In the past few days, Rachel had noticed muscles starting to grow. She had grown muscles before, from the various jobs she would perform around the farm. But they were always in random places - a lump in her forearm when she spent the week pulling up turnips, or a bulge in her back from churning the soil. The kinds of muscles she got were always inelegant, they always looked more like tumors than muscle.

No one ever said “oh how strong you look.” No, quite the opposite. When she showed off her first proper muscle off to her father, all he said was “we had better get that checked out, we’ll go down and see the doctor tomorrow.”

The muscles would come and go, cycling throughout the year.

They were nomadic.

But now her muscles were like a suit of armor, evenly covering her body. The old man explained that muscles are formed when the old muscles get worn out and replaced by newer, stronger muscles. By constantly healing herself through magic, she had sped up her progress.

She would visit Niero each dawn, making the grueling journey up the hill, but he did not have much to say to her. He seemed strangely exhausted. His hair had grown grayer, his skin more leathery with each visit, and most nights he would crawl into his coffin without a word. Rachel used that time to clean the house, moving junk around and sweeping the floors.

However, Niero did make a point of placing more runes on her clothes. Just as she adjusted to the weight, she found herself struggling again. Sometimes he would overdo it, and he would find her pressed into the ground next to his coffin, struggling to breath under the gravity.

After a few days of trading up and down from the house, Rachel decided to head down to the village. Apparently they were having a big festival to celebrate Niero. Originally the festival had been in honor of a powerful nature spirit, but nature sprites were fickle, and no one was sure what they wanted. Human sacrifice, ceremonial dances, good old fashioned prayers?

They probably wanted nothing. They were probably just assholes, thought Rachel. One year a drought, the next a full harvest.

But Neiro had cast an enchantment on the land, causing it to be lush and full of life. Vampires were never fickle. Whether they were trying to feed you or feed on you, there were no half measures.

You always knew where you stood with a vampire.

“Find a man named John,” said the old man, passing Rachel a note. He had also prepared her a satchel of goods - some coins and food and a spare change of clothes. She was surprised to find he could make something that wasn’t soup.

“John is an experienced slayer,” the old man told her. “He should let you stay with him for a few days, if you show him this letter.”

“So, finally kicking me out?” asked Rachel.

“Hardly,” said the old man, chuckling. “I’ve taught you most of what I can.”

“Or more than you should.”

“Oh, that incident with the table?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, I don’t regret teaching you, if that’s what you're saying.”

“Are you sure about that? You looked pretty spooked.”

“Well, if I never taught you, then I’m sure someone else would have.”

“Or I would have figured it out on my own.”

Hearing this made him smile.

“People say power corrupts absolutely,” he said, his expression darkening. “But I can’t agree. If power can make anyone bad, then we’re doomed, aren’t we. If no one with power is on the right side, then fuck, what’s the point of of it all?” He gave her a nod and shook her hand. “You’re probably a monster,” he concluded. “The question is, are you a good monster or not?”

Rachel left soon after that, following a dirt path toward the village. Everyone she saw gave her the same wide grin and wave, and the plants seemed to grow larger and more lush the further along she went.

Before long she came across a group of young men, all gathered around a small pen. It looked like it was meant for holding pigs or chicken, but the enclosure was empty, aside from two young men. Some of the men were really boys, about her age, and a few looked as if they could be in their forties, large and bearded and wrought with muscle.

The people in this village must have eaten well. Some of the tomatoes she passed on her way up were the size of her head. And the plants seemed to grow all on their own, so everyone must have had plenty of free time. The muscles on these young men weren’t for farming.

They were for show.

They were for sparring.

There were some girls along one side of the fence, hollering at the fighters, egging them on, making promises to whoever won. One was cheering on her boyfriend it seemed. The girls made space for Rachel as she got close.

“Oh, I do wish he wouldn’t go for the face so much,” said a girl to Rachel’s right. “A waste of a good face.”

“I like them a little rugged,” said a girl to Rachel’s left.

Rachel has seen her fair share of fights, though she had never seen a serious one before Neiro arrived in her life.

Anytime the slayers came to her village they would spar, and Rachel would sit and watch. Everyone had a rhythm she learned, little tells before they struck - the flexing of a hamstring, the darting of the eyes, their feet shifting.

This particular fight was very one sided. One of the boys was a good foot taller than the other, muscular and bearded. She would have pegged him for at least thirty, but his movements were clumsy and awkward, the movements of a boy in his teens.

Not that it mattered. He was large and strong enough to bully the other boy, and before long the fight was over.

“Is there anyone who can put up a fight?” he said, spitting on the ground. He flexed his biceps, turning toward the group of girls at one end of the ring. “What did you think ladies?” he said, flashing a grin. His lower lip was split, and the gap spread even wider as he smiled. Though his expression turned sour once he caught sight of Rachel.

“Well, not all ladies,” he said.

“What was that meathead?”

Rachel was well aware of her wild hair and sweat stained clothes. She did not care much about appearances.

But something about this comment pissed her off. Or perhaps it was the person who said it. She glared at the split on his lip, now forced together by a cruel snear.

“Your footwork is off,” she told him.

“What?”

“Your stance is not nearly wide enough. And you’re so heavy on your feet. You lack mobility.”

“The fuck?”

“Here, I’ll show you,” she said, climbing over the fence and striding up to the young man. Standing next to him, her head did not even make it to his shoulders. She found herself staring at his overinflated pectorals, glistening with sweat and little specks of blood.

After watching just one fight, she could tell there were no rules. Any technique, any kind of fighting was fine, so long as you didn’t kill anyone.

“I ain't going to fight a girl,” he said.

“Smart. If you don’t fight a girl, then you can't ever lose to one.”

“Fuck was that?”

“You heard me.”

He puffed up his chest. “And how do you figure you’re going to beat me? Knock me out with your stink? How long have you been wearing those nasty ass robes?”

Far too long, Rachel thought to herself.

The boys gathered around the ring were sneering at her too, though not with nearly as much malice. She hadn’t insulted their manhood, after all. No, they simply seemed bored from the one sided fight they had all just witnessed.

“Come on, let her fight,” said one boy.

“Or better yet, let's get some girl on girl action,” said another.

“Oh, would you leave her alone,” shouted back one of the girls.

“Yea, don’t be such creeps,” said another.

Everyone was shouting out now, trying to be louder than the person next to them, everyone with an opinion on how this squabble should be settled.

“Oh, this is ridiculous,” said the split-lipped boy. “Now I don’t feel like fighting anymore.”

Rachel could tell he wanted to hit her, but he turned away and went to the other side of the ring. He was probably worried that the girls would make a fuss if he beat her up, ruining any potential plans he had for the evening.

Rachel should have let him leave, but she felt her leg moving as if on instinct - she couldn’t help herself, seeing someone with so many openings, she couldn’t resist.

The split lipped boy seemed to hover in the air for a moment, before crashing down hard on the ground. He sat there, stunned and sore, gawking at her with wide, vacant eyes. Everyone was deathly silent.

Then the crowd started cheering.

“I told you,” said Rachel, now towering over the young man. “I told you your footing was off.”