This time Baldur came out swinging. His plan was very simple. Break his stupid fucking face!

Then light blossomed at dragonboy’s feet, made a tiny crimson trampoline, and he vanished. Bounced away. And Baldur turned just in time to take four knuckles to his left cheek.

He whirled, he clobbered, he smashed. It felt like trying to snatch a ghost. He hit something fleshy once, heard the oof! wrenched out of dragonboy. But he was almost punching at random. It wasn’t his imagination. Dragonboy was faster. Made Baldur feel like he was wading through mud!

Baldur hissed.

What was wrong with him? Why was he so fucking slow today? And then he thought about how it must look to dragonboy. How dragonboy must be hitting him, and giggling, and hitting him again, and giggling more.

The crystals on his back flared puke-yellow. He screeched.

FUCK!

***

[Level up!]

[Sunshine Steps]

Lv. 3->4

…

…

[Victory!]

***

Baldur screamed so loud his voice cracked and went hoarse. A third wall came down.

“REMATCH!”

He couldn’t believe this shit. He refused to be believe this fucking wyrmshit!

***

…

…

[Victory!]

…

…

Now Dorian was getting a good sense of the Technique. His feet were like a loaded cannon. The more qi he put into it the faster he could launch! And the faster he launched the harder his fists connected…

He tutted.

Sure, he’d taken a few clean hits. He was sporting a nasty bruise up his stomach, another made every move of the arm a lancing pain, and his eye had been blackened by a mean elbow.

He looked like he’d fallen down a flight of stairs.

His opponent looked like he’d fallen into a meat grinder.

It was so deeply unfair. At Sunshine Steps level one, the fight was anyone’s game. At level two Dorian had a marked advantage. At level three he felt like a bully.

Now, at level four…

This was getting sad.

***

At first it was like Baldur was trapped in an invisible box. And there was a wrecking ball bouncing off the walls of that box at lighting speed, ricocheting, hitting him gods-knew-where again and again and again.

And then it started to feel like he was being stoned by an angry mob, the blows came in so fast, from everywhere at once—

“ARGH!!!” He roared. Swiping at air. Again.

As it turned out, Baldur’s anger was not as unquenchable as he’d thought. It was starting to peter out. Petered out a little more each beating, neatly turning into an equal amount of bitterness by some nasty alchemy.

He was having a horrible day. It’d been horrible to start. He woke up wrong—he knew it the instant he opened his eyes. Just felt wrong, off, not himself! And then the meetings, those awful fucking meetings, they sapped all his energy. If they’d fought yesterday he would’ve beaten dragonboy into the dirt. He’d beat a thousand fighters far better! This little shitfuck—he was nothing, like a mouse pawing at a lion—Baldur just needed to get in a few good shots, just a few—

The world went black.

FUCK!

***

[Victory!]

[Level up!]

[Sunshine Steps]

Lv. 4->5

I’ve hit Intermediate! No-one at God could match him now save for those specialized in speed. And he was hardly a speed specialist himself. His build was a tank, meant to chase down and clobber. Training a powerful burst qigong Technique was practically unfair.

...

…

[Victory!]

For some reason the kind troll was offering Dorian the same wager Dorian had offered, except tripled! No downside if he lost, 300 high-grade Spirit Stones if he won. And like clockwork—

[Incoming bout request!]

Dorian sighed happily. Truly the world would be a better place if everyone was as generous as mister troll.

[Accept!]

***

…

[Victory!]

…

[Victory!]

Growth was visibly slowing, which was too bad. It was too easy now. No longer was he at the edge of his powers. And besides, he was past that honeymoon stage. From Intermediate to Mastery, just like from God to Empyrean or Empyrean to Godking, was a far more serious slog. The stronger you got, the harder it was to get stronger, that was true—but it also got harder to get stronger faster too. Really you could bundle all of mortal to Demigod into one phase. Call it the ‘starter phase’ of a run. This, if one was lucky, could be done in under ten years.

God to Empyrean… a hundred? Dorian was cheating with Fate’s help and he was still nowhere near his peak Godly potential.

Empyrean to Godking, even for Dorian, who’d made the journey a half-dozen times, could take upwards of five hundred! For the average Empyrean—best not to think about it. Without heaven-defying luck, heaven-defying talent, heaven-defying resources it simply was not happening. That, and a heaven-defying foundation! Shortcut your way through God with a shitty qi base, shitty Bloodline and a shitty, easy Dao and you’d soon find your growth screeching to a halt at early Empyrean.

Technique growth curves were less steep. But even so you could only fight so many bouts a day in the Spirit Pavilion before your soul was too taxed to simulate more, and Dorian would not waste whatever few he had left.

Perhaps it was time to switch? Try stacking a few levels on [Fist of Falling Star, Rising Moon]?

***

Baldur had finally cracked the little shit.

Just when the tiniest worm of doubt started to wriggle into his mind. Tiniest shadow of a worm of doubt, actually. Scratch that—there had been no doubt. No worms either. He was always going to figure dragonboy out! He was Baldur fucking Devilhand!

This time, dragonboy seemed much slower when he came in. Or rather—Baldur was processing him much faster! He’d gotten a read on the boy’s moves. His mind—a fearsome mind, he’d always thought—had taken in all that information the boy had so foolishly handed him. All those movement patterns, those subtle habits. And now it was slowed down and spread out in his head. Really all this time he’d been biding his time, soaking it in. Waiting. And now he would strike with vicious ferocity!

Dragonboy didn’t suspect a thing. He still leapt in with that same grin. Fast, Baldur would give him, but nowhere near the comet he seemed before. His fist streaked for Baldur’s ribs. He must’ve seen Baldur’s own fist rearing up. He must’ve thought he’d be faster. Ha!

Baldur saw it flash before his eyes. A vision, a prophecy. Sure—he’d land his little stinger on Baldur’s belly. He’d land first.

And then Baldur would hit him so hard his eyeballs burst inside their sockets!

You want to go blow-for-blow with a Troll King, dragonboy? In your dreams!

[Anvil Fist!]

At the same time he tensed his belly. The skin-folds tightened, muscles bunching beneath. A fearsome belly, he always thought, pleasingly hefty and with a good bounce to it. Now it’d bounce the little fucker right off!

Then two very unexpected things happened in quick succession.

The first—the boy’s hand lit up with qi. He was using a Technique, and an odd one at that. The knuckles gleamed white, but the hand was a big lump of black. Like a tiny moon in a tiny night sky.

The second—it struck, and it hurt. Like Hell! Baldur’s eyes popped. He choked out a wheeze of air, then a wheeze of spurting blood.

FUCK!

But his fist still landed. Square on dragonboy’s face. They were both sent reeling, clutching at their hurt bits.

“You cheating fuck!” he screeched.

“What?” Dragonboy had the nerve to seem genuinely confused.

“You said you wouldn’t use any other Techniques! You tricked me! That’s—that’s all you fucking are! Dirty tricks! If there was a prize for beinga dirty cheating trickster you’d be the fucking Multiversal Gold medalist!”

Baldur knew at some level he wasn’t making any sense. But he figured the volume of his argument would make up for it.

“Aww…” Dragonboy sounded touched. “Thanks, bud. You don’t know how much that means to me.”

“What are you—that wasn’t—” spluttered Baldur. But dragonboy was on him again, both fists blazing white-black this time, and, with a curse, he set to defend.

***

…

…

[Level-up!]

[Fist of Falling Star, Rising Moon]

Lv. 1->2

…

Falling Star was a black comet streaking up a white sky. Rising Moon, a white moon swaddled in black.

[Victory!]

…

…

[Rematch!]

[Level-up!]

[Fist of Falling Star, Rising Moon]

Lv. 2->3

The higher the levels the more his Laws flexed their powers. When Dorian threw a fist now there was a halo of darkness about his shining fist, like his personal slice of night. Each time he punched the illusion blurred— day melting to night melting to day. It was disorienting for him, and he was the one throwing the punches.

Poor mister troll.

One scorching fast. One startlingly weighty yet slow. And you never knew which one you’d get.

And they just kept piling on, one after another.

[Victory!]

[Fist of Falling Star, Rising Moon]

Lv. 3-> 4

…

Patiently Dorian waited for the next challenge. He’d just about tapped this Technique out, he felt. Maybe he could squeeze in a few levels for his stun Technique?

But no rematch came.

“…Ah, well.” Dorian couldn’t speak for the troll, who he suspected had a less than stellar time, but he’d quite enjoyed himself while it lasted.

It was about time he headed back to the safehouse anyway! The heist was in less than a week. Time to see what Sun and Gerard had been up to.

***

“FUCK!” screeched Baldur. He wheeled around, then realized he’d run out of walls to punch. There was that one wobbly pillar in the middle but the receptionist spirit eyed him nervously.

“Sir—please don’t punch this! It’s the last one left—you’ll bring down the whole Pavilion!”

This was bedrock. He’d hit it. He could go no lower. He was trembling.

“Challenge him—same terms!”

“Your account has run out of funds,” said the Pavilion Spirit. “No more challenges are possible at this time.”

“FUCK!”

…Incredibly, impossibly, he was wrong. It turned out it was possible to go lower—

[Incoming Notification!]

[Spirit 13994 Baldur: Your account is under review on suspicion of match fixing]

“…”

[Please hold]

He blinked. He sat incredulous in a blank white room. A bearded spirit with black-tinted sunglasses frowned at him from behind a desk.

“Greetings, Spirit 13994. I am Special Investigator Ran of the Spirit Pavilion’s Fair Play Division. We have detained you today due to your recent streak of highly suspicious bouts.”

“What?!”

“Due to a streak of—sixteen straight losses—”

Baldur felt like crying hearing it aid aloud—

“You have boosted a brand-new profile, Alias ‘Fuck Me,’ to the #1 ranked profile among Gods in our database.” Ran squinted at him. “What have you to say for yourself?”

“You’re accusing me of fucking rank fixing?!” Baldur’s voice had reached glass-shattering heights. “Do you know who I am?!”

Investigator Ran was undaunted. “It is precisely because of who you are that this matter has been elevated to my attention. You are the Number 13th ranked God in the Multiverse. Are we truly to believe that you lost sixteen consecutive times to the same man? And my records indicate he used only one unique Technique per bout. Other than intentionally throwing matches, what explanation is there?”

Each word was a dagger to Baldur’s heart.

“I—” He had no words. He opened his mouth. He closed it. He opened it. He was doing a good fish impression but he was having an awfully hard time with what to say. Yes, officer! That man did indeed beat me sixteen times! Yes, he did do so handicapped! No, no—you see, I am actually just that shit at fighting!

“I—“

He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Actually, he did know.

But before he could start—

The room had no doors yet a door still somehow burst open, saving him a great deal of embarrassment. Another Spirit with black-tinted sunglasses flew through. “Wait!”

“What?” said Ran with a frown.

“You should know, sir—his opponent,” said the second Spirit. “Has another profile. One the department has a long history with…”

“Oh?”

The Spirit whispered something in Ran’s ear. Ran pinched his nose and sighed.

“Oh. It’s that asshole again.”

Another urgent whisper in his ear. “No, no, there’s no cheating. Clear the charges. Let the troll free.”

Baldur didn’t know whether to feel more relieved or confused.

More whispering. “Yes, I’m serious. And cross-check for second aliases next time, will you? Heavens.”

The second Spirit looked alarmed. “But—”

Yet more whispering. Ran looked miffed.

“No, the winstreak could be entirely legitimate! On his other alias he once beat a fellow top 10-ranked Empyrean thirty-one times in a row. Made him deactivate his profile!”

Whisper whisper whisper. “And no—only using one Technique isn’t proof of anything either! Trust me,” sighed Ran. “He’s just a prick.”