Chapter 36
Laine was too busy celebrating like he'd single-handedly slain a volcano with a spoon to notice the cultist I was pointing at. I tried shouting his name, waving, and even throwing a small sausage at his head. Nothing. He thought the sausage was part of the festivities and began eating it cheerfully.
When I turned back, the robed man was gone. Because, of course, he was... I squinted at the spot he'd just been, half expecting him to reappear with a puff of smoke and a pamphlet about the Void.
But no!
Instead, a guy dressed as a half-digested griffin offered me some fermented drink and shoved me toward the next stage of the festival games.
Apparently, winning the first few events had marked me as "the one to watch." Great.
A judge, dressed like the Grim Reaper, stood up on a stage and began talking: "The next stage is a brew-tasting challenge. With a twist! After finishing them, the challengers must guess the names of the drinks and list the heroic deeds associated with each."
It seemed that the judge had already 'tested' some of the brews himself. His words came out slurred, and he stumbled off stage like a guy five bars deep into a pub crawl. A moment later, he walked straight into a lamppost and promptly began arguing with it, convinced it had insulted his mother.
Then, a horn blared, and the challenge began. They sat me down at a table and planted a dozen giant mugs of alcohol in front of me.
Each mug looked like it had been brewed by someone with a personal vendetta against the concept of sobriety. One was bubbling like a cartoon wizard's potion, with steam rising in the shape of a flaming skull. Another was glowing faintly green and making a sound suspiciously close to chanting. One of the mugs actually winked at me.
Nothing screams hero like taste-testing medieval moonshine and giving an impromptu history exam.
I was immune to alcohol thanks to my unfortunate (or possibly very fortunate) magical affliction. So, while everyone else was giggling and tripping over their own feet, I sipped without consequence.
The issue? I didn't know any of the historical deeds. So, I just started making stuff up half-heartedly.
I downed a frothy purple concoction that smelled like fruit and old socks. "Ah," I said thoughtfully. "This is clearly the Tears of Widow Garlock, brewed from the weeping of betrayed noblewomen."
"This one tastes like cinnamon and regret," I said, holding up a greenish ale that smelled like boiled carpet. "I'm guessing it's linked to… the Battle of Sticky Hill, where Sir Peppard fell into a vat of marmalade?"
I continued finishing the mugs and reciting some stupid made-up tale at the end of each.
When I was done, the judge, who was now riding atop a donkey wearing a monocle, burst into applause.
Apparently, I was "brilliant." I got full marks. He was obviously just too drunk to know what I'd said.
I tried to protest, but someone handed me another drink and shouted, "A toast to Sir Sticky Hill!"
I was beginning to think these people would cheer if I sneezed.
I won that challenge somehow. Maybe it was because the other contestants were too drunk to stand up.
The next challenge was a three-legged race. I found myself wondering what this had to do with the theme of the festival. Which legendary hero had run into battle wearing a rope around his legs?
I picked Laine as my partner because I needed a distraction, and if I was going to suffer, he was going to suffer, too.
As we got ready, Laine beamed at me like I'd just proposed to him. "Sam," he said, his voice thick with emotion, "I never thought you'd choose me for something like this."
"Yeah, well. Don't get used to it."
He stared at me as I bent down and tied both of his legs together.
"Uh… What are you doing?" he asked.
"We have three legs now between the two of us," I said simply.
"That's not how this works—"
The starter yelled, "GO!" and I did the only logical thing.
I picked Laine up and flung him like a sack of potatoes over the finish line.
He screamed the whole way, landed in a heap, and groaned from the dirt like a man who'd just been mugged by gravity.
I was sure this was against the rules. Hopefully, we will be disqualified from this farce.
On the contrary, the crowd lost their minds. Cheers, confetti, and a man in a duck costume honking his approval.
The judges called it "revolutionary," claimed we'd shattered a festival record, and awarded us the Golden Goblet of Heroic Coordination. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry.
Laine limped back to me, muttering something about betrayal and lawsuits.
I patted him on the head. "You did great, champ."
He flipped me off.
The next challenge was to cook a meal worthy of a legendary hero. I knew this was my chance. I was not going to win this one. I refused to participate. Surely, that would get me disqualified.
So, I did nothing. I just stood there, arms crossed, as the other contestants ran around me, fighting over ingredients and shoving stuff into pots.
When the time was up, I handed the judges an empty plate.
They gasped. One cried. Another clutched his chest like I'd punched him with feelings.
"A bold statement," one whispered. "A depiction of war's cruelty. A tribute to the meals that never were."
"Gritty. Real. Haunting," another added.
I got first place again.
I started to suspect that the entire judging panel had some sort of concussion.
At the end of the round, I looked around.
Everyone else? Eliminated. Disqualified. Passed out. One guy was arrested for attempting to deep-fry a magical rabbit.
That left me.
The lone victor.
I briefly considered walking off into the sunset and never looking back. But just as I turned, a group of villagers rushed forward to block my path, chanting, "Hero Chef!"
One particularly excited woman shoved a ladle into my hands like it was a sacred relic. Meanwhile, Laine stood to the side, clapping enthusiastically while chewing on something that might once have been food.
"You know," he said, mouth full, "you could totally open a restaurant."
I smacked him on the head with the ladle.
Just when I thought things couldn't get any stupider, a judge approached me with the kind of solemn expression usually reserved for funerals or terrible karaoke performances.
He handed me a bracelet that looked like it had been stolen from the jewelry section of a very drunk peacock.
"This," he said gravely, "marks the final challenge. Go to the large tent at the end of the road. There, your destiny awaits."
"Cool," I said, not even pretending to care. I pocketed the bracelet immediately. There was no way I was wearing that thing. It looked like a toddler's drawing came to life.
I made my way to the tent, boots crunching on confetti and roasted nut shells. The crowd was still cheering. These people had no sense of civility.
The tent loomed like the final boss of a terrible carnival. It was tall, sagging, and ominously silent. I stepped inside.
Darkness.
Of course.
Then, because cliché is apparently mandatory in this universe, the candles flickered to life in a dramatic circle around me. Very theatrical.
In the center stood three robed cultists, their void-black garments shimmering faintly with forbidden magic and terrible fashion sense.
They turned to face me with identical smug expressions.
"Well, well, well," the middle one said, in a voice that clearly thought it was scarier than it actually was. "You have walked into our trap."
"Right," I said, crossing my arms. "Is this the part where you monologue for ten minutes or are you going to skip to the part where I break your nose?"
They laughed.
An actual coordinated villain laugh.
I slowly clapped. "Pretty good," I admitted. Have you guys been practicing that laugh?"
The one on the right beamed with pride. The middle one slapped the pride out of him.
The one on the left clapped slowly. "A mysterious man informed us that the Chosen One would be heading this way. We took over the festival and laid our trap accordingly."
I sighed.
"Let me guess. Mysterious man, suspiciously smug, has a beard, probably smells like spilled beer and disappointment."
They nodded, confused.
"Yeah. That's the God of Spilled Drinks. Long story. Bit of a stalker. Still salty about me ruining his apocalypse party in the woods."
The cultists didn't respond. They were too busy dramatically raising their hands toward me.
"You see," the center one declared, "you are wearing the Bracelet of Binding. Which means—"
I held up my hand. "Stop."
I pulled the bracelet out of my pocket and waved it at them.
"Not wearing it."
They froze.
"B-but…" one of them stammered. "The bracelet was crucial to our mind control spell!"
I blinked at them. "Then maybe don't rely on accessories for world domination. Or at least make it somewhat appealing. Who the hell would wear this gaudy piece of shit?"
The one on the right started crying. "I did my best!" he said defensively.
The middle one tried to comfort him.
The one on the left cleared his throat and continued. "No matter! You drank the poisoned brews in the challenge! Your mind should be ours by now!"
I sighed.
"Yeah, about that. I'm immune to both poison and alcohol."
There was a silence so loud I could hear one of their shoes squeaking as he shifted his weight.
I stepped forward. "This is… genuinely embarrassing. I mean, what was Plan A here? That I'd put on a glitter bangle and start reciting Void scripture?"
"I—" the center cultist began.
"Just stop," I cut in. "You're embarrassing yourself."
The cultists huddled for a second, whispering frantically.
"Wait, is this Plan C or Plan D?" one asked.
"Plan C was the bracelet," the middle one snapped. "Plan D was the poison!"
"Wasn't that Plan B?"
"No, Plan B was the illusion goat!"
They all turned and glared at the one on the right, who looked suddenly defensive. "Hey, the goat was supposed to distract him while we—"
I cleared my throat loudly. "Are you guys done?"
They turned back to me, nodding grimly.
"Time for Plan… whatever!" the leader shouted.
And then all three of them charged at once.
Brilliant.
The first one didn't get far. I kicked him in the groin.
He collapsed with a wheeze and dropped his staff. As he fell, the staff flared with uncontrollable magic, let loose a bolt of energy, and struck the cultist on his right in the face.
He screamed, spun in place, and hit the ground like a sack of cursed potatoes.
That left the third guy.
He wisely stopped short, began chanting something under his breath, and raised his hands to cast a spell.
At that moment, Laine stumbled into the tent, rubbing his head.
"Sam," he groaned, "that wasn't very nice of you to throw me across the field."
"Perfect timing," I said, grabbed him by the collar, and spun him toward the last cultist.
"Wait—" Laine managed right before I launched him.
He crashed into the robed figure like a drunken wrecking ball. They tumbled into a heap of flailing limbs, curse words, and questionable body odor.
I strolled over casually.
The last cultist wriggled out from under Laine and tried to crawl away. He looked up at me, fear etched into every trembling line on his face.
"Mercy," he whispered.
I picked up his staff.
"Thanks," I said. "I've been looking for something to hit people with."
And then I smiled.
A real smile.
The kind that made grown men reconsider their life choices.
"I've had a very long day," I said. "And frankly? You just volunteered as my stress ball."
He gulped.