Death Cultivator by eden Hudson (knowledgeable books to read .txt) 📗

three and made it through to the afternoon bracket, so I just nodded back and pretended like I wasn’t freaked out.

We hung around the arena floor watching the last of the morning matches. Some lady killed her round three opponent, but most of the spectators didn’t even look up from the match they were watching. I only noticed because Hungry Ghost immediately started sucking the Miasma down from all the way across the arena.

Eventually, the officials announced the end of the morning matches and went off to decide the afternoon bracket. Warcry left to find some lunch, but I was too keyed up inside to be hungry and I didn’t want to face the twins until I figured out some way to explain away what I’d done, so I stayed on the arena floor.

Unfortunately, that left me with a whole hour with nothing to do but think.

Why did Dead Man’s Hand have to be so effective? Already, I’d gotten two opponents who should’ve kicked the crap out of me to submit. Part of me wasn’t even that upset about it. I had to win, right? Winning an affiliation was the only way to protect my friends, and Dead Man’s Hand was a surefire win.

Unless I ran into somebody who wouldn’t tap out like my round two opponent. What then?

Over on the far end of the kokugikon, there was a hallway leading to bathrooms and water fountains and a vending machine full of drinks. I needed something to distract me, so I dropped one of my last few credits on a Coffee Drank.

That was a mistake. After I downed the can of caffeine and energy, I went from tangled up and on edge to a heart-pounding swirl of self-loathing almost as bad as the Transferogate drain. I had to start pacing, because if I stood still, I would explode.

God, if Gramps knew what I was doing...what I could do... My dad was bad, but at least he’d never tried to kill anybody on purpose. But I couldn’t afford to lose. Not when my friends’ lives depended on it. Maybe that was how most Death cultivators ended up going crazy and killing everybody. Maybe it wasn’t because they wanted power, but because killing was the most effective way to protect the people they cared about.

And maybe I was just trying to make myself feel better about not immediately making a covenant with my Spirit that I would never use Dead Man’s Hand again.

My thoughts kept circling back around like that while I paced. After a while, the kokugikon began to fill up again. Fighters who’d gone off for lunch filtered back in, and the officials reappeared. I checked the tournament page. The new brackets were up, and round four was set to start in a few minutes.

My jaw dropped. I was fighting the number one ranker, someone with Glass Spirit who’d won seven out of eight rounds last year, making it to the top ten before failing out.

That didn’t do much to help the caffeine angst.

I wandered over to my assigned pit. There were three fights before mine, so I had plenty of time to size up the fighters waiting cage-side and try to decide which one looked like they had almost won last year’s tournament. Pretty much any of them. They were all huge.

Then it was time for my match.

“Sedryk Nameless and Grady Hake,” the official called.

I stepped forward, and so did a thin Ylef dude I’d assumed was just another low-seed fighter like me. The guy was about six inches taller than I was, but he looked like a stiff wind would snap him in half.

When he saw I was his opponent, he wrinkled his elf nose like he could smell me—and not Recently Showered Me, but Running Around Ghost Town for a Month Stinking Like B.O. Me. I half expected him to refuse to bow when the official ran us through the pre-fight routine, but the Ylef gave a sort of leaning bob.

I bowed, clenching Hungry Ghost in my fist and cycling Spirit to my muscles. I had to get inside his reach before he could use his long arms and legs against me. Hit hard enough to see if he snapped as easily as it looked like he would.

He’s the number one seed. He almost won last year. He’s going to be faster and stronger than he looks. Like a lot.

Maybe—if I absolutely couldn’t do anything else—I could go for the Dead Man’s Hand submission hold. But it would just be a quick hold, not a lethal strike. If he didn’t give up immediately, I would drop it.

Dad used to make excuses like that, too, to make it sound like what he was doing wasn’t that bad.

I gritted my teeth. I wouldn’t use Dead Man’s Hand.

“Fighting stances!” the official yelled.

Across the cage from me, the Ylef sank into a crouch. Sparkling clear Glass Spirit trickled down his arms, and a pair of glinting hammers the size of splitting mauls crystalized in his fists. He cocked one behind his head and stuck the other out in front like he was going to use it to block whatever I threw at him first.

He won’t be able to block Dead Man’s Hand.

“Fight!” the official shouted.

And that’s the last thing I remember about that match.

Burning Hatred vs. Glass Hammers

I WOKE UP AS ONE OF the kokugikon staff dragged me out of the cage, and I immediately threw up Coffee Drank.

“Hungry Ghost!” I spluttered, digging into my pockets until I realized I still had the little skull white-knuckled in my left fist.

Everything went black.

Then I was on my back staring up at the ceiling of the little hallway that led to the bathrooms and vending machines. Hungry Ghost was still in my hand. I stuffed it into my pocket.

Something hot dripped into my ear. Remembering the coffee-flavored puke, I wiped at the side of my face. The stickiness I’d expected to find was gone, but my hand came away wet.

And red.