Blacklight Born

Book 3: The Combat Codes

by Alexander Darwin

Genres: Cyberpunk; Genetic Engineering

Synopsis

The final book in an action-packed science fiction trilogy set on a far-future world where the fate of nations is determined by single combat: "that rare book that fully satisfies me as an action fan." (Fonda Lee, author of Jade City)

The Grievar War has engulfed the Empire of Kiroth and Silas the Slayer has given voice to his warrior kin, igniting a revolution within a people once bound by a thousand years of servitude.

Cego is released into a war-torn world where the lines between shadow and light are blurred. He must decide which path to follow: one of his brother's righteous rebellion or the one that leads to the family he's finally found.

Once famed knight, Murray Pearson, leads a group of Lyceum students on an adventure across Kiroth to follow the path of combat mastery. But Murray seeks something more on this long road. Redemption.

In this explosive conclusion to the Combat Codes Saga, the truth will be revealed and one final question must be answered as they step back into the Circle: 
What is the cost of losing the fight?  

Release date: December 3, 2024

Publisher: Orbit

Print pages: 416

Sample

A Grievar must stand upon many different grounds. The ground beneath one’s feet, to push off of and close the distance to an opponent. The ground of one’s ancestors, those who gave their lives in the Circles of the past. The ground of awareness, seeing one’s environment for what it truly is. As long as a Grievar keeps their roots planted in the ground, they will not fall.

Passage One, Sixty-Third Precept of the Combat Codes

Thaloo Jakabar ran a hand across his head, feeling for the few wispy hairs that remained. He shifted his considerable weight in the ornate chair to find a comfortable position, before reaching into the desk drawer to pop a wad of gummy chew into his mouth.

Thaloo’s face scrunched at the bitter taste, but he swallowed the medicine he’d procured from the clerics’ quarters to numb the pain. Of course, taking such medicines didn’t abide by the Codes, but Thaloo had long since forgotten those ancient texts that were supposed to guide the Grievar.

After all, where would he be if he’d followed those idiotic prescriptions? To not accumulate wealth? To not seek power? Thaloo scanned his domed bedroom, lavish even by Daimyo standards: intricately carved wooden furniture shipped in from the Jade isle, ceramic vases from the Desovian steppe, a gar-bear-hide rug spread across the floor, elaborate latticework shutters that overlooked his courtyard outside. The rest of Thaloo’s cavernside estate was similarly decorated to impress.

Thaloo’s beady eyes returned to review the contract set on the desk. Armond Bernatti was desperate. The perfect position for Thaloo to sell to the man. Bernatti was one of many Besaydian lords vying for power in the vacuum that Cantino’s assassination had left last year. The lords of the Isles sought to build up their mercenary Grievar teams, and Thaloo had been ready.

He signed the paper with a flourish and sat back in his chair, chuckling, thinking of those who thought the ways of the world were about to change. He laughed at those who thought the so-called Flux rebellion would even make a dent in the Daimyo institutions. They would be squashed like ants, run over by the Daimyo machines of war, and business would proceed as usual.

A sudden thump brought Thaloo’s attention to his window. Likely one of his idiot guards messing around in the courtyard again. He employed nearly a dozen high-end mercenaries to protect the estate, and though he vetted them personally, they were young men, prone to the lures of the Underground.

Thaloo slowly lifted himself from the chair and shouted, “Garbar, what was the noise?”

A burly Grievar with cauliflowered ears opened the door to the room immediately. “Yes, sir?”

“The noise,” Thaloo repeated. “I heard something from the courtyard. Go to ensure your team is not slagging off again.”

“Yes, sir.” The man closed the door briskly, and Thaloo sat back at the desk to continue his work.

Another contract, this one from the Ezonian administration. Thaloo scowled at the low offer they’d made for top-scale fighters coming out of his Circle. All this rebellion was accomplishing was making life more difficult for the rest, for folk like Thaloo who had clawed their way up, earned a place on top.

It was the Flux, those zealots, who bit the hand that fed them. Perhaps the Daimyo were right when they said most Grievar had mental limitations, their brains shrunken and unable to think straight. Perhaps it was only a select few like Thaloo who had been blessed to think freely. To understand the way of the world: Everybody wanted something. One just needed to decipher what that something was.

A shout snapped Thaloo’s head back to the window.

“Garbar? What in the dark is going on?”

Thaloo stood and moved toward his doorway. “Garbar?”

A bead of sweat formed at the big man’s brow as he reached into a desk drawer and closed his fingers around cold metal. He lifted the spectral rod and slowly flipped the switch at the bottom, initiating the weapon’s energy cycle.

“Garbar…” Thaloo whispered this time. He listened carefully but heard only the mechs drumming up the cavern in the distance.

Thaloo set himself against the window and lifted the shutters. He craned his head, breathing heavily, to look at the courtyard below. The darkness of the blackshift undulated on the cobbles, made shadows dance across his lush topiary displays.

Though Thaloo’s combat abilities had never been sufficient to fight in the Circles, though his hearing was dulled, he still sensed the sudden presence behind him in the room. He grasped the glowing rod and spun around to see a black-cloaked figure standing by his bedpost.

“Who sent you? Lord Tiyano?” Thaloo released the rapid-fire words like a defense system. It wasn’t the first time an assassin had shown up at his doorstep.

“Or perhaps you’re of Ezonian employ? Callen was fed up bartering with me, eh?” Thaloo feigned a chuckle as he started to lower the crackling weapon. “Either way, I’ll pay better. Far better, enough to let you—”

Thaloo’s voice caught as the intruder lifted his cowl.

“You…”

A set of piercing gold eyes stared back at Thaloo.

“Boy… little gold-eyes.”

Thaloo clutched the weapon with white knuckles, tried to ignore his heart leaping into his throat.

“I’ve been looking for you… Cego.” Thaloo let the sweetness seep into his voice. Everybody wants something.

The boy remained motionless by the bedpost, those golden eyes never leaving Thaloo. Cego was larger than when Thaloo had last seen him. Several years ago, he’d been a scrappy boy fighting for his life in Thaloo’s slave Circles. Now, even beneath the cloak, Thaloo could see muscles taut across the boy’s wide shoulders.

“You must be good, just as I’ve heard,” Thaloo said. “Did you dispatch my entire team? The rumors from my little birds must be true, then. You defeated the Goliath?”

Cego took a step forward, silent still.

Thaloo knew this boy would take no flattery, no money. He was a true believer. He’d need something else.

“I saw your friend Murray recently.” Thaloo changed tactics. “Is that why you’re here? Do you seek Murray Pearson?”

Finally, Thaloo saw something flash across the boy’s eyes. A small betrayal to the darkness that seemed to wrap around Cego, sucking the light from the surrounding spectral lamps.

“Yes, he was looking for your brother,” Thaloo continued. “But Murray didn’t look so well at the time, I’ll be honest. I was worried about him. Are you worried about him as well, Cego?”

Cego appeared to be fighting some invisible force. He snapped his head to the side, looked to the shadows of the room. Perhaps the boy had been lost to insanity. Thaloo had seen it before, among those Grievar who trained too hard, who had given their minds to the spectral light.

“I can reunite you with Murray, with your brother Sam,” Thaloo purred. “I heard he found your brother, he took him from this place, back to your home at the Lyceum.”

“That is not my home any longer,” Cego spoke without emotion.

“Oh?” Thaloo’s eyes glinted. “Is that so? So your home is with your other brother now, the one they call the Slayer. You’re with the Flux. If that’s the case, I have a proposition for you. If your rebellion has any chance of survival, of success, your brother needs a way to ship supplies up to the front lines without—”

Cego took another menacing step toward Thaloo, silencing him. The slaver grasped the spectral rod harder. But Thaloo was no fighter. Only his words would save him.

“If not something for the Flux…” Thaloo said, slowly backing up. “You care about those in my slave Circles, yes? I remember, you wanted to save that little boy Weep, so long ago, but you couldn’t. You seek redemption? Instead of harming me, why not take my money and buy their freedom? Just as Murray Pearson bought yours.”

Cego stepped forward again and the lights flickered.

“Wait—” Thaloo’s voice broke. “What do you want?”

Cego shook his head. “Nothing.”

“How can you want nothing? Even if you are Grievar, there must be something. Power? Friends? Women, men? I can give it all to you… gold-eyes.”

Thaloo turned away, as if accepting his fate, but suddenly lunged toward Cego, hissing as he launched his considerable frame forward, spectral rod crackling.

He didn’t even see Cego move, but Thaloo felt his chest explode as his active weapon clattered to the floor. The thick rug beneath him immediately caught fire.

Thaloo heaved for air and stared up into those golden eyes.

“I do want something,” Cego said, as smoke began to curl behind him.

“Yes…” Thaloo pleaded, sputtering. “Just tell me what you want, it is yours.”

“I want to end your life.”

“Darkin’ Bird.”

Murray Pearson shifted uncomfortably in the saddle atop his mount. Maybe it was the back injury he’d sustained years before, or maybe this roc was purposely sloping its long neck toward the road to unbalance Murray.

“Ku, you should probably call his proper name if you want him to ride better,” a dark-haired girl said from beside Murray, astride her own, smaller roc. The girl stroked the midnight plumes on her bird’s head and pressed a foot against its hindquarters. “Let’s go, Akari!” The roc burst forward in a show of speed, and the girl turned back toward Murray and smirked.

“I’ve given mine a name,” Murray muttered. “Let’s go, Bird!”

Instead of this prompting his ruffled grey roc to speed up, Murray’s mount reared and jolted its head forward, tossing him onto the dusty path. Laughter erupted from Murray’s traveling companions, all stopping to witness the burly Grievar’s fall.

“How about some darkin’ respect?” Murray shouted from the ground. “Four decades your elder, and your professor too. I could have all your Level Three asses held back until you’ve got grey in your beards.”

A lanky boy with a wicked scar crossing his face dismounted his roc to help Murray up with a firm wrist-to-wrist grasp. “We know you won’t be doing that, Coach. You’d hate to go all that ways back south to be writing reports to Callen Albright.”

Murray accepted the helping hand as familiar pain shot up his back. “You’re too sharp for your own good, Knees.”

A burly kid, shirtless and thick with muscle, joined Knees beside Murray. “Plus, we know you’re having good fun out here with us on Pilgrimage.”

“It’s because of your fun we’re pressing to make the next challenge, Dozer,” Murray responded.

“Hold on,” Dozer protested. “That girl back in Mirstok was giving me eyes; I’m sure of it.”

The dark-haired girl dismounted her black roc and slapped Dozer on the shoulder. “Right, so is that why you ended up with your bit-purse gone, your rations eaten by her friends, and no action to show for it?”

Knees nodded. “Brynn’s got a point there.”

Dozer’s face reddened. “I did have something to show, just not enough time to work it. She even said she’d make me her ma’s stew when I come back—”

“Enough idling here,” Murray said as he dusted himself off. “If we’re to make the Tanri challenge, we need to move now; we’re still two days out at this pace. Plus, I need to stop in Wazari Market to resupply.”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Brynn Mykili asked. “Those harvesters we passed a few hours back said patrols have been constant off the Grievar Road. Spirits be asked, if we were detained, we’d certainly not make the next challenge.”

Murray’s face darkened. “They find us and they’ll see exactly what we’re here for: Pilgrimage. It’s been Lyceum tradition for the past fifteen decades, even while Kiroth and Ezo have been tearing at each other’s throats. A little rebellion shouldn’t change nothing.”

“Little rebellion?” Knees said incredulously as he deftly leapt onto the back of the large brown roc he shared with Dozer. “From what we heard, this be more than little. They say the Slayer took down the biggest stim depot east of Karstock few days ago.”

“I don’t want to hear another darkin’ word about that one,” Murray said. He vainly tried to cajole his grey roc toward him, making a clucking sound. The bird sauntered away, pecking at some worms in the mud. “I’ve heard this story before, someone stands up and says they’ll change the way things have always been. Thinks he’ll move against the Daimyo. Want to know the end of that story?”

“What’s that?” Dozer said from behind Knees atop their roc.

“They get ground into the dust by the mechs, then folk keep going on about their business,” Murray said. He tried to grab at his roc’s saddle, only to have the bird scramble out of range again.

“But Silas took down the entire northern front!” Dozer exclaimed. “He united the Ice Tribes behind Bertoth; he’s got thousands of Grievar backing him up, and he’s got some special powers like—”

“Enough,” Murray growled with frustration as he unsuccessfully attempted to grab his roc. “Bird, get back here before I decide we’ll be having poultry over the campfire tonight!”

“But they said Silas broke into Arklight. He destroyed a battalion of Enforcers on his way to getting his brother. Cego might be with him!” Dozer protested. Murray shook his head.

“Those are stories, Dozer, the sort that grow like weeds.” The old Grievar Knight looked pleadingly at Brynn. “Some help?”

The girl urged her mount forward and pulled up beside Murray’s roc. She gently whispered in its ear and stroked its grey feathers. Bird clucked, as if letting out a sigh, before hopping over to Murray to lower its head.

“Thanks,” Murray muttered, finally climbing onto the roc and breathing deeply. He turned to Dozer. “And that story about Cego, that’s the worst to be repeating. That story will be giving you hope. And that’s not what we’re out here for. You’re here on Pilgrimage. You’ve got matches to fight across the whole of Kiroth along the Grievar Road. You do good here, you’ll be adding to your scores back at the Lyceum as Level Threes, so keep focus.”

Dozer quieted down, awkwardly wrapping his big arms around Knees from up on their roc.

“Time to be on our way, Boko,” Knees said to his bird as they set pace on the road snaking through the green plains ahead.

“Let’s go, Akari!” Brynn yelled.

Murray watched the Jadean shoot past the boys on her sleek black roc, kicking up a cloud of dust behind her. The Kavel Mountain Range sprawled like a pale slumbering giant in the distance, set beneath the cloudless blue sky. Murray shifted uncomfortably from atop his roc. He could have sworn the bird was purposely tilting forward.

“Bird’s a fine darkin’ name,” Murray grumbled as he followed behind in the dust.

Murray was accustomed to the street-stalled markets of the Underground; the clamor of Markspar Row; hawkers screaming at the tops of their lungs in front of their rusted carts, selling imported lightdecks and illicit neurotech. But Wazari Market, the sprawling tent city that sprang up in the Kirothian highlands every summer, made Markspar seem an organized affair. Murray sucked his stomach in as a wooden cart nearly ran him off the path through the market. A trio of rocs pulled the cart at breakneck speed, and the driver screamed back at him in some dialect he couldn’t understand. Murray had visited Wazari only once before, during his own Pilgrimage through Kiroth. The giant market sprang up alongside the influx of traveling students. Pilgrims from every nation came through, and the local hawkers did not discriminate as long as you had a full bit-purse.

“Maybe I’ll replace you,” Murray muttered, thinking of his own rebellious mount, as he passed a tent full of squawking rocs cooped up in cages.

“You want?” A hawker caught Murray eyeing the scrawny birds. “Guarantee you fill bit-purse many times over if you bring one of my roc to the ring! They bred for fighting, like you.”

Murray shook his head and pushed on toward the central stalls farther in. Dusk cast the market in a crimson hue, the colorful tent awnings like a field of wildflowers set on the Kirothian plains. One could purchase not only a new mount at Wazari but any sort of wild beast. Murray passed iron cages with pacing gar bears and penned-up wild tuskers from the northern forests. He even saw a hawker pawning a giant boa snake from the Besaydian jungles. As a student, Murray hadn’t paid attention to how chaotic Wazari was; he’d probably had his mind on his next fight, or maybe, like Dozer, he had been focused on some blushing highland girl he’d seen at the last village along the Grievar Road. Murray’s memory of Wazari was likely as naïve as the rest of his youthful thoughts, right up there with the notion that he’d been fighting for honor, for his nation, for the Codes. He passed a section of purple awnings with the heavily perfumed scent of night flowers wafting from them. A veiled woman draped in silk peered out seductively and waved Murray toward her.

The kids would have enjoyed this, Murray thought. Dozer would likely have tried to steal off for a peek into these courtesan tents. And he could imagine the Jadean girl, Brynn, looking wide-eyed at the assortment of animals. If he’d only come for rations, like he’d told the Whelps, he probably would have brought them into the market.

But that was not why Murray had come to Wazari.

He weaved his way through several stalls selling colorful silk robes and emerged in front of a red tent with a six-fingered-hand symbol on the awning. Murray pushed the thick curtain aside and walked through the dimly lit tent. The goods sold here were not up on display like in the rest of the market, and buyers looked over their shoulders as they took wrapped bundles under their arms. He ducked his head as he passed into a short stall set against the tent’s back wall. Murray pulled his cowl back and looked down at a little man in a steel chair wearing a strange pair of bifocals that magnified his eyes.

“Stims or neurotech?” the hawker said nonchalantly as he fiddled with a broken deck.

“Neither,” Murray replied.

“Then you’re wasting my time,” the man responded. “Get out of here.”

“Thaloo said I could come to you for something else.”

The man looked up from his work, pushing back his chair.

“How is that fat bastard doing now?”

“Same as always; he’s a piece of shit,” Murray replied.

The man nodded. “So, what now did Thaloo say I might be providing you?”

“Information,” Murray said. “I’m looking for someone’s whereabouts.”

“There are many someones who I used to know the whereabouts of,” the man responded. “But strangely, my memory is foggy right now.”

Murray laid three midnight onyx pieces on the table and waited.

“Ah, yes,” the hawker whispered. “I remember where some of these folk are. Who in particular are you looking for?”

“The one known as Silas,” Murray said.

The man burst into laughter. “You think I’m crazy?! You want to know where the Slayer is at? I do not have a death wish.” Murray sighed. He reached into his pocket and pulled out six more bits and laid them on the table.

“There are Enforcers at all way-stops on the road, and even some patrolling this market, asking the very same question as you,” the hawker said.

Murray emptied the rest of his bit-purse onto the table. The man’s eyes gleamed, as if he were salivating, but he shook his head as he pushed the pile of onyx back.

“I can’t do it. I don’t know shit. Why don’t you get out of here before you get us both buried?”

Murray didn’t back down. “I need to know where Silas is.”

The man turned away, grabbing a piece of neurotech off the shelf.

“I told you, I don’t know anyone by that name.”

Murray reached over the table and grabbed the man by the shoulders. He lifted the little hawker like a doll and wrapped a thick arm around his neck. Murray squeezed for a moment to constrict the man’s arteries. “Now, it’ll be a few seconds of me squeezing and you’ll be out,” Murray whispered. “And while you’re out, you know what I’m going to do? I’ll take all the darkin’ stim in this shop and give it out to those hungry-looking Grievar mulling about outside.”

The man tried to struggle but could not move an inch. Murray squeezed again, sensing darkness was closing in on the man.

“Wait!” The hawker managed to get the word out, and Murray loosened his grip.

“Last I heard, Slayer had taken a stim production depot to the west,” the hawker said.

“I already knew that,” Murray growled. He began to ratchet the strangle up again.

“And!” the man yelped. “And there’s been word he’s close to the capital. Clerics been ending up dead in and around Karstock.”

“Are you lying to me?” Murray felt the man’s pulse against his arm. “Why in the dark would the Flux leader put himself in the seat of the empire?”

“I swear, I’m telling you the truth,” the hawker pleaded. “Let me be.”

Murray threw the man back over the table and onto the floor of the little stall. He slid the onyx pile back into his purse, all but one coin that he tossed onto the floor beside the hawker.

“One more question,” Murray said. “And I need you to think carefully before you answer.”

The man glared back at him with his beady eyes.

“Is the Slayer with anyone else?”

“What do you mean, with anyone else?” the hawker yelled. “He’s leader of the darkin’ Flux; he’s got an army of rebels with him!”

“With anyone in particular, though,” Murray said. “Someone close by him most of the time.”

“Yeah.” The hawker stood and dusted himself off. “I heard he’s got a kid with him. Some boy that doesn’t leave his side.”

Murray stared hard at the man before turning and ducking back beneath the low entry.

“And tell Thaloo he owes me!” Murray heard the hawker scream as he went back the way he came.

A yellow moon rose above Wazari Market like a watchful eye as Murray trudged back toward the lodging.

He glanced up at a sign hanging over one of the big tents along the path, a large ram’s horn with golden liquid frothing out the top. Murray still had to fight the pull, the urge to walk through the inviting curtains of one of these pop-up liquor stands that sprang from the highland floors every fifty meters like giant weeds.

“Darkin’ said I wouldn’t; not going to turn back now,” Murray whispered through clenched teeth as he produced a small vial from his pocket and downed it.

A man in a ragged cloak with a cowl overhead stumbled from the tent, coughing. Murray stared wide-eyed, held his breath as the man’s face caught the moonlight. Not him.

Though Murray had looked for Farmer everywhere since his last trip to the Underground, the old master hadn’t appeared to him again. Murray was reluctant to even make sense of his last trip Deep in search of Cego’s brother Sam. Though he’d found the boy and brought him to the Citadel, put him in Memnon’s care, Murray still couldn’t make sense of Farmer’s role in it all. Somehow, the old master had infiltrated Murray’s mind, appearing to him like a ghost. No one else in Lord Maharu’s compound had been able to see the old master. Murray still questioned whether he’d been entirely sane or whether Farmer really had been a figment of neurosis, a mirage floating in too many years of ale.

Murray shook his head, attempting to rid himself of the memories as he rounded a corner and eyed a set of wood-framed stalls cast in the moonlight.

“Not sleeping either, eh, Bird?” Murray came to the front of one stall and met the eyes of his rebellious roc. Murray reached out and ruffled the bird’s sparse head feathers that covered up a balding spot.

The grey bird squawked back at him, digging its talons into the dirt and tossing its head toward the air.

“What’s gotten into you?” Murray murmured. Bird was always an ass to him, but he could see something else in the roc’s eyes now. The other mounts were stabled nearby and also shifted uncomfortably when they’d normally be resting at this hour.

Murray’s eyes darted to the sprawling circular tent set next to the stables. The Wazari Inn, where the Whelps were holed up for the night before setting back to the Grievar Road in the morning. The tent’s thick curtain caught the highland wind, and Murray heard shouting from within.

He strode toward the tent as he heard Dozer’s voice clearly.

“Why don’t you try and put those clasps on me, see what happens!”

“What’ve those kids got themselves into,” Murray muttered as he pushed the curtain aside.

Dozer stood at the center of the lounge area, several stools tossed to the floor, across from two large Grievar who looked ready to pounce on the boy. Knees stood by his friend’s side, jaw clenched and fists curled. A sour-faced hawker behind the bar eyed the situation warily.

“Coach!” Dozer shouted. “Glad you’re back here to witness these two scumslaggers getting floored.”

One of the men took his eyes off Dozer and turned toward Murray.

“You in charge of these kids?” he asked.

Murray eyed the man. Clearly a merc, maybe ex–empire Knight, with a scar running across his jutting jawline. Both were thick-shouldered, wearing Kirothian reds over mismatched studded leather. Murray’s eyes dropped to the merc’s belt, where a black rod was holstered, his hand hovering over the weapon as he stared down Dozer.

“Dozer, stand down,” Murray said with an even tone. Dozer and Knees could hold their own, but not against a full-grown Grievar, not to mention one packing a spectral weapon. He had no intention of letting a student in his charge end up under wet earth.

“What?” Dozer protested. “These two were the ones that started it. Put hands on Knees for nothing!”

Murray stepped in front of Dozer.

“Maybe you should take your own advice, old-timer,” the merc said threateningly. “Stand down so we can bring these boys in.”

Murray breathed steadily and fixed his good eye on the merc. He was aware he was older than these two Grievar. But as adrenaline pumped into his veins, he plotted the path he would take to put the two down.

Feint a quick jab, then right high kick to take the armed one out. Take the second one with a double-leg, get some airtime and make sure to crack the man’s skull to a table on the way down.

“Don’t think I’m going to let you do that,” Murray growled.

The merc laughed, turned to his partner. “Hear that, Dross? Maybe we take old-timer in for disobedience too.”

The one called Dross ripped his rod free of its holster. A spark lit at the weapon’s base and began to crackle along its length.

Murray held his ground but motioned for Dozer and Knees to step back. The two boys didn’t move.

Murray would need to go low, maybe a quick ankle pick to get beneath the weapon. Even a touch from the rod would put him down.

But it was too dangerous. Not with these kids who were clearly ready to jump into the fray. They were under Murray’s charge. He couldn’t lose another.

“Why don’t you tell me why you want to bring these kids in?” Murray let his hands hang at his sides. “What’ve they done, tried to pinch a drink from the bar? I’ve got the bits and have no problem paying for them.”

The merc lowered his weapon slightly. “It’s not that, old-timer. These kids fit the bill of people we’re looking for. Rebels.”

“We already told you we’re no rebels,” Knees snarled, and held up his arm, displaying the spinning circle tattoo fluxed to his inner wrist. It was dangerous for Ezonians to travel in Kiroth, and Murray had made sure the entire team had the safe-passage flux done before the journey began.

“Kid speaks the truth; they’re here for Pilgrimage,” Murray said. “Why don’t you let them be on their way. They got enough fights on the road ahead.”

“We heard that before,” the merc said. “Thing is, empire wants to stamp out some rebels right now. That’s what they’re paying us for. And if we go back to post empty-handed, we don’t get paid.”

Murray growled. He despised mercs. Grievar, working for the Daimyo as hired bodies. Bouncers for fancy nightclubs, guards for nobles, or bounty hunters looking to root up a growing rebel force, it was all the same.

Murray reached into his pouch and produced two onyx bits, a tiresome habit today. “Now, why don’t you go tell your empire lords you’ve seen no rebels in these parts.”

The merc snatched the piece and bit it, handing the other to his grinning partner.

“You did right, old-timer,” the man said as he reholstered the rod. “And next time, you better keep an eye on your boys here; something about this ugly one I don’t like.”

Dozer pushed up against Murray as the mercs left the tent.

“We could’ve taken ’em,” Dozer muttered.

Murray wheeled on the big kid and shoved him backward against the bar.

“Hey… hey, what gives?!” Dozer said.

“You darkin’ idiot,” Murray said. “You could’ve gotten yourself and Knees killed. Because what, you wanted to prove yourself?”

“B-but…” Dozer stuttered. “They were insulting us! What about honor? What about the Codes?”

“Codes don’t mean being stupid,” Murray replied. “You want to keep going on Pilgrimage, don’t you? Instead of getting holed up in some empire rot-chest?”

“Yeah, I do, Coach.” Dozer looke