Street Cultivation, page 36
"They want the tournament to escalate in intensity, but that's hard to orchestrate." She answered without taking her eyes away from the screen where the results would be displayed. "So they manipulate the early rounds to weed out the weaker fighters and set up better final matches."
Then it was all entertainment, to some degree. Even though he shouldn't care about the results, he disliked that idea. How far would the tournament organizers go in order to package all the fights as an entertaining product? He even wondered if the randomization was rigged, though if that was the case, surely statisticians would notice and object. There was money riding on the results, after all.
Before Emily got back, the results from the fight appeared. Emily had earned them 6 points, with the other remaining fighters getting 5 and 4 based on how well they had done in the early part. Not overwhelming, but Granny Whitney seemed satisfied. Perhaps because they were now tied for first place.
Rick glanced at the screen again, this time focusing solely on the top five groups.
[1) Obsidian Thirty - 16 pts
1) Granny's Underground - 16 pts
3) Serpenza - 10 pts
4) Alger's Heroes - 9 pts
5) Branton Bulldogs - 5 pts]
The screen wheeled through the tiers again, coming to rest on the welterweight class. Anthony hopped up to his feet. "Alright, time for me to get us the lead back! I'll carry you all if I have to." As he turned around to go, Emily entered the room. He raised a hand for her to meet. "Passing the torch, eh?"
Emily ignored him and went back to sit down in her seat. Rolling his eyes exaggeratedly, Anthony headed out to the arena. Rick wasn't sure if it would be better to ignore her, but when he gave Emily a respectful nod, she nodded back.
When Anthony came out in the octagon, he seemed twitchy and unsteady on his feet, as if his withdrawal symptoms had returned. Though Rick spent a moment wondering if the prospect of the fight had somehow triggered his addiction, he realized there was a simpler explanation: it was an act.
Anthony held back as the match started, but when an opponent approached him, he reacted with shocking speed, releasing an aura sphere. Most such attacks just burst and did damage to aura defenses, but Anthony's exploded, sending his opponent flying backward. Immediately the act dropped and he began to aggressively attack the other fighters while Granny Whitney smiled.
His initial attack was very effective, but it wasn't enough to take the match. Another fighter using a style that looked like judo managed to "throw" his spheres, redirecting them to explode harmlessly at a distance. It seemed an effective counter, but the match was ended before either of them could adapt or pull out any other techniques.
When the results were displayed, Anthony had earned 8 points... but his remaining opponent had earned 9. Surprisingly, the victor was from the team called the Branton Bulldogs, which seemed like a boring local group not associated with any of the major players. Yet this victory had catapulted them higher in the rankings.
[1) Granny's Underground - 24 pts
2) Obsidian Thirty - 18 pts
3) Branton Bulldogs - 14 pts
4) Serpenza - 13 pts
5) Alger's Heroes - 9 pts]
Before he could voice a question, Malati did it for him. "Who are they? Some local club?"
"They're irrelevant, dearie." Granny Whitney seemed pleased now that they were firmly in the lead, beaming at all of them instead of pacing behind their chairs. "They have some strong fighters in the lower tiers, but they struggled to fill the classes above middleweight."
"We're winning, though."
"That doesn't mean anything, while the matches are still unbalanced. Every fighter matters in the end."
As if to make her point, the welterweight category came up again, this time without Anthony being included. That was twice in a row that the same category had come up - surely that couldn't happen randomly? Rick took a step back, remembering how Uncle Frank sometimes ranted about how people didn't understand randomness. In a truly random sequence, it would be more suspicious if there weren't a few oddities.
Still, he had to wonder if the organizers were leaning on or faking the randomized choice of power classes. So far they'd had multiple rounds at the lower classes, as if to get them out of the way to lead up to more exciting fights.
"Aww, yeah, who's the man?" Anthony came back into the room with a smug look. "I'm the man! We've got this now!" Most of them ignored him, but Granny Whitney handed him a drink and patted him on the cheek.
"Very good, dearie."
As the next fighters moved out, Rick went back to wondering if the randomization was being manipulated. Just as he was about to ask about it, he saw that he recognized someone in the next match: Tom. He towered over the others in the same match, wearing a sleeveless leather jacket and looking like he would come out swinging with his fists. Anyone who hadn't seen him fight in the Underground was going to be very surprised.
When the match began, several fighters immediately ganged up on him, charging from multiple sides. Tom simply exploded in a massive aura of electricity that sent his opponents flying in every direction. The electricity seemed to linger with him, crackling around his body, as he began to aggressively release more bolts of lightning at those who remained.
These weren't controlled bolts, just the slightly random but instantaneous ones. Some missed, but Tom released such an enormous torrent of them that some still landed. Rick realized what he was doing: expending all of his available power on a shock and awe offensive.
It worked. When Tom stopped unleashing lightning, every single one of his opponents was down. The repeated attacks had used up most of his reserves, but that wasn't obvious to most of those watching. All they saw was one fighter utterly annihilate his opponents, so they cheered raucously.
Malati turned to Anthony with a smirk. "You're the man, huh? Well, you'd better be ready to face that man, or you won't be carrying this team anywhere."
"Just a bunch of flashy shit." Anthony sat lower in his chair, glowering resentfully. "And a cheap surprise trick. I'll be ready for him."
The results came in and Granny Whitney frowned at them. Tom had received 12 points - the most from any single round in the tournament so far. It wasn't enough to unseat them, but it put Alger's team up near the top and proved what she had said about the matches just beginning.
Relative score didn't matter at this stage so much as who had the advantage in each power class. None of the other top contenders had been in this match, so their scores remained unchanged. The result was a rather impressive leap:
[1) Granny's Underground - 24 pts
2) Alger's Heroes - 21 pts
3) Obsidian Thirty - 18 pts
4) Branton Bulldogs - 14 pts
5) Serpenza - 13 pts]
That might matter a great deal to Granny Whitney and her rivals, but Rick tried not to get caught up in the results. He did need them to win for Granny Whitney to forgive his debts, but all he could control was his own matches. Instead, he focused on the randomization question.
"Is the match order really purely random?" he asked, watching as the tiers began to cycle past again. "What happens if it keeps coming up with the same power class over and over? Wouldn't that add a huge component of randomness to the tournament?"
"It doesn't work quite like that." Malati started to answer, but was cut off as the cruiserweight class came up on screen. "Well, that's me. Wish me luck."
She left without answering his question, and Granny Whitney didn't seem inclined to pay attention to him. Rick was surprised when Emily spoke up.
"The screen displays a wheel with five classes, but that's just a graphic displayed over the real calculation." Emily's voice was flatter than normal and she didn't look at him while she spoke. "Each selection is taken from a pool of remaining matches, which is weighted so that those who have fought most recently are less likely to fight again."
"That makes sense, thanks. Is there any chance they weight them to start with the lower tiers first? In general, I mean."
"Hmm. Possibly." Emily considered the question and retreated into herself, but he decided to try for the most relevant question.
"How often are each of us going to fight?"
Granny Whitney spoke from just behind him, making him a jump a bit. "It depends on how many fighters in your power class are eliminated, plus random chance. Most likely two times, but once if you're unlucky, three times if you're lucky. Lucky from my perspective, of course... more points for me, more injuries for you."
While they spoke, Malati's match had begun. It started with a few attempts to dominate the arena, but when none were successful, the fighters dropped back. They all had generation rates over 100,000 lucrim, so when fighting cautiously, they didn't go down easily. Though there were subtle shifts in the balance, the fight was actually a bit boring.
When he saw movement in the stands across from them, Rick tensed up. Had a brawl started? Was the American Basilisk using more hitmen during the event itself? A large group of people rose up, almost like a panic, but then they sat back down... and the group beside them rose up, waving their arms...
Were they doing the Mexican Wave? An audience at a high level combat tournament was doing the freaking wave?
While Rick was vaguely irritated by this development, no doubt the tournament organizers were deeply frustrated by the slow match. They didn't seem willing to cut it off early, however, so it stretched out. Only after three of the fighters fell did the buzzer finally sound. Malati was part of a three-way tie for first and no team was awarded very many points, so the rankings didn't change much.
Now that he understood the rules of the tournament better, Rick was feeling a bit more comfortable. He'd finished drinking his serum and felt like he was fully recovered. If he had to fight an average number of times, he was already half-way done. Things were going pretty well.
His stomach still flipped when he saw his power class come up on the screen again. The tournament wasn't even half over and it was already time for his second match.
Chapter 50: The Verdant Mountain Sect
Though Rick was still apprehensive about his match, he was nowhere near as disoriented as the first time. Now that he understood the passages between their room and the arena, he was impressed by how easy it was to get from one to the other. No doubt that made the space underneath the stands a mess, but it kept the matches moving quickly.
When he came out beneath the arena, he saw someone he recognized from the Underground: the woman with the spiked club. They randomly ran into each other often enough, maybe he should learn her name. But when he started to ask, she saw him and sighed.
"Oh, god, I got you already? Just my luck."
Rick blinked, not being used to anyone worrying about his strength. He tried to play it off with a shrug. "I'm not going to go straight for you or anything - that bat hurts."
"Still, there's no chance of getting points for sweeping the round. Alger is not going to be happy with me."
"Ah, he recruited you? I was wondering who he chose for his featherweight."
The woman sighed. "Honestly, I think I was like his third choice. But I get paid for each point I earn him, so it's better than nothing. Plus, it's fun to fight on such a huge stage, you know?"
It didn't strike him as fun at all, but at that point the ramps descended for them to walk up to the arena. As they did, they naturally moved in opposite directions so they wouldn't be right next to each other at the start. While Rick thought he could take her, he didn't think he could do it quickly, so it was better to take a chance on some of the fighters he didn't know.
When he looked around the octagon, he saw a few people he vaguely recognized from the Underground. If they hadn't stuck in his mind, they probably weren't overwhelming, so they'd make good targets. Then there was a man wearing formal green robes, looking like he'd stepped out of a combat sect from an old story. He stared around the group as if he was superior to all of them, even though his generation rate was just around 29,500 lucrim, same as most of the fighters.
Then the question was whether to play it safe with the robed man, or aim to earn points by taking down weaker opponents quickly. When the buzzer rang, Rick was still trying to decide between the two. He reprimanded himself to be more decisive, but then the choice was taken out of his hands.
The man in the green robe clapped his hands together and his aura exploded in all directions. At first Rick thought it did no harm whatsoever, but then he saw other fighters beginning to drop. A little later he began to feel sick, head spinning as nausea welled up within him.
Several fighters dropped immediately, but some remained on their feet. One staggered toward the man in the green robe, but was too dizzy to fight effectively and was felled by a series of rapid blows. Meanwhile, the woman with the spiked club didn't try to attack him, taking down other staggering fighters to earn points before she fell.
Yet Rick felt fine. It wasn't pleasant, but it was nothing like the nausea that Granny Whitney's pills had forced on him. He launched himself toward the man in the green robe, trying to take him out with the first blow. His fist struck his opponent's chest, but the other man only grunted and fell back.
Though the man in the green robe seemed startled that his technique had been overcome, he wasn't incompetent. Rick traded several blows with him before he managed to kick his opponent's shin. The other man winced and dropped slightly, leaving an opening for Rick to kick him in the chest. As the man flew backward and collapsed to the arena floor, the effect vanished, leaving only lingering nausea.
Just before the club struck, Rick heard it whistling toward his head. He blocked the blow with his forearm, surprised that it only stung instead of breaking his skin. The woman with the club still looked a bit nauseous, so she failed to defend effectively and he swept her feet, dropping her to the floor.
That was apparently enough to end the match, again with him the victor. This time Rick didn't blunder by going back down the ramp, instead observing that small doors opened in the lucrim boundaries. He walked through the one pointing toward his team and headed toward the stands, surprised to hear the crowds cheering for him. They might not know his name, but they'd seen him win two matches, so they might be starting to remember him.
As Rick began to smile, he looked up and saw that Mike was watching him.
It nearly made him stumble, but Rick kept moving, pretending he hadn't seen. The Birthrighter sat in one of the expensive seats, staring down at him viciously. Rick kept up the pretense, refusing to make eye contact, but internally he was shaken. Now he had to worry that Mike was planning to sabotage him, though more likely he was just there to observe him in preparation for their match.
Ultimately, it changed nothing. He still had to do his best in the fights, and his purpose was still to fight Mike after the tournament was over. His opponent observing him was a disadvantage, yes, but Rick didn't use any fancy tricks.
He tried to put Mike out of his mind and just headed back to his team's room. Once there, he discovered that both he and the green robed man had received 8 points. That struck him as a bit unfair, since he'd won, but he supposed the other man had dropped more opponents. The woman with the spiked club had received 4, which he hoped was enough for her.
Almost everyone was absorbed by the next selection, but Granny Whitney turned to nod at him. "Another good match, dearie. I'm not regretting the money I invested in you so much anymore."
"Was that why you made me nauseous in so many matches? So I'd be prepared to fight him?"
"It was for your health, dearie." Her eyes twinkled. "But let's just say I had some idea what you might face."
"That was one of your rivals, then? Which one?"
Granny Whitney shook her head. "No, that was actually the Verdant Mountain sect. They always participate in the large events in the region, and though they rarely win, they tend to dominate certain matches. Neutralizing them is good enough, because they're not as strong on all tiers."
Usually Rick just paid attention to the top teams on the scoreboard, but when he looked lower, he saw that the new group was indeed getting close:
[1) Granny's Underground - 35 pts
2) Alger's Heroes - 31 pts
3) Obsidian Thirty - 26 pts
4) Serpenza - 19 pts
5) Branton Bulldogs - 18 pts
6) Verdant Mountain Sect - 15 pts]
As he looked at the list, Rick realized that someone was missing. "I met Alger's featherweight during that fight, but what about the American Basilisk's? Have I already fought him?"
"No. You haven't met him yet, but you will."
Rick sat down heavily, not feeling quite as well as after his first fight. The nausea was fading and Granny Whitney gave him a serum and some medicine, but there was still growing fatigue. It was impossible to fight this intensely and not take some attrition. Given how the match choices had gone, he felt certain that he was going to have to fight again. He'd already done well for his team, but the third match might end up being the one that mattered.
The next round was revealed to be for the heavyweights, so Rick sat forward eagerly as Teragen finally moved from his spot on the floor. This would be the most powerful melee he'd ever seen, and much more authentic than the professional fights, since there were few rules.
When all eight heavyweights assembled below, Rick was grateful that they weren't all as overwhelming as Teragen. Oh, they were all far stronger than him, but only a few seemed inhuman. They all stood still, then when the buzzer rang, the arena exploded.
Yet as Rick watched, he found himself disappointed. The fight was impressive as far as spectacle went, the fighters flashing around the arena so quickly they were almost invisible, trading blows that sent shockwaves rippling through the air. One of them actually summoned some kind of dragon, which arced over the arena breathing fire on the fighters before another heavyweight sliced it in half. Another fighter manifested a lucrim machine gun and sprayed bullets all through the arena and it didn't tip the scales at all, none of the others even blinking.
