The Stick and the System

Chapter 6: The Obstacle Incompetence

The morning of the first event dawned bright and painfully loud. The Founder’s Festival was in full swing, and the main square of Oakhaven was a sea of people, colorful banners, and the smell of fried food. At the center, a ridiculous obstacle course had been built. It had greased poles, swinging sandbags, rope nets, and a pit of what looked like very thick mud.

The Gilded Fox stood at the edge of the competitors' area, looking like they’d already lost.

Boris had a monumental hangover and was wearing a bucket hat pulled low over his eyes. Tobin was vibrating with nervous energy, his spear tapping a rapid rhythm on the cobblestones. Bulkan stood like a stone statue, his eyes closed, maybe sleeping upright. Elara was reviewing a crude map of the course, her brow furrowed in concentration.

Caspian just stared at the course. It was a clown fiesta. A literal physical comedy routine. And he had a stick, a yoyo, and a noisemaker.

“Alright, listen up,” Elara said, her voice barely cutting through the crowd noise. “It’s a four-person relay. One leg each. The course is a loop. You have to carry your conduit the whole way. No using it to attack other racers, but you can use it to navigate. First leg is the balance beams and greased poles. That’s you, Caspian.”

Caspian looked at the first section. Narrow beams led to three tall, gleaming poles covered in what looked like lard. “Why me?”

“Because you’re the lightest and probably the most agile,” Elara said, not sounding convinced of her own logic. “And if you fall, the drop into the hay is the shortest.”

“Great. Comforting.”

A loud, obnoxious laugh cut through the air. Dirk and the Mudfoot Marauders swaggered over. They looked annoyingly coordinated in their matching leathers.

“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” Dirk sneered. “The Gilded Fossils. You ready to trip over your own feet, stick-boy? I heard your secret weapon is a particularly pointy twig.”

One of Dirk’s men, a thickset guy with a club, grinned. “Maybe he’ll whittle us a surrender flag.”

Caspian smiled back, a tight, gamer’s smile. He held up his stick. “You know, I’ve been practicing. I call this move ‘the splinter.’ Very dangerous.”

Dirk just shook his head, still laughing as he walked toward the starting line. “Just stay out of our way, fossils.”

A town crier banged a drum. “Competitors to the start! First runners, take your marks!”

Caspian walked to the starting line, his stick in hand. He was in a lane between a woman from a guild called “The Granite Fists” who was cracking her knuckles, and a skinny kid from “The Harvesters” who held a small scythe. Dirk was two lanes over, holding a short sword.

The mayor fired a starter pistol made from a modified Aether-crystal. It went off with a bright flash and a POP.

Chaos erupted.

Caspian sprinted forward, sticking close to his game plan: don’t be last. The first challenge was a series of narrow, bouncy balance beams. The Granite Fist woman charged ahead, fell off immediately, cursed, and climbed back on. The Harvester kid was surprisingly nimble, skipping across.

Caspian focused, using his old memories of platformer games. He made it across the beams without falling. So far, so good.

Next were the greased poles. Three of them, each about ten feet tall, with a small platform at the top you had to touch before sliding down the other side. They were slick with grease.

Dirk was already at the first pole. He jammed his short sword into the wood about halfway up, used it as a step, yanked it out, and repeated. It was slow, but effective.

The Harvester kid tried to climb with his hands and immediately slid back down into the mud at the base.

Caspian stared at the pole. He had a stick. He looked at his stick. A crazy idea formed. He backed up a few steps.

“What’s he doing?” Tobin yelled from the sidelines.

Caspian ran forward, planted his stick into the ground like a pole vaulter, and launched himself upward. He flew past the first third of the pole, grabbed onto the greased wood, and scrambled the rest of the way, his legs kicking wildly. He slapped the platform, then wrapped his arms and legs around the pole and slid down the other side in a messy, uncontrolled spiral. He hit the ground with a thud, covered in grease, but he was over.

The crowd, which had been cheering for the leaders, let out a collective “Ooh!” and then a laugh. He’d looked ridiculous, but it had worked.

He scrambled to the second pole. This time, he tried to repeat the move, but his stick slipped on the greasy ground. He only made it a few feet up before sliding back down. Dirk, now on his second pole, laughed down at him. “Nice try, rubbish!”

Panic sparked. He was going to fail. He’d lose them the race on the first leg. He looked at his conduit. Think!

The yoyo was for striking. The noisemaker was for distraction. The stick was… a stick.

But the System had called it a Primordial Conduit. A blank slate.

He gripped the stick tightly, and instead of trying to vault, he focused on his Aether. He imagined it flowing into the stick, not for a specific shape, but for a simple property: grip. He poured a tiny bit of his Aether into the wood.

The stick’s surface didn’t change visually, but when he touched it to the greased pole, it didn’t slide. It stuck. Not much, but enough to provide purchase.

< Aether Infusion Successful. Temporary Trait: ‘Adhesion’ applied. >

“Yes!” Caspian hissed. He began to climb, using the stick as a climbing pick, jamming it into the pole and pulling himself up. It was still awkward and slow, but he was moving. He reached the top, slapped the platform, and slid down.

By the time he reached the third pole, his Aether was draining fast from the constant infusion. He was down to 4/10. He could see Dirk finishing his slide and sprinting toward the handoff zone. The Granite Fist woman was just ahead of him.

Caspian climbed the last pole with sheer, greasy determination. He slid down, hit the ground running, and stumbled toward Elara, who was waiting for the second leg. He slapped her hand, passing the metaphorical baton (which was still just his greasy stick).

“Your turn,” he gasped, bending over with his hands on his knees.

Elara didn’t hesitate. She took off like an arrow. Her leg was an agility run through swinging sandbags and a rope net. She navigated it with calm, efficient grace, dodging bags and climbing the net swiftly. She made up time.

The third leg was Tobin’s. It was a straight sprint, but with a twist: you had to carry a heavy sack of grain. Tobin grabbed the sack, hefted it, and ran. He was fast, but the sack was heavy. Halfway through, his face turned red. “I can… do… this!” he yelled, more to himself than anyone.

Dirk’s third man, the one with the club, was neck and neck with Tobin. As they neared the handoff, the Marauder deliberately swerved, slamming his heavy sack into Tobin’s.

Tobin stumbled, almost fell, but somehow kept his feet. “Hey! No fair!”

“No rule against it!” the man laughed, handing off to his final runner.

Fuming, Tobin staggered the last few feet and shoved the sack into Bulkan’s massive arms. “They… cheated!”

Bulkan looked at the sack. He looked at the final leg, a simple twenty-yard dash to the finish line. But in the middle of the lane was a huge, heavy-looking anvil on a platform. The rule was you had to move the anvil off the platform before finishing.

Bulkan hefted the grain sack under one arm like a pillow. He walked to the anvil. Other final runners were already there, straining to lift it. Dirk’s final man, a burly guy, was gritting his teeth, his Aether flaring as he tried to muscle it up.

Bulkan walked up to the anvil. He didn’t even set the grain sack down. He looked at the anvil, then at his free hand. He grabbed the anvil by its side.

He didn’t strain. He didn’t grunt. He just lifted it clean off the platform with one hand and set it gently on the ground beside him.

The crowd gasped, then roared. The other competitors stared, slack-jawed.

Then, Bulkan took two steps toward the finish line… and stopped. He blinked slowly. He yawned, a huge, jaw-cracking yawn. The massive expenditure of Aether for that pure display of strength had drained his well completely. His eyes fluttered.

“No, no, no! Bulkan, stay awake!” Elara screamed from the sidelines.

Bulkan took one more stumbling step. Then his knees buckled. He sat down heavily on the ground, right before the finish line, the grain sack still tucked under his arm. His head nodded forward onto his chest. A soft snore rumbled out.

Dirk’s man, recovering from his shock, shoved his anvil off, staggered across the line, and raised his arms in victory. The Mudfoot Marauders had won the first event.

Caspian, Elara, and Tobin rushed over to Bulkan. He was out cold, snoring peacefully in the middle of the course, an anvil beside him.

The town crier announced the results. “First place, The Mudfoot Marauders! Second, The Granite Fists! Third… The Gilded Fox!”

They’d gotten third. Because Bulkan had moved the anvil so far and so fast that even though he fell asleep before crossing, his time up to that point was still better than the guilds who took minutes to move it.

Dirk swaggered over as they were trying to wake Bulkan. “Third? By default? That’s cute. A sleeping giant and a greasy stick. Can’t wait for the Monster Menagerie tomorrow.” He smirked. “They use real monsters. Hope your stick knows more tricks.”

As Dirk walked away, Caspian looked at his conduit, now clean of grease. He’d made it stick to a pole. It had listened. He thought of the noisemaker in his pocket.

Maybe it did know more tricks. They just had to be the right kind of stupid.