The repair shed behind the north stand was nothing more than a barn made of corrugated iron, but the way it smelled—hot coal, wet leather, pine-tar smoke—could have fooled my nose into believing we'd slipped back to Forge's shop. Sun stripes cut through knotholes and cross-braced gaps, painting yellow ladders onto anvils and tool chests. Steam hissed from a quench trough, fogging the light. Hammer clacks from three forges echoed over each other like overlapping heartbeats.
I lay stretched on a plank bench while Master Forge worked the crease out of my Vector boots. Each scrape of her rasp sent cork dust fluttering; the boots' soles, iron-studded in a chevron pattern, needed sharper teeth after the sand lost them their bite.
Tamsin sat on an up-turned crate, drafting match notes. She wore the red scarf in her hair now—better visibility than on her wrist, she said. The gray cat patrolled the shed roof-beam, tail swaying like a metronome set too slow.
Outside, the Carnival crowd grew from morning bustle to midday roaring sea. Every so often a Pulse bout climaxed and thunder rolled across stands—stomps, cheers, fireworks that crackled like sugar frying. Each rumble shook scale weights on the shed wall; each boomed name ("STONE-SMITH!" … "FLAME-DRIVER!") blurred into the next.
The Interface kept a muted ticker in my right eye:
⟢ Countdown to Null Semi-final
3 h 01 m
Competitor C-null-002: "Morrow" (entry updated 07:21)
Spectrum Tag: Pulse 5 Nova 1
Riddle: "Heart louder than steel"
Status: provisional medical clearance
Brack had wriggled back onto the roster. Either Concord healers patched him fast, or he'd bribed them with the bounty cash they still technically owed him. It meant today's semi-final was no longer puzzle-duel; it was grudge match.
Forge finished rasping, dabbed soot on the soles—an old trick to check evenness; soot stuck only where metal edges lay dull. "Better," she declared, handing boots over. "You'll keep grip on the plankwalk."
"Plankwalk?" I asked.
"Carnival likes prop changes for drama." Tamsin turned her sketchpad so I could see: the arena floor sketched with a big X of raised beams bolted across Null sinks. "For semi-finals they bolt four-foot-wide planks into a cross. Fighters balance there; falling to sand is legal, just counts as tactical error. Good for Pulse showboats."
"Bad for my Vector slides," I muttered.
"Not if boot teeth bite," Forge said. She slid mirror shard—Shader's gift—into a leather locket and hung it round my neck. "Echo luck, keep reflection honest."
Midday simmer
We stepped out of the shed at half-past eleven. Noon sun hammered the stadium bowl; the white stone reflected glare like a kiln interior. Vendors shouted themselves hoarse: "ICE-FRUIT SHAVES!" "GOLD-DUST PRETZELS!" "PRISM-LENS VIEWERS FOR THE TINY!" Their awnings seemed to flap in time with my pulse. Wood shavings from bowyer stalls, orange zest from drink carts, coal smoke from grilled octopus—scents tangled in air heavy enough to chew.
Forge insisted we walk entire concourse to "let nerves see." We did one full oval. I watched spectators close-up: a grandmother fanning herself with program sheet; two academy students scribbling formulas, betting how Echo dampers altered wave equation; a pickpocket weaving through children. Everyone alive, warm, humming.
Near section G, we caught a break between bouts. Ushers dragged rakes across sand, smoothing battle scars into uniform ripple patterns. Four carpenters strode in, carrying the plankwalk cross: two beams of oiled ironwood, each ten paces long, bolted at center pivot. They set it over Null sink cluster. The cross rocked once, settled. A test weight—a stone dog statue—was placed on end; it balanced.
Crowd approved with wave of rising chatter.
Beneath stands, cool arcades ran like veins. We passed kiosks of dried kelp chips, rope sellers peddling "authentic vector-tamed cord." Kids asked Forge for autographs—news scribblers had already painted her "Quiet Smith" persona heroic overnight. She signed with charcoal smudges.
An hour before call, we ducked into the tunnel's preparation alcove. Marshal Argent waited, cane tucked under arm, clipboard a fortress of notes. She eyed my boots, my wristband. "Brack Morrow cleared for restricted entry. He fought medical hold—argued pain shows heart. Riddle ironically protects him: can't fail if heart out-thunders steel, doctor said his pulse shakes tools." She sighed. "Concord likes spectacle."
"Rules unchanged?" Forge asked.
"He can't kill. You can't kill. Paradox collapse instant-forfeit."
I flexed fingers. Spike, three silent nails, hush disc loaded. No bombs left, but two hush-fuses Forge had hammered from copper tube and quietstone crumb: like firecrackers inverted—pull ring, they gulp sound then spit muted shockwave half-heartbeat later. One in each sleeve.
Marshal pointed cane tip at the oak gate. "Horn in thirty." Her eyes softened. "Remember—a good story ends with crowd wanting next chapter."
The semi-final horn
Inside the starting booth, sand smelled hotter, almost like brick dust. Plankwalk looked narrower from ground level; heat shimmer danced on its oil finish. Across, Brack Morrow paced, barefoot for grip, torso bare too. Fresh bandages circled ribs; hush-forged spike scar burned purple just above sternum. He rolled shoulders—muscles like knotted rope.
Interface glowed:
Brack Morrow
Pulse 5 Nova 1
Current Flux: 18 %
Heartbeat: 156 bpm (elevated)
Adrenal Synchro-Beat weaponization active
Marshal voice boomed: "Null Division Semi-final—Bucket breaker versus Heart hammer! Roar for Brack the Ironhowl Morrow—" (catcalls, cheers)—"and for Cipher, apprentice of the Quiet Forge!" Louder cheers than morning. Odds boards must have shifted.
The horn bleated: GONNNNN.
Brack sprang. His bare foot slapped plank, shaking dust off fibers. He closed half distance faster than a gallop. I slid backward—Vector boost shot me forward along cross-beam right arm. Wood under studs felt tacky; grip good.
Brack's left palm pumped, sending Pulse shockwave down beam. I crouched; vibration tossed splinters overhead like angry bees. I palmed hush-fuse, yanked ring, lobbed to meet wave. The fuse inhaled shock, then burped grey hush: wave sliced in half, left and right branches sliding off beam edges into sand.
Crowd ooohed.
Brack never slowed. He pivot-leaped—Pulse push under feet—landed ahead of me, beam dipping under load. "Kid," he rasped, voice raw, "Null-rats fetch more coin alive. But heart says pound anyway."
He hammered elbow downward. I rolled sideways, shoulder sliding off beam, boots hooking edge cleat. His elbow smashed plank, splinter flares snapping. Beam groaned but held.
I pivoted feet backward, Riddle triggered; slide whipped me behind him. I slammed silent nail into beam near his heel—hush halo fried Pulse flow in that patch. His next stomp fizzled.
But Nova spark burst from his palm like blowtorch kiss—he'd mixed tiny plasma swirl, just enough to cauterize hush. Nail's field shrank.
He whipped around with forearm like battering ram. I ducked, let Overtone nudge me through beam gap—thin crack I widened with zero. Popped out other side, spike pointed.
I jabbed toward his side; he blocked with wrist, metal biting flesh. Blood spray, but he grinned, pulse audibly drumming. Bandages ruptured; heart-beat vibrations visible under skin.
Interface warning:
Pulse harmonic escalation 220 Hz
Null sink under beam reading overflow: 60 % capacity
Translation: Brack's heart punching air like bass drum; Null sinks absorbing beat but approaching limit. If it overflowed, hush might blast upward unpredictably.
I retreated again, feet backward.
Brack seized beam with both hands, flexed; Pulse surged down arms—timber split. He ripped six-foot chunk free, swinging club.
Crowd frenzy.
I yanked mirror shard locket open—angled it. Sunlight struck shard, bounced into his eyes. He recoiled half blink; I hurled second hush-fuse into splintered gap of beam still rooted. It detonated inward, sucking noise then releasing muffled punch. Root gave; rest of beam sagged.
We both slid. Beam pivoted like seesaw. My boots lost purchase; I jumped to cross joint hub. Brack rode down slope, landed in sand with booming thud that splashed dust.
Marshal note earlier: falling legal but costs time.
Brack roared, hefted plank chunk, hurled upward. Vector slide let me dodge, but wood shattered Null sink ring; basalt cracked, releasing compressed hush geyser. White mist burst—a reverse scream with no sound. My ears felt sucked.
Interface:
Null sink failure—3 s vent
I threw silent disc into geyser funnel. It gulped hush, sealing vent. Sand fell quiet.
Beam wobbled. Without one arm, cross looked like broken windmill.
Brack Pulse-jumped, soared up, clamping broken stub of joint. He breathed heavy, heartbeat war-drum. When he spoke, words bobbed with pulse:
"Kid… heart louder than steel … means rhythm never stops!"
He slammed chest with closed fist; heart-beat shockwave rippled air. Crowd felt it—gasps.
I considered Riddles: Undefined good for escaping; Echo-for-Silence good vs sound; Advance-Retreat my mobility. Need new angle.
Mirror shard warm in palm. Idea.
I stepped backward along remaining beam arm—toward reflector disc near wall, angled to shine sun on ring previously.
Brack followed on center hub, each step hammer. I lured until beam tip over disk.
Sunlight glare off disc created visible patch of light underside of beam. I flipped shard, catching glare, redirecting into Brack's eyes again. He squinted but pressed.
I whispered to Overtone: widen zero between plank fibers where his foot about to land. As his heel struck, wood gave like rotten rope. He plunged leg through beam, stuck thigh-deep.
Pulse flash—he tried blast to free. I jammed spike into disc below; hush surge channelled into his stuck leg through wood. Pulse flow shorted; muscles spasmed.
I leapt, shoulder checked, toppling him backward out core gap. He crashed to sand, plank stump still around leg.
Marshal horn short-blared: down but active.
Brack struggled, wrested stump free, fist punched ground; Pulse wave erupted dust like fountain. But Nova spark flickered weak.
I stepped to edge of beam, looked down. Hush fields stable; Null sink near him still offline, vent capped.
Brack rose, chest heaving, bloodline spreading from old scar spike had left. Heartbeat lost rhythm—uneven.
Marshal voice across arena: "Thirty-second safety check—medical magi on call." But Brack waved them away, glaring up, voice cracking: "Heartbeat still louder."
I jumped off beam—landed two paces away. Sand warm, soft. I raised empty palms.
"No weapons," I said. "Finish with beat or silence."
Brack bared teeth, nodded once—respect or defiance. He flexed Pulse: sand rippled; his fists hummed.
I centered anchors—Name, Purpose. Echo-for-Silence ready.
He charged. Time stretched: each footstep cratered sand. I advanced three steps backward—Riddle propelling forward into his zone faster than sprint. At impact moment, I exhaled, focusing entire reservoir into hush funnel rushing out my chest like sigh.
Our bubbles met: Pulse hammer vs hush field. Cancel? No—hush consumed wave, but echo of beat lingered; I redirected silence through his own audio bone conduction.
His heartbeat drummed once—twice—then choked, resetting to normal rest pace. Pulse aura shrank.
He froze, breath ragged. I reached, tapped sternum with mirror shard flat. "Steel quiet now," I whispered.
Marshal cane thumped thrice—end-bout signal.
Arena detonated in cheers so loud hush disc in my bandolier rattled. Sand haze danced sunlight halos. Brack gazed at his hands, chest silent; strength drained but calm.
Marshal lifted my wrist. "Winner—Cipher!" Crowd roared name now clearly. She turned to Brack, voice gentler: "Honorable yield noted."
He nodded, eyes not leaving mirror shard. "Heart louder… but silence… teaches." He touched his scar. "We done, kid." Then to healers, "Now fix leg."
Medical team swarmed. He let them.
Post-battle
Back tunnel cooler, smelled of liniment. Forge hugged me with arms of iron stove. "Quarter-final done; final next bell after sun dip—Versus C-null-001. Records say Glyph Adept. Trickier than Pulse." She waved parchment voucher—2.0 Strata credit. "Bucket topping."
Tamsin met us under arch, cat on shoulder. She pressed cold citrus cloth to my brow. "Seat holders threw nuts at shader's illusions earlier," she said. "You turned them into hush lightning—crowd sold."
Odds boards read 2 : 1.
Interface window heartbeat:
Null Final Countdown: 3 h 44 m
Flux Reservoir: 3 % (auto-regen engaged)
Paradox Risk: 16 %
Reward if win: Null Division Crest, Citizen tier-two, access to Spectral library archive.
Forge guided us to medic's cove. She removed boots—soles intact. Healer salve cooled bruises. Rations arrived: barley cakes dipped in sweet soy and lime.
Arena afternoon shadow crept longer across sand-pit cross centre still broken. Workers hauled new beams, hammered wedge pins. Each clang sounded melodic—scale of G major accidentally.
The city outside stadium kept breathing: pastry fumes, tensile clang of far bell, seagulls squabbling over breadcrumb at rooftop. Life alive.
I swallowed water laced with electrolytic ash. Tamsin scribbled story: "Heart vs Silence." Forge etched new hush-fuse design on scrap tin.
Sun slid lower; crowd thickened. Somewhere brass band tuned. The final waited—Glyph illusions and law-writing runes. But anchors anchored; bucket filling; plaintext purpose bright.
The Interface dimmed, leaving only small compass arrow pointing toward arena door and three words glowing encouraging slate blue:
Solve Next Fraction.