The Summoner Series - Book One - DUALITY

Chapter 3: Cece

I detested fighting. I always believed that any disagreement could be solved through talking and agreeing to disagree. But what I hated more than anything was fighting for sport. I didn't see the appeal in it. Fighting was just two stupid, sweaty men pummeling each other for the chance to win some form of compensation. Whether it be for money or to prove that they truly had a shred of masculinity, I didn't know and rather didn't care. Still, I detested fighting and violence, and was a pacifist on the mend. And still, with my disgust in violence, I worked in this wretched place called the Arena.

Some bloke came over to me from across the bar. He was clearly intoxicated and was in no shape to keep drinking, but he seemed happy. "Another one, if you will." He said in a slurred drunken speech.

"As you wish, sir," I replied. I could have said no and possibly put an end to what devastating effects this man's addiction could have. However, I couldn't help seeing people unhappy. If people were happy drunk off the worst drinks in the entirety of String City, then so be it. I grabbed a beer glass, brought it to the tap, and poured some foul smelling brown liquid that barely resembled some form of alcohol. I took a flat strip of wood and slid the foam off the top of the glass, and handed it to the man. "Thank you," *BURP* "Time to go make some money. Woo hoo!"

Make some money. What a foolish concept, but I understood that gambling on long odds somehow made people happy. I didn't know why it made people happy, but I was just glad that people were happy. I knew that the gambling was rigged and that there was no hope for the underdog to ever win. My employer made sure of that by intoxicating the underdog and making sure that no one else knows about it. I could tell everyone that the gambling was rigged but that would make everyone unhappy. Not to mention I would lose my job and would stop bringing joy to people.

But that night was exceptionally unlucky for the spectators. There was 4,000 to 1 odds for the underdog, but no matter what the odds, the spectators would bet as much as they could on the new comer. They knew that they wouldn't win, but the possibility that they could win an extreme amount of money made the spectators come back and bet their monthly or sometimes yearly salary on a fight. After all, there was nothing else to do in String City but torture yourself.

"Alright, ladies and gentlemen," said the voice over the loudspeakers, "Are you ready to rumble?!?" It was time for the slaughter to begin. But I needed to stay positive. Maybe this DÆMON fellow won't die tonight. I was not facing the Arena directly, but the wrap around bar allowed me to look to my left and down to see the fight if I wanted to. Normally, I didn't want to, but tonight there was something different about this fight that drew her in.

I glanced over my shoulder and was mortified at what I saw. I saw who I assumed was DÆMON to be shadow boxing, but was in the simple American Boxer stance. Even I knew that copying Riechter would be a death wish for anyone. Now I was feeling less optimistic, but still didn't want to look away. Reicher began to charge at DÆMON as he lowered his hands, and Riechter threw a quick left jab and then a right cross, but DÆMON was too fast to get hit simply by those two. He dropped his head right then left and threw a power cross to Riechter's stomach, pushing him back several feet, stunned in disbelief.

The whole arena went silent. There have been very few people who have landed punches on Riechter in the past, but none of them were able to land one that inflicted some sort of emotion on him, pain or otherwise. Riechter slid back several feet, still in his American boxer stance, but his face betrayed his normally stoic look. His eyes were wide in disbelief, but only for a second until it melted away into a devious grin. Riechter rolled his shoulders and leveled his hands in front of his face again.

"Finally." Spoke Riechter. His voice sounded like he hasn't properly spoken in so long, yet was still deep enough to sound like tires crunching gravel. "Someone who can throw a punch. Are you brave, or just dumb, DÆMON?"