Brock’s gaze was clouded as he walked. Amongst the bustle of the streets, he silently considered what Donte had relayed to him. The information on enchanting was… somewhat illuminating. Brock didn’t really understand what he had said, but it was of help to him, nonetheless.

‘Aura is much like wielding a rifle.’ He had said, gesturing as if he had been holding one. ‘To use it effectively, you need a strong will and a steady hand. I’m not too sure of the process involved, but as I work, I naturally let my aura flow into the weapon, empowering it in whichever way inspiration takes me.’

Sighing, he pinched the bridge of his nose. Thanks mate, but all that tells me is that I need to know what I’m doing. Didn’t even elaborate on what ‘empowering’ it meant.

Brock caught more than a few glances as he hobbled down the street, clutching the wounds on his flank, dried blood crusted to his fingers. Even the warriors out and about threw him a strange look as he passed them by. It made Brock feel oddly embarrassed. He really needed to pay Kim a visit.

Idly, as he shelved the pain and gazes to the back of his mind where he didn’t care, Brock spread his aura outward, watching in awe as a crimson haze polluted the surroundings. His crimson haze. Streaks of a deep black flickered occasionally within it, and he made sure to lighten the pressure of it to the point where even a level 1 would barely feel its effects.

Currently, he was just trying to study it. Nothing more.

It was strange, however. While his aura undoubted reacted akin to a gas, contrary to the seemingly putty like reactions others had said theirs to be, his aura spread out in an identical manner as everyone else’s. There were no discernible differences in the way it behave nor flowed nor appeared. The idea of its consistency was simply… an idea. It didn’t seem to physically affect the aura, but instead the core principles of how it worked it appeared.

Great. More needlessly complex shit. Brock sighed once more.

A few of the stronger warriors threw warning glances his way, more or less to prevent him from escalating his aura strength further, but he ignored them. Briefly, he considered attempting to infuse his Augment into his aura again, but that was bound to go to shit whether he failed or succeeded.

As he turned the street corner, Brock recalled a moment in his fight with Iz’ Takon, the Tyrant of the Swarm. It had managed to compress its aura to a smaller area, multiplying its power through increased density. It was an interesting method of exchange; range for power.

Breathing out, Brock felt for his aura and its range, taking time to detect each and every presence it registered within it. A few were familiar, but he paid it no mind. Slowly, he familiarised himself with his aura, every intricate detail, every inch it could spread. Everything. It’s got… 570 meters of range.

He had never made the connection before, but now that he was aware, it seemed that his aura gained 10 meters of range per level. He put that aside, however, and imagined a glass cup as it surrounded the very edges of his aura. In his mind, he envisioned particles of gas floating within and rebounding off its surfaces, captured inside.

And slowly, ever so slowly, he imagined that cup getting smaller and smaller, forcing his aura into a tighter and tighter space. Brock almost lost his concentration then and there when it actually began to work. The density increase was still in the decimal percentile, but it was working!

A little bit mo-

Brock stopped as something smacked into his chest, and the glass cup in his mind shattered, once again letting his aura run free at its full length. Immediately, Brock retracted his aura and glanced down at the person he seemed to have bumped int-

“…You?” Brock raised a brow, almost disbelieving.

A defiant face glared up at him, half a snarl present on his lips, “I’ve been looking for you.”

Seeing as he had Brock’s attention, Guy took a step back and continued the rest of his sneer. Brock, for the most part, was just confused. Mostly as to why this dude was even here after his team had been thrashed so thoroughly. Perhaps seeing Minerva’s partial victory had given him a confidence boost?

He probably thinks she’ll bail him out if shit hits the fan.

“And why’s that?” Brock asked, sighing lightly.

His foe pointed a finger at him dramatically and grinned, “I challenge you to an Honour Duel!”

Abruptly, the people wandering the streets froze and spun around to face the two of them. A tense atmosphere enveloped the area and Brock even noted that the various warriors were focusing intently on the two of them. Brock snorted, “a what?”

“An Honour Duel,” the imbecile spoke, the ridicule clear in his tone, “a fight to settle a score. Accept the challenge or be shunned for dishonour.”

“Ok.”

Brock turned around and began walking away.

He was relatively certain that he’d be able to find another street that led off to the hospital. He had no idea what that dude’s problem was, except of course, that Brock had disrespected his leader, but still, he wasn’t going to play his stupid games. That was a good way to win stupid prizes.

From all around, a cacophony of horrified gasps resounded.

Brock froze and glanced behind him. Everyone was staring at him, the civilians simply in a state of abject disbelief, while the warriors had sneers of disgust donned across their faces. The guy that had initiated all this stood motionless in the centre of it all, an expression of half shock and half triumph smeared across his dull features.

He was quite clearly happy with this development. Subconsciously, Brock avoided the gazes of those looking at him. He resisted the urge to fidget. He tried to turn and walk away, but he could feel their glares boring holes in his back. Clicking his tongue, Brock pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Fine. I accept.” In seconds, the silence was washed away as everyone cheered and moved on to continue their days.

I fucking hate this city.

**

“So why are your clothes torn?” Brock said as he gazed toward Fon and the rags she was wearing. Some portions were stained by blood.

Fon heaved out a sigh, “It’s… a long story.”

He eyed her from the corner of his vision. Each tear came in a trio and thin scars – probably fixed earlier by a healer – hid beneath that. Some sort of canine? A Pontiac…?

He snorted, “Sounds like fun.”

While he’d liked dogs plenty pre-System, he wasn’t all that big a fan of them anymore. Not after his time in the jungle city. And their spittle, he hated that too. Briefly, he remembered his fallen leather shoes. I need to get myself another suit.

Ignoring the sarcastic ‘yep’ from Fon, Brock looked out over the arena before him. Currently, they were stationed under one of the pre-fight rooms built into the scaffolding of the wall of the arena. The idiot that pressured him into the fight stood in the one on the opposite end, a few hundred meters or so away.

Brock couldn’t see much through the obscuring heat waves wafting up from the sand flooring, but he seemed to be conversing with someone.

According to the healer that was currently working to repair Brock’s broken nose and stab wounds, they were given ten minutes preparation time before they had to step out onto the sands and battle. Humming away to himself, the healer finished up the rest of the healing and stepped away, leaving pink scars behind. They’ll heal eventually.

An Honour Duel. It was said to be a battle of – you guessed it – honour. Apparently, it was a way to settle disputes and to do so fairly. By beating the shit out of each other, essentially. Numbnuts hadn’t voiced what his winning conditions were, but they were usually announced right before the actual fight began. And Brock new he had some, because why else would he waste everyone’s time like this?

Sighing, Brock glanced up to the elevated seating surrounding the arena, while they weren’t full, they were certainly well packed. He couldn’t exactly see his friends that had showed up to watch, but he could feel their auras in the crowd; Harry, Carrie, Hiroto, Mio, and even Beatrice from his favourite bakery had come to watch him.

Oddly enough, even Minerva had come, sulking in the back somewhere out of the shadows and out of sight.

Jane couldn’t make it, as she was still bedridden, but he didn’t think she’d want to watch anyway. She had never been a fan of needless violence. In fact, the only reason she had taken up martial arts was self-defence in the first place. Considering how often he was bullied, maybe Brock should have followed in her footsteps back as a kid.

Fon patted him on the shoulder, “You got this.”

As for why she wasn’t up on the seats, it was mostly because she didn’t want to sit around in public with torn clothes. Unlike himself, Fon seemed to actually care about whether she was wearing torn rags or not. He glanced down. His shirt and jacket had a plethora of gashes and hole in them and were slightly discoloured. Even one of his boots were blackened and charred.

Maybe I do need some new clothes… Brock returned with a scoff, “Of course I do, this guy’s an idi- hurgh!”

“Brock?!”

The man in question whipped his hand up to his mouth and a burst of blood splattered into it. As the flow stopped and the crimson fluid dripped between his fingers and onto the ground, Brock hissed out a breath. Frantically, Fon checked if he was ok, and even called for the healer who had sulked away when they hadn’t been watching.

Wiping the blood from his lips, Brock waved her off and dismissed the healer as he came running back, “I’m fine. It… happens sometimes.”

Fon glared at him with concern, and he avoided her gaze. The question is why this happens sometimes. What the fuck is wrong with me?

He wondered if the healer hadn’t fixed it because he hadn’t known to fix it. Either way, he’d see Kim after. The girl was so talkative it made him want to throw himself out the window, but he trusted her abilities as an unlicensed, untrained healer.

Unfortunately, I don’t think I can skip this jerk circle to find her…

Clicking his tongue, Brock flicked the blood from his hand the best he could. A siren rang out and as he wiped the rest of the fluid onto his pants, a woman ran out onto the field and ended up in the centre. Two burly men pulling along weapon racks appeared a short while later, and quickly, the both of them vacated the arena.

“Today is an Honour Duel between Brock Carter,” she gestured overdramatically toward Brock’s side, and the crowd cheered, “and Asahi Sato!”

She then gestured towards him with her other hand, before swinging both of them toward herself, “Both warriors, come forth!”

Brock glanced at Fon, giving her the ‘please help me’ look, and she simply grinned back, her eyes filled with mirth. Heaving out a sigh, Brock walked out onto the sands, and immediately heard a group cheer from Harry, Beatrice, and Carrie. Mio and Hiroto stayed silent.

This is way too Xianxia for me right now. He hadn’t read many Xianxia cultivation novels, but a one-on-one fight between some dude that was overly mad for someone else’s sake, even if that ‘someone else’ didn’t even care? Brock wasn’t sure he could think up something more Xianxia.

Together, he and ‘Asahi’ approached the centre, and the man met his eyes. A grin spread across his face, although it was more uncertain than triumphant or smug. Clearly, the man had only thought about getting him here, not what to actually do once shit went down.

Brock was just so tired of this guy’s shit. Nice one numbnuts.

Asahi halted to a stop only ten meters from the announcer lady, and Brock followed suit. She beamed joyfully, for whatever reason, and regarded the both of them, “Now, state your terms!”

Idly, Brock noticed many of the watcher up in the seat lean closer with interest. His eyes widened marginally as he understood. The ‘terms’ were like the stakes in a gamble. As the instigator of it all, Asahi went first.

“When I win, you must bow down to our Patriarch and apologise.” His back straightened and he grinned. The crowd gasped, and Brock found himself entirely uncaring. Probably, bowing down was a sign of lost dignity, or honour or some such. He didn’t know.

Brock snorted and rolled the shoulders in his back, “If I win, just leave me the fuck alone. Please.”

Asahi seemed rather taken aback by Brock’s terms, and the latter swore he even heard a few people snicker in the crowd. Oddly enough, he was almost certain he felt a fluctuation of humour from the aura of Hiroto. The announcer nodded and pointed toward the weapon racks. A whole five minutes of useless exposition followed, which boiled down to two rules; no weapons other than the ones supplied, and no fatal blows.

From the rack, Brock chose a dagger. It wasn’t of incredible make and was clearly an attempt at replicating the quality of Tutorial weapons, although it actually came out somewhat better. He had wanted to take a Halberd, just because it looked like a cool weapon to mess around with during such a low stakes battle, but it’d be borderline impossible to use properly without both of his arms.

Dickhead, on the other hand, had went the predictable route and chosen a katana. Afterwards, both of those burly men from before came out and took the racks back, and the announcer fled the arena and took a place up on a stage at the very edge of the seating area.

As Asahi readied his weapon ahead of him, he sneered, “A dagger? Bad match up for a sword, you know?”

Brock didn’t comment, and instead gave him the middle finger, still holding his dagger. Asahi’s jaw clenched.

The lady took a deep breath in as Brock studied his dagger’s edge. It was rather blunt. Probably deliberate.

“FIGHT!”

Brock blurred forward and before Asahi could even react, his fist slammed into his face.