All Chapters of The Ironsmith's Mandate: Chapter 1 - Chapter 10

The Ironsmith's Mandate *** Chapter 2 *** “Flavio San Vicente is the heart and soul of this town.” - unnamed San Luis Vicente resident *** As I open the door to the restaurant and walk in, I catch a glimpse of the large old man commanding the Southern Cross combat sports team, leading them towards the conference room, where our lunch was reserved. Once I rejoin the group, we are all making our way towards our seats, and I move on autopilot as I think about our coach. Coach Greg Ocampo is what you’d call a gentle giant: Jaric once told me that growing old enough to look like that and have all of the stories to tell meant that it was a life well-lived. They didn’t look alike, but the way they carried themselves – oh, and the stories. Our practices up to the tournament only consisted of Coach Greg having us spar, and dissecting the entirety of the

Chapter 4: Perception 4.1 *** “Oi, what’s with you not having an appetite? I thought you said you were looking forward to Lacey’s experimental sisig-salad combo?” Jaric asked me, while I was looking at nowhere in particular, remnants of the pressure of those piercing eyes still lingering in me. “Right,” I replied listlessly, before taking a bite of the salad. Typical Lacey’s fare; no wonder, this is our town’s best-kept secret. Three generations of kitchen wizardry, with adequate support, turned the fortunes of a down-on-his-luck fish ball vendor and his family. My mind returned to those eyes, and the way they seemed to see right through my soul. It was uncanny. “Earth to Max,” Jaric said again. “Don’t tell me, you found someone in the audience?” “She had pretty eyes…” I replied off-handedly, and my thoughts got abruptly rattled when Jaric let out a whoop. “About time, Max!” Jaric hollered. “I thought yo

4.3 Perception***From there, everything seemed like a blur as we went from watching Jaric practice to making our way to the arena.I don’t know… for some reason or another, I was a lot more locked in than usual.Was it because of my birthday? Probably.Were there any other reasons? I could look into them, but right now, I’m looking Joachim Carlos dead in the eye, and the bout is about to start.If I had been my normal, introspective self, I would have seen him flinch when I sized him up.He has me beat in all statistical categories: he’s taller, longer reach, more experience… but when I saw him, he was acting like he was caught between a rock and a hard place.At that moment, everything in my peripheral vision turned to a gray haze: there was nothing in the world except me and my opponent.And as I saw his fear, my reflexes only sharpened as my body went to combat readiness.Gramps had told me once, during a hunting trip: “an animal fights harder when cornered; they have nothing to l

Perception 4.5***Contrary to popular belief, the fighter’s high doesn’t go away quickly.It leaves in waves, like you’re standing in knee-deep water on the beach and before you know it, you’re up to your neck in seawater thanks to the undertow.I was already in the waiting room with Dr. Harry running some after-match checks on me, and after handing me a bottle of water to chug, told me that they’d be at the second semifinal.After I gave a nod and left, it was like getting pulled into deeper water as the adrenaline rush rapidly wore off my system. As it did, I took notice of the gym’s waiting room.It smelled like clean work and honest fatigue: the sort of odor that tells a town you’ve earned your living in it.This wasn’t just the sweat of prize fighters: these were points, bragging rights, accomplishment. The row of white monobloc chairs lined up silently spoke of not just holding people: they held decisions, motivation, even power.The towel draped on my shoulders felt like a win

Legacy 5.1***The whistle blows the point in my face like the bang of a starter pistol.One moment my left stick is a thing I own; the next it’s a wooden comet skittering across the floor and out of reach. The slap of rattan on varnish echoes, and for an instant the gym is nothing but a gap where my balance used to be. I stoop for the stick like a man trying to pick up a dropped promise, and the world says: nope, you don’t get that one back.I hear someone shout “Two-hand it!” from the sidelines. It’s not encouragement, it’s description.I plant my feet and squat like I mean it. Thank God for small mercies. The right-hand stick is all I’ve got left: they may measure the same, but they feel different.It’s no problem, really: I was born left-handed and was trained to be ambidextrous by my grandfather; it was tradition back then, but he sold it to me by saying being able to write with both hands at the same time makes for really efficient schoolwork (and a nice party trick, too).For so