the woman eyed him. "You here to compete?"
"What? No." Rick shook his head quickly. "I know the Showdown events haven't started yet, but I just wanted to lo-"
"Doesn't matter. Here to scout or participate, you need to qualify. Let me see your lucrima portfolio."
Rick frowned. "Why should that be necessary?"
"We can't have anyone getting killed in our stadium. They have safety precautions, but they're not designed to protect civilians." The woman extended a hand along with a world-weary expression that suggested his obstinance was her major obstacle to finding any happiness in life.
The apartment search process had hardened him to giving out such data, so Rick got out his phone and pulled up his portfolio.
[Name: Rick Hunter
Ether Tier: 12th
Ether Score: 443
Lucrim Generation: 85,200
Current Lucrim: 85,200]
[Rick Hunter's Lucrima Portfolio
Foundation: 3700 (Lv VI)
Dark Blood Kettle: 16,600 (Lv IV)
Offensive Lucore: 13,300 (Lv VII)
Defensive Lucore: 35,750 (Lv IX)
Bunyan's Step: 15,100 (Lv VIII)
Graham's Stake: 23,900 (Lv IV)
Demonic Bond (Bftgage & Ythsil): 750 (Stage I)
Demon Mass: 500 (N/A)
Total Lucrim: 109,100]
He'd improved while working at the Peakless Wildlife Refuge, but he wasn't sure if it would matter because he didn't know what the Showdown cared about. They might only care about combat cores, or maybe they had a more specific focus. Over the past months he'd been trying to build up his Graham's Stake core for the sake of the investment returns, and his raw generation rate hadn't increased much, so he wasn't certain if it would meet with approval.
"You need lessons on handing things?" the woman asked. Rick quickly handed her his phone and let her check over it.
She took longer than expected, but then grunted and handed him the phone back. There wasn't even any judgment on his portfolio or his choices, she just looked on to the next person in line. That had to mean that he was accepted, so Rick headed forward, into the stadium itself.
What he found was chaos. Instead of the central area being cleared for a single event, there were dozens of minor competitions occurring all across it. Most of the stands were empty, though he spotted a few small groups that appeared to be watching below with sharp eyes. Scouts, presuming that those competing were the contestants.
As he found his way down to the field, Rick just tried to take it all in. Many were competing in more traditional events, like ring fights or sprints. He saw more than a few Olympic events, though generally the ones that could be improved by lucrim. No one seemed to be in charge, and no one approached him, so he just wandered in.
Several men and a woman were hefting black spheres that reminded him of kettle bells, though the way the fighters strained with them suggested they must be unnaturally heavy. Some merely lifted or carried the heaviest, while he was shocked to see a few actually hurl them high into the air before catching them, their bodies braced against the return blow.
He wasn't sure what event that could be, but he was curious. There was a table of the balls, each secured in a ring, and nobody was guarding it. Rick stepped closer and tried to pick one up experimentally. It nearly made him fall, as he wasn't braced properly. Gritting his teeth, Rick managed to heft the dark sphere up to chest level, wondering just what it was made out of to weigh so much. Lifting it was possible with his full strength, but he couldn't imagine hurling one.
"You'd better put that down, son." The man who spoke wasn't much older than him, but sneered as he approached. He grabbed the sphere with one hand and returned it to its place. "Don't want you injuring yourself."
The insult was obvious, but Rick decided to ignore it. "Thanks for the tip," he answered blandly, catching the man's gaze. "I'm not here to compete, I'm just looking to watch the top contenders."
"You won't find them here. Not today." The man hefted one of the larger spheres instead of making eye contact. "Today is just about getting into the junior leagues. You should know that."
"I guess I don't know enough about this. I'm just trying to find somebody I used to know while he's in town."
"Huh. Well, good luck. Do you know where he's positioned?"
"Not really. These are just the qualifications?"
Though the man gave him an irritated look, he grudgingly answered. "The top tier of the Showdown is beyond any of us. The main event here is the junior leagues, the young fighters who might one day join the Showdown. I really doubt your friend is in the first, and if he's in the second... good luck. But he could also be in the preliminary or final qualifying rounds."
Rick nodded and listened, not caring that he was being condescended to. What mattered was that he got a better explanation than he'd been able to find on the site. He'd gotten confused with how both the elite Showdowns and the junior leagues were both referred to in similar ways. Apparently the elites didn't change often and lots of people considered them boring to follow, whereas the junior leagues attracted more attention.
Ultimately, he still had no idea exactly where his imaginary opponent might be. If he was actually in the junior Showdowns, he wouldn't be in public until the event on the weekend. Most likely he didn't need to participate in the qualifying rounds, but Rick continued looking just in case.
He found himself distracted for a time, watching an event he hadn't noticed on his way in. A single competitor stood in a small ring in the center of a circle. They had to stay in the ring, defending themselves against attackers from all sides. King of the hill without much of a hill, basically. Some stayed at the center by evading or redirecting attackers, but others made a show of enduring all attacks thrown at them.
Though Rick wasn't about to jump in without understanding what he'd be getting into, Rick found himself intrigued. His defensive core might be well-suited to the event, both in keeping him alive and in anchoring him to the position. He couldn't figure out how the event was scored, if it was at all, but perhaps it was more of an art than a science.
A streak of aura seared itself into his vision and Rick winced automatically. He looked up in time to nearly blind himself as another javelin of aura was hurled above the stadium. Though he braced himself, no one else seemed to care, only a few seeming to even notice.
Not an attack, then, but another event. Rick saw that the competitors were waiting in the stands at one side, hurling toward a man carrying a milky panel on the other. Whatever it was, he used it to absorb each javelin as it reached him.
Those javelins... as another one streaked overhead, Rick confirmed what he'd been fearing. It wasn't an attack, exactly, but it was immensely powerful. The kind of thing that wasn't just created by a six figure generation rate, but an entire combat core devoted to a single skill. He wasn't weak, but his defensive core would be utterly destroyed by a bolt coming from a six digit core.
All the chaos had distracted him from his usual habit, so Rick hastily began to investigate the generation rates of everyone around him. The average strength inside the stadium was much higher than normal, with only a few as low as 50,000 lucrim and generations rates above 100,000 lucrim not uncommon. More dangerous than that, almost none of them were unfocused Birthright Cores. All around him he saw highly specialized combat cores.
A shriek of metal grabbed his attention. Rick saw a glossy black lucrim vehicle pitching to the side, then one of the black spheres plummeting nearby to bury itself in the ground. He pieced together what had happened: one of the competitors below had hurled the sphere upward and accidentally hit a vehicle coming in over the side of the stadium.
Judging from the long scar along the side of the vehicle, the sphere had done damage to the core of the construct. Judging from the young woman leaping out, that wasn't being taken well.
"Who did that?" She screamed into the faces of the sphere competitors, and they didn't waste any time outing one of their own. The woman charged at him and the two began arguing violently about who had been at fault.
Their argument did attract attention, more than the flying spheres or the aura lances. No one seemed particularly surprised, just mildly interested, even when the woman demanded recompense in the form of a duel. Just like that, the two of them were scheduling a legal duel to serious injury, both glaring as if a scrape on a car was worth a bloody vendetta.
Rick turned around and headed out of the stadium.
It was true that he was outclassed even in the preliminary qualifying rounds, but that wouldn't have made him leave. That would actually have excited him normally, since even being beaten could help his lucrima soul grow considerably. But he'd spent enough time in places where people started feuds at the drop of a hat and he knew it wasn't worth it.
As he left, Rick reflected that there was a strange parallel between the highest and lowest tiers of society. His extended family frequently got into fights over the slightest things. The upper classes might dress better and view themselves as far superior, but the fact that they flew into a rage for slightly different reasons didn't change the fundamental dynamic. Whatever else he wanted in life, Rick knew that he didn't want that.
On the stairs out of the stadium, Rick's path was blocked by a man in a bright blue and green suit.
Rick's body seemed to understand before his mind caught up, shifting his path to find another set of stairs. He hadn't seen Alger in a year, but the owner of the Underground fighting ring was always bad news. Given his involvement with the GLA, Alger might be more than that, but Rick didn't want to know.
Unfortunately, Alger now stood on the next staircase over. He flowed down it, twirling his cane, apparently nonchalant yet crossing the distance between them in a troublingly short period of time.
"Richard Hunter!" Alger grinned when he arrived and tapped him on the chest with the head of his cane. "Or Rick, I believe. Or Dick? Can I call you Dick?"
"I'd rather you didn't." Rick tried to step around Alger, but the other man flowed like he was skating over ice.
"I think that would be a better name for you, but no matter. No, no, what matters is that you found yourself someplace interesting for once."
When Rick tried to push through him, Alger spun with his momentum so quickly it was like pushing air. Somehow Alger was beside him, an arm around his shoulders.
"Ah, memories... when I first met you, Rick, you were such an interesting young man. But then you made such boring life choices... each time I thought you might live up to your full potential, you chose a different path."
"Let me go." Rick pushed away the arm, but again barely even felt the cloth. Alger slid away and placed both hands on top of his cane, regarding him primly.
"But it seems despite your best efforts, you've grown. Heh... you've grown strong, and not in the way I would have predicted." Alger stared at him, eyes practically glowing beneath his top hat. "As it happens, I am in need of a new competitor to participate in the Junior Showdowns, as my previous candidate has proved... politically compromised. This could be quite an opportunity for you."
"No thanks." Rick decided it was useless to try to push the strange man away, so he shoved his hands into his pockets and resolved to just march to the exit. Unfortunately, Alger kept pace, eventually sliding in front of his path again.
"You won't give me a chance to change your mind? This wouldn't be like the Underground, no, not at all. You see, there are so many sparks like yours, but so many of them are snuffed out, it simply isn't economical to invest too much in them. But now... now I'd be willing to part with a little more, and you could benefit immensely."
"I don't trust your ideas about what would benefit me." Rick tried to push through, but suddenly there was a hand on his shoulder, stopping him cold. Alger no longer watched him playfully, instead fixing him with a dead gaze.
"Do you know who I hate more than anyone, Richard? Those who have power but use it to make the world a less fun place." The hand on his shoulder began to tighten and Rick winced in pain, trying to pull away but unable to escape the other man's grip. It didn't feel like his defensive core was being overwhelmed, it was as if his core didn't even exist.
Just as he worried his bones would crack, they were interrupted by a loud cough. Rick turned in surprise, but he noted that Alger looked surprised as well. It was perhaps the first time he'd seen the strange man taken off guard and the expression was comically exaggerated, as if he'd never been surprised before.
Another man stood in the stands just beside him, wearing a battered gray robe. As they stared at him, he drew a cigarette to his lips and took a long drag on it. "If the kid doesn't want to compete, Alger, you can't make him."
"You." Alger glared at the new arrival, but he did let go of Rick's shoulder. "You're involved with the Showdowns this year?"
"I haven't decided yet." The man stared down at Alger without expression. His hair was shaved down to gray stubble that competed with the stubble across his chin for length, and there was a long scar across his cheek. "Why are you searching around, Alger? Something the matter with your ace?"
"The boy needs someone to motivate him." Alger smiled unpleasantly and tapped his cane on the ground. "Are you really going to stand in my way over something so trivial?"
In response, the man simply took a long drag on his cigarette. Rick blinked as he realized that the length of it was slowly burning to ash as he watched, until the stub entered the man's mouth. Something bright glowed within it, his eyes burning for a moment.
Though Alger snorted scornfully, he did turn and sweep away, coattails following him. Rick watched him for a time, reassuring himself that the strange man was truly leaving, but eventually he had to turn back to the old man who had saved him.
"Thank you," Rick said. The man simply grunted.
"I did it more to annoy him than to help you. But if you don't want this life, the last person you should get involved with is Alger."
"I'd gotten that impression, but he doesn't take no for an answer." Rick climbed up the steps to get closer to the man, since that took him closer to the exits anyway. "I'll leave if you don't want anyone to bother you, but can I at least get your name?"
The man stared at him for a while. He slowly pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. After some fumbling, he retrieved one and put between his lips. Finally he lit it with a flame that formed above his finger, still completely silent.
It was a clear enough answer. Rick shrugged and turned to go. "Suit yourself. Thanks again."
"I don't think you're cut out for this," the man said abruptly. Rick was mildly annoyed, but suddenly there was a gray card shoved toward him. "But if you want to see the Showdown, maybe you can decide for yourself. That will get you in."
"I... thanks." Rick took the card and decided not to press his luck, just nodding and departing. It was shaped like a business card, but instead of a name it merely referred to itself as a "Showdown Junior Pass". He wasn't sure if he actually wanted that, but he'd take the gift.
This time, when Rick tried to leave the stadium, he wasn't stopped by anyone. He put the card into his pocket, but found himself running his fingers along the edges. Maybe it would be best to flee and hope Alger forgot about him. Yet it would be more interesting to return and at least try to compete. Given that he'd received a pass entirely for free, it would likely be pure profit for him, unless he was too seriously injured.
The pass might also allow him to investigate the top contenders. Yet as Rick left the stadium, he wasn't thinking about his dream.
Comments
Sarah Lin
The bond was indeed supposed to grow, but the mass increasing... I'll have to check my notes and see whether or not that's a continuity error.
Nandan
At the end of book 2, his demonic mass and bond were at 250 each. Now they're at 500 and 750 respectively? I can see the bond growing with Bftgage and Ythsil getting stronger. But the mass is supposed to be some sort of "credit" from a demonic organization, so how could it grow?
