Chapter 23: Eastern District Gate Challenge (4)
Theodore sat alone on a low concrete step near the prep area, the thin strip of quiet squeezed in behind the main plaza’s makeshift stagVIT
e had his duffel bag open by his side, one foot up on the step as he bent over to tighten the laces on his boots, pulling each knot firm enough that they’d hold through whatever the Gate decided to throw at him today.
The overhead PA system blared on repeat, the same announcer’s voice swinging from forced drama to thinly veiled desperation as he hyped up the growing prize pot. "One thousand credits, folks! Don’t blink, you might miss the next highlight!" The words bounced around the plaza like stray firecrackers.
He took a cloth to the edge of his blade, methodical strokes moving up the length in slow, sure passes.
The steel wasn’t fancy, just a standard, well-balanced short blade, the kind that wouldn’t fail him so long as he didn’t fail it first.
He wiped a thumb carefully along the edge to test it, felt the sharpness against his skin, then turned the cloth over and cleaned the flat side again for good measure.
Voices rose and fell around him, some cocky, some genuinely nervous.
He didn’t tune them out entirely, because that would be careless, but he didn’t let any of it settle under his skin either.
One guy, standing with his gang of hype-men near the registration board, was busy bragging that he’d finish the first wave in under two minutes.
Another kid barked back that he’d do it one-handed for the stream.
Theodore didn’t look up, he’d heard that same bark a dozen times before, and it always ended the same way, either you could back it up, or you went home with a bruised ego and half your travel fare gone to medical fees.
He rested the blade across his knees, gloved hands still for a second as he let his eyes drift across the plaza.