I stuck out my right arm and concentrated on sending the scythe to my hand. It ran up my skeleton toward my shoulder, then down my arm, ripping through the muscle tissue as it passed, then burning it back together. I gritted my teeth, but the pain tore a scream out of my throat anyway.
The angel of death’s scythe emerged in my fist, glinting black under the arena lights. My fleshless hand bones looked extra white against the pitch-black handle. Just like before, my muscle and skin were gone to the shoulder. When I grabbed the handle with both fists, it was like I completed some kind of circuit. The flesh disappeared from my whole body, and I was nothing but a skeleton dressed in the tattered rags of what I’d been wearing.
Freaky.
Overhead, my two slower Corpses launched themselves at the Ylef from either side. One even threw back a fist in what looked like a version of Warcry’s Superman punch.
The Ylef was way too fast for them, dancing through the stalks and shattering the Corpses like they were nothing.
Focus! I didn’t have time to think about turning into a skeleton. My arm had gone back to normal when I unsummoned the scythe the first time, so hopefully my body would, too.
For now, I swung the heavy blade at the bamboo.
Like I was hoping, the stalks acted like real-world plants, the curved blade shearing through them with a sound like scissors through paper. Huge swathes of the bamboo forest caved as I chopped it down. The Ylef tried to outrun the falling bamboo, but the reach of the scythe was too long, even for a dude with his speed.
He landed in the dirt next to me, hammers cocked back, but before he could move, the command I’d given Dead Reckoning triggered. Death Grip latched onto his feet and ankles, locking him in place.
The Ylef’s eyes went wide. He tried to twist and kick his way free. I kept Miasma pumping into the hands directly from Hungry Ghost, so every time he broke free, two new hands grabbed him.
“Give up,” I yelled, cocking the scythe back for a swing.
Glass Spirit oozed out of his pores, covering him in a thick layer of shining glass.
“Eat glass!” he snarled.
Before I could move, he exploded.
Shrapnel peppered my thrown-up arms and chest. At the same time, a different kind of searing pain tore through my insides as the scythe ripped back into place surrounding my skeleton. I had released the handle, which was apparently the signal to disappear back into my body.
The scythe was still settling into place when a glass-covered fist crunched into my teeth. I popped Death Metal, shoving it blind between me and the Ylef, but a stiff-arm caught me in the throat. I felt a leg hook behind mine, then my head bounced off the dirt. A knee landed on my chest.
I tried to squirm out from under him, but the Ylef pressed a glass knife to my jugular.
Glaring up into his gray cat-like eyes, I let Death Metal dissipate.
“Match!” the announcer yelled.
The Ylef leaned on the knife for a second longer.
Then the bamboo that I hadn’t cut down rumbled back into the dirt, leaving us with a view of the scattered, half-interested spectators in the mostly empty stands. The Ylef’s cat eyes narrowed, then he let the knife flow back up his arm and disappear.
I shoved him off my chest, leaving bloody hand-smears on his shirt. He kicked some dirt at me, then headed for the locker room.
My chest heaved, and blood and sweat dripped off my face and fingertips. I stumbled to my feet and spit a mouthful of bloody glass in the dirt, wishing I hadn’t already used up that healing elixir.
“Official ruling,” the announcer yelled through the speakers. “No winner! Dual disqualification for restriction violations!”
That verdict drew some laughter and hooting from the stands.
“Crap,” I muttered, limping back to the locker room.
As soon as I came through the doors, the Ylef was there, fists raised, hammers forming.
My heart charged forward, and I sent Death Metal to both arms, ready to fight this douche again.
But he stopped suddenly. Looked around. We weren’t alone. Fighters were all over the place, getting ready for their bouts, coming and going from the showers, and passing through to the soaking room.
The Ylef scowled and stepped back, letting his hammers disappear.
I didn’t drop Death Metal.
“What was your restriction?” he asked.
I jerked my chin at him. “What was yours?”
Instead of answering, he spat at my feet. I jerked my leg back to keep the loogie from splatting onto my replacement boots.
“Then don’t ask, dickface,” I said.
He spun and slammed through the door out to the market court.
I flopped onto the closest bench and slumped against the painted cinderblock wall. Getting to twenty wins was going to be a lot harder than I’d thought.
First Blood
I WAS DOING SOME MENTAL math, trying to decide how many of my allotted healing elixirs I could afford to waste on one fight, when someone snapped, “Hey, kid,” in a nasally voice.
I opened my eyes to find a green dude pushing a mop bucket.
“Quit leaking all over my floor. Take your carcass to the soaking room.” He nodded at the hall off the far corner of the locker room. “Eleven salts and crystals in the water. Good healing supplement for low-level fighters.”
The healing wasn’t something Biggerstaff had mentioned when he gave us the tour the day before. I’d assumed it was just like the Whirlpool in a pro sports team’s locker room, a place for the players to soak strained muscles. This new information was good to know.
“Thanks,” I told the guy, then followed the steam rolling across the floor.
The soaking room was set up in a series of stone pools, all at different heights, all with little steaming waterfalls gushing hot blue-green water. Two other fighters were already there,
