Saga of the Jewels

About Saga of the Jewels

A fantasy audio serial. Can Ryn and his companions find the twelve elemental Jewels in time to stop the Emperor from conquering the world? Avatar: The Last Airbender meets The Chronicles of Prydain meets DnD meets the Final Fantasy games. Has an ensemble cast, an elemental magic system, steampunk airships, chocobos, dungeons, and a Cid, among many other things. Updates on or near the 1st of each month. Also has a 'Previously on...' section at the start of each episode so you can jump on anywhere. Subscribe at sagaofthejewels.substack.com to get a free sample short story as an ebook and mp3. sagaofthejewels.substack.com (https://sagaofthejewels.substack.com?utm_medium=podcast)

Publisher

Faenon

Category

fiction · fiction

Language

en

Explicit

No

First episode

9 Sept 2021

Latest episode

26 Jun 2026

Latest episodes

50 episodes in the feed.

1. 

   26 Jun 2026

   Grand Final

   Previously on Saga of the Jewels… The life of seventeen-year-old RYN, bookish son of a wealthy landowner, changes forever when his hometown is destroyed by the EMPIRE and everyone he has ever known is killed. Ryn discovers that the Empire are seeking TWELVE PRIMEVAL JEWELS which grant the power to manipulate different elements, and that his father had been hiding the FIRE RUBY. He sets out to take revenge on the Imperial General who killed his family and retrieve the Fire Ruby, and along the way meets NUTHEA the lightning-slinging princess, SAGAR the swaggering skypirate, ELRANN the tomboy engineer, CID the wizened old healer, and VISH the poppy-seed-addicted bounty hunter. Together the companions decide to find all of the Jewels in order to stop the evil EMPEROR from finding them first and taking over the world. They have thus far succeeded in retrieving the Fire Ruby, borne by Ryn, and the Lightning Crystal, borne by Nuthea. They have now come to the land of FARR where they intend to compete in a hand-to-hand fighting tournament in an attempt to win its prize, the EARTH EMERALD… EPISODE FORTY-FOUR: THE TOURNAMENT: GRAND FINAL Clouds were gathering. Win this tournament, Ryn thought, as fast as possible. Get the Earth Emerald. Get out of here. Find the other Jewels. Save the world. Stay with Nuthea. Live a meaningful life. Don’t lose. The hulking figure of Huld regarded him from the other side of the arena, bald and brawny in his green robes. The monk stood legs apart with one foot slightly further forward than the other, hands held up with splayed fingers in a fighting stance, something he had not even done for Sagar. Sagar had forfeited his match in the end to chase after some woman he had fought earlier while Ryn and Nuthea had been speaking to the Governor. That meant that Ryn had to fight Huld instead of the skypirate. He was actually more nervous at the prospect of fighting the monk, but at least he wasn’t having to fight a friend. Cid had healed Ryn after his last match against Vish, so that he was fighting fit again and ready. But Huld hadn’t even needed any healing after his match with Sagar, despite it being offered according to their agreement with the Governor. The Farrian audience made no sound at all. Ryn could hear his own breathing. He reviewed his plan. He had already decided how he would open in this match. He didn’t want the monk to have an opportunity to get close to him. The boy knew he couldn’t win against Huld in a straight fight, but if he was able to keep the monk at bay with his elemental projection, he might just have a chance. Vish had said as much, anyway, and Vish knew a lot more about fighting than he did. “READY……FIGHT!” shouted the announcer for the last time that day. Ryn flung his hands forwards immediately, launching a hot, orange fireball at Huld. The monk made a raising hand gesture at once and a section of the stone arena floor rose up to form a wall in front of him, which the fireball broke apart on, scorching it black. Cid’s words of advice echoed in Ryn’s mind: Elemental projections still obey the normal laws of nature. Fire may consume earth or wood or vegetation, but it cannot burn stone. It is young man’s Huld’s body that will be especially susceptible to fire attacks. But that meant Ryn would need to land a hit on Huld’s body. The wall of stone that the monk had raised suddenly broke off from the floor and shot towards Ryn, a man-sized slab rushing along the ground. He dived to one side out of the way, lost his footing and stumbled over, but then came up again as fast he could, not wanting to spare Huld a single moment to exploit, throwing another fireball at him as he rose. This one the monk dodged, casually side-stepping out of its path. Ryn threw another. Another. Another, trying to anticipate where the monk was going to dodge to next. This tactic had just about worked on Vish, but somehow Huld sidestepped and weaved so unpredictably that Ryn couldn’t hit him. The fireballs only hit with the floor or shot over the heads of the audience. Huld didn’t jump into the air like Vish had, and he didn’t even bother using earth manipulation to block Ryn’s projectiles any more. It looked like landing a hit was going to be even more difficult than he had thought. His first tactic exhausted, hot panic flooded Ryn’s head. He lit himself on fire with a shout and ran at Huld. If he couldn’t land a hit with a ranged attack, he would just have to try hitting him up close. The flames billowed around Ryn’s body as he ran. The monk held his ground, standing stone still with bunched fists. Ryn arrived putting all of his weight behind a mad punch, another angry shout involuntarily issuing from his lips. He almost connected, but at the last moment Huld side-stepped out of the way again and Ryn went past him. Fearing a counter, Ryn turned immediately with a flaming kick. The monk took a step back out of the way of it. Ryn tried another kick with his other leg, then another and another, then even threw in one of Vish’s roundhouse kicks, surprised that he had remembered how to do it from the week’s training. The monk moved out of the way of them all. His movements were deliberate, controlled, efficient, expending the minimal amount of energy required to dodge out of the way of the Ryn’s desperate attacks. The boy switched back to punches, chasing after Huld and flinging his fists out at the monk, who only danced away from them. Ryn came to a halt, breathing hard, the fire around his body still burning, having failed to land a single hit. Huld merely continued to regard him from where he had ended up a few paces away, now holding his hands behind his back. Damn it, but the monk wasn’t just strong, he was also so fast. A man that size shouldn’t be able to move so quickly! “Are you toying with me?” Ryn asked, keeping his voice quiet so that the crowd, and Nuthea, wouldn’t hear. “No,” the monk said straightforwardly with his omnipresent smile. “I am just observing your style some more.” Then the smile disappeared into a flat line, possibly the first time that Ryn had seen it drop. “What there is of it, at least. This would be toying with you, foreigner.” A wedge of stone rose up out of the floor in front of Ryn, smashing into his chest, hitting him so hard he was chucked up into the air. His fire went out. He hung for a moment at the apex of his flight, aware that he was about to fall back to earth. But then something else smacked into his back, bright pain erupting across it, one, two, three times, he lost count in the pain. Now he flew upwards, delirious with shock, the dark clouds in the sky getting nearer for a few moments, then hung weightless once more. He began to fall again, and as he did so he turned over in the air helplessly and fell head-first. Huld, moving towards him, standing atop a pillar of stone that he was causing to rise up from the ground. The monk reached him and punched him in the stomach. Now Ryn was thrown along the horizontal, he knew from the thrilled faces of the crowd that passed below. He was going to land among them, out of bounds. No I’m not, damn it! He found his bearings and thrust his hands in the direction he was moving in, projecting fire from them. Jets of flame appeared, the push-back from them arresting his flight, then reversing it, so that he began to move back the way he had come, flipping over and beginning to fly back into the arena, now holding his hands out behind him. He shut his jaw tight against the pain setting in all over his body, then looked for where he was going to land. Huld had come down from his pillar and stood waiting, no sign of surprise on his smiling face at all. Ryn found the wherewithal to light himself on fire again, and at the same time he projected fire from the soles of his feet, further accelerating his flight, and directed himself at the monk But Huld still had time to raise another stone barrier before Ryn made impact. Ryn screamed with rage and pulled his limbs in to his chest, curling himself up and holding his fists in front of his face. He cannonballed into the wall, the impact smashing against his forearms and rattling his teeth, then heard the shuddering sound of stone breaking apart. He collided with Huld beyond it in a shower of stone and dust, smacking full into the monk’s body and bouncing off him and to the side, where he hit the floor hard, bounced a few more times and came to a stop on his back. Spinning dark clouds above him, and the noise of the audience’s angry shouts in his ears. He groaned as the pain caught up to him fully. Terrible, aching bruises on his arms, the backs of his hands, his chest, his back, his stomach, his head. His whole body throbbed with them. His flame-aura had extinguished again, but at least he was still conscious, and he was dimly hopeful that the flames had still been around him when he had collided with Huld. The monk wasn’t following up with any attacks, Ryn realised. In spite of the pain, he forced his body to turn over and push itself shakily to its feet. Sure enough, the monk was only just getting up from where he had landed some length away himself, near one edge of the arena. A blackened semi-circle marred the front of his robes where they hung down over his chest from one shoulder. Little flames still burned here and there on them. Huld grunted as he grabbed the robes with one hand and tore off the top of them, ripping them from his body and throwing them out of the arena where they landed in the sand in a smouldering heap, leaving only his legs covered. His chest, a chiselled arrangement of discrete rectangular muscles, was now marked by its own big, purple bruise where Ryn had cannonballed into him when on fire. The monk grimaced–he was standing, but he didn’t look like he was going to attack again in a hurry. The crowd roared their one-sided approval of Huld standing up, but Ryn still detected a note of anger that the Farrian had suffered a hit. Cid was right! Ryn thought amidst the delirium of his ringing head. He could hurt Huld if he connected with him while on fire. But it had taken an awful lot just to connect with him. Ryn couldn’t do that again–there was no way that he could throw himself through a barrier of stone again just to land a single hit on his opponent. His body was bruised and bleeding from smashing through the wall and he could barely think straight. And his fireball attacks were useless too–Huld was so fast he just dodged out of the way of them. He needed a way of guaranteeing that his fire attack would connect with Huld, without breaking his body in the process. Ryn had an idea. A last-ditch, bet-it-all, everything-or-nothing kind of idea. It was crazy, but it was the best chance he had right now. He took a deep breath, trying not to wince at the stabs of protest from his ribs. He would definitely need Cid to heal him after this match, whatever its outcome. He gathered his energy and concentrated on where he was going to project it. Huld frowned at him, wavy lines carving his forehead, and Ryn enjoyed that the monk wasn’t smiling anymore. “Fiiiiireaaaaaagggggggaaaahhhh!” Ryn shouted, lifting his hands straight up palms-out towards the sky, his focus-word cracking and turning into an agonised cry of effort and then pain as he broke his limit. Flames rose all over the arena. He willed them upwards from the floor, searing and intense, so that they engulfed the entire arena, engulfed him, engulfed Huld, and all was consumed in an exploding inferno of red and orange and yellow fire that leapt up higher than their heads. Somewhere distant he heard the audience calling out in surprise, but he barely paid them any attention. He was at home in the roar of the fire. He didn’t feel it as burning heat, but as a delighting, exultant expulsion of energy. After a few moments his arms began to quiver with new pain. He was aware that he had almost exhausted all of his energy, or ‘mana’, or whatever Cid called it, and he suddenly let the flames cease, keeping back just a bit of it in reserve in case this attack didn’t work. The inferno disappeared, leaving only steam hissing up from the now hot stone tiles of the arena. And there lay Huld, on his side, his body and his remaining robes blackened and burned. Oh no. “Cid!” Ryn shouted as he sprinted as fast as he could manage over to where the monk lay. “Help! I think I might have killed him!” He reached the monk and knelt on both knees next to him. The monk’s eyes were shut; his mouth open. But his chest was still moving up and down. The monk’s hand shot out and grabbed Ryn’s wrist, tight as a vice. The boy went rigid with shock. Huld opened his eyes, brown irises shining. “No, you haven’t killed me, foreigner,” he rasped, “though you may have come close. And I hope now that you have used up enough of your energy that you won’t be able to do that again.” Huld’s fist hit Ryn in the nose and he went over, skidding along on his back and coming to rest. He clutched his face against the pain and tasted the metallic tang of blood as it ran down into his mouth. He stumbled up again. Huld had got to his feet and was staring at him defiantly, jaw set in grim, stony determination. Ryn couldn’t believe this man. What strength did he possess, what unfathomable reserves of endurance, that he was able to stand up again and continue to fight when his body and face were red and brown and covered in burns? But at the same time, it looked as though the fire attack had weakened him considerably. And his latest punch hadn’t hit quite as hard as before. And the monk was trembling slightly, clearly struggling to stay standing. Maybe now this would be more of a fair fight. Ryn’s heart missed a beat. Huld was running towards him. The monk arrived with a punch that Ryn side-stepped, to his own amazement. His attack had slowed the monk down, too. He countered with a punch of his own, which the monk blocked, palming it away harmlessly into the air to the side of him, but no counter came and Ryn had time to try another, which found Huld’s gut. “Ungh,” the monk grunted, and took a step backwards. He had hardly been bowled over by the punch, but he had taken the full brunt of it, and it had clearly hurt him. He had been weakened. This would be a fairer fight now. Ryn ran in again and the pair traded more blows. He found that he was able to land some punches and kicks on Huld, and they even seemed to hurt him and knocked him back. He was able to dodge some of Huld’s strikes as well, though some still connected with him and hurt like all the hells, but they didn’t send him flying across the arena as they had done before. The two of them continued like that for some time, grunting and groaning and flinging their limbs against each other’s increasingly worn-out bodies in what Ryn knew had to be the endgame of this match–neither of them could last at this much longer. Then Huld used his earth projection again. The monk willed a pillar of stone up out of the arena floor, aiming it at Ryn–but it didn’t move with the rapidity that it had done before. It came up slowly, like Huld was straining to pull it out, and Ryn was able to stagger out of the way of it, then strafe round and run back in to punch Huld, who blocked and lost his concentration, losing his mental grip on the pillar and letting it sink back into the floor. The monk tried several more earth attacks, interspersing them more or less effectively among his forced and stuttered movements, but Ryn had time to get out of the way of them, and they all fell short. Ryn stumbled back a few steps to regather himself, and watched Huld, who for the moment kept his distance too. He’s got some mana left, Ryn thought, but he’s been severely weakened by my fire. His projections are slower. I can win this. Still, the longer they kept going this way, the more tired Ryn was getting, and the more likely he was going to be caught out by an earth projection or one of Huld’s blows. After all, even though he was burned and blackened and bruised, at the end of the day the monk was still far bigger, stronger and faster than Ryn was just in terms of the raw size, strength and speed of their bodies. It was time to finish this. Ryn drew on the last of his energy and lit himself on fire one more time. His whole body ached in complaint as he drew on the last of his physical reserves to project. Huld’s eyes grew and his mouth dropped. No doubt he was shocked that Ryn had any energy left himself. But Ryn wasn’t using his mana—which was gone. He was projecting from his physical energy. Ryn ran at Huld, pulling his fist back for what he was sure would be the final blow of this final match. The monk wouldn’t have time to hit him with an earth attack. This was it. Time slowed. As Ryn’s fist got closer, through the flames surrounding his body he saw Huld raising both his hands. Unable to arrest the momentum of his run, Ryn watched in horror as the stone of the arena floor rose up around Huld and encased the monk, moulding around his body to turn him into a brown-stone-encrusted golem. Ryn didn’t have time to pull back, and followed through with his punch. His fist crunched into the centre of the stone golem’s chest and stopped, his knuckles cracking against it. “Ow,” said Ryn. And then pain sang out from his knuckles so loud he yelped and howled and shook his hand up and down. Huld’s eyes looked at him from within the little slit in the stone encasing that the monk had left for them. The muscles around them tightened. He appeared to be smiling once again within his earthen armour. The Huld-golem pulled back a stone fist, and then delivered a massive, jumping uppercut to Ryn’s chin that he had no time to block. Ryn lost a moment of consciousness, but regained it while he was still hurtling through the air. He hit the sand outside the arena on his back at the same time he realised that he couldn’t scream properly anymore because his jaw had been broken. “Out of bounds!” bellowed the tournament announcer, whom Ryn had landed somewhere near to. “Victory to Huld of Farr! Huld of Farr is the winner!” The crowd exploded with joy. Amidst the muddle of his pain, Ryn saw them climbing and leaping over the wooden barriers that fenced off the arena floor and running onto it. Farrians, men, women and children alike, invading the arena and roaring with triumph and glee. The ones passing Ryn ignored him completely, stepping over him or even knocking into him on the way so that his body protested with fresh pain. Eventually Cid appeared at his side; a friendly, weathered face in the sea of screaming Farrians. “Oh dear,” the old man said. “that looks nasty. Sorry it took me a moment to get to you. I went to Huld first because you burned him so badly, but actually it looks like I should have come to you first…” He lay a hand on the top of his Ryn’s throbbing head, spoke the word “Cure-ah,” and relieving warmth spread from the old man’s hand into Ryn’s head, through his jaw, and down to the rest of his body. His jaw bones clicked back into place and his ribs stopped aching. “Ahhh…” Ryn gasped. “That’s better... Thank you, Cid...” He took the old man’s hand, who helped him to his feet. “My pleasure,” said Cid, clasping his hand and giving him an affectionate wallop on the back, which would have hurt like hell had Ryn not just been healed. The lines at the corners of his eyes looked particularly pronounced just now. He must be tired from all the healing he had been doing today. “Good effort out there. I’m sorry it didn’t work out in the end.” And then it hit Ryn, harder than a stone-fisted uppercut. He had lost. He had lost the Grand Final. He had lost the Grand Final and failed to win the Earth Emerald. He looked over at what was happening to Huld. The invading members of the audience had swarmed around the monk, who was no longer encased in his stone armour, and hoisted him up so that his huge form bobbed up and down atop a sea of hands. He was smiling again. “HULD! HULD! HULD!” the crowd were chanting over and over in celebration. The entire arena was filled with Farrians. More were scrambling to get in to try to touch their new champion, but there was barely any room left inside the fighting square to accommodate them. “What do we do now?” Ryn asked Cid over the noise of the cheering. “How are we going to get the Earth Emerald now?” “I am not entirely sure,” said Cid. “I must admit I did not expect things to turn out this way…” A stab of shame pricked Ryn’s guts. “But don’t worry, lad. It doesn’t matter. There will be a way. The One will show us a way.” As he watched the crowd of Farrians jostling around in the arena and starting to repeatedly launch Huld into the air, Ryn wasn’t so sure. Sorrow tugged at his heart. He had let Nuthea down. He had let himself down. He had let everyone down. “ENOUGH!” boomed a voice so loud it shook the sand Ryn stood on. It got the crowd quiet too. As one, they turned to look at who had shouted. The Governor. He was standing on his viewing platform, hands held up for silence again. “While I understand your justified jubilation,” the Governor said loudly, though he didn’t need to shout it anymore, “this disorganised display does not become us. All of you, back to the viewing area! Then I shall present Brother Huld with his prize for winning the Grand Final of this tournament.” Slowly, reluctantly, the audience members returned Huld to the ground and began to walk back out of the arena circle, clambering back over the dividing barriers. Apparently they respected the Governor enough to obey him, even in spite of their jubilation at seeing Huld win the Final. Ryn and Cid went and stood at the side of the arena to watch what would happen next. Ryn tried to keep his head down out of view so that people wouldn’t see that he had been healed. The Governor descended his platform and a gate in the barrier was opened for him by a monk so that he could walk into the arena, where he went and stood next to Huld. The thick-set man walked around the champion to address the once more patiently watching Farrians from all angles. “Fellow Farrians!” he proclaimed. “What you have witnessed here today is yet another demonstration that—though barbarians and rogues may visit us from over the seas and skies to gaze upon our wonders and challenge our strength—in glory, in might, in power, FARR WILL ALWAYS REIGN SUPREME!” The crowd bellowed its approval, so loud it felt like the earth trembled under Ryn’s feet. The Governor turned to the monk at his side. “Brother Huld, Monk of Eto, loyal servant of the Republic of Farr, for your prowess and victory at this Grand Tournament here today, for your defeat of these foreign challengers with their strangest of sorceries, for your impeccable demonstration of the finest fighting arts that Mother Farr has to offer, as prize I now present you with the highest honour I can bestow: The long-lost Earth Emerald of Eto, fabled Jewel of Mid!” The Governor pulled a hand from his robe and thrust it into the air, holding the gleaming green stone aloft. As he did so the arena flared briefly with distant light, which the stone caught with a flash, and a heartbeat later a loud peal of thunder rolled across the sky, like celestial furniture being moved somewhere above the ceiling of cloud cover. Ryn craned his neck upwards. The gathered clouds were thicker and blacker than ever, pregnant with rainstorm. “Congratulations, Brother Huld!” proclaimed the Governor. He handed Huld the stone, and at last the storm broke, and rain burst from the clouds, drenching them in an instantaneous downpour of uncountable water droplets. And with the storm, through the dark clouds, flew a fleet of black, blimp-suspended, sharp-prowed Imperial airships. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit sagaofthejewels.substack.com (https://sagaofthejewels.substack.com?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_1)

2. 

   9 Jun 2026

   Semi-Final Two

   Previously on Saga of the Jewels… The life of seventeen-year-old RYN, bookish son of a wealthy landowner, changes forever when his hometown is destroyed by the EMPIRE and everyone he has ever known is killed. Ryn discovers that the Empire are seeking TWELVE PRIMEVAL JEWELS which grant the power to manipulate different elements, and that his father had been hiding the FIRE RUBY. He sets out to take revenge on the Imperial General who killed his family and retrieve the Fire Ruby, and along the way meets NUTHEA the lightning-slinging princess, SAGAR the swaggering skypirate, ELRANN the tomboy engineer, CID the wizened old healer, and VISH the poppy-seed-addicted bounty hunter. Together the companions decide to find all of the Jewels in order to stop the EMPEROR from finding them first and taking over the world. They have thus far succeeded in retrieving the Fire Ruby, borne by Ryn, and the Lightning Crystal, borne by Nuthea. They have now come to the land of FARR where they intend to compete in a hand-to-hand fighting tournament in order to attempt to win its prize, the EARTH EMERALD… EPISODE FORTY-THREE: SEMI-FINAL TWO An empty, grey void sat at the centre of Sagar’s stomach. His loins, which had recently been so awake and alive, now ached dully. The wind had gone out of his sails, the air from his blimp, the swagger from his strut. What’s the point? What’s the point of any of this? He had landed a kiss on a woman. A real kiss. And on a real woman! And it had been returned. A real connection. He could still practically taste her soft lips on his own, slightly salty from sweat, could still remember how they had parted and stirred in response to his. But he had thrown that all away, as quickly as he had chanced upon it. He had broken their kiss and literally thrown the woman out of the arena, all in an effort to win a shiny green rock he wasn’t interested in anyway. Of course, he did have his reputation to think of, and it wasn’t like the great Captain Sagar, Scourge of the Imfisi skies, could have let himself lose a fighting match to a woman... But still… A real kiss. He had run after her straight afterwards to try to apologise and talk to her some more, and caught up with her in the dugout, managing to catch her by the hand. She spun to face him, all well-defined lines and short dark hair, and he was hit by her beauty again. Her cheeks were glistening, though recently dabbed–she had been crying. “Look, Hiuna,” he said, painfully conscious of the other quarter-finalists in the enclosed earthen chamber–the baldy, another shorter Farrian, and some Frikian woman, “I’m really…sorry. I shouldn’t have taken advantage of you and finished the match like that. Please accept my apology.” He could barely believe his own ears, but he meant every word of it. He looked into her eyes, green like new life. “I feel like we had a connection, and I can see that I’ve upset you.” Hiuna yanked her hand out of his grasp. “I’m not upset because you took advantage of me, you chump!” she snapped. “I’m upset because I lost the match! My whole life I’ve been trying to prove myself in the face of men like you, and the moment I get my chance to do so, you go and do that and hit me out of bounds! Argh! Don’t come after me!” She turned to leave, but Sagar grabbed her and again. “Hiuna, please–” “Get off me!” the Farrian woman shouted, and palm-punched him in the chest with her spare hand, pulling the other one free in the process. Sagar landed on his arse with a thump. He watched Hiuna running off out of the dugout’s far exit. Huld was staring at him. “What are you looking at, baldy?” he said. * A moving pillar of stone smacked upwards into Sagar. He was knocked backwards and into the air with a painful jolt. As he sailed through the air, he realised that had been so distracted and lost in his memory that he had completely missed the announcer calling the start of the match and that the baldy had whacked him with an earth attack and was going to have hit him out of bounds in one strike. He summoned the wind, and powerful currents caught him, then held him in place in the air as he held out his arms, levitating weightlessly. The crowd cooed with surprised wonder. He lapped it up. Might as well give them a good show, he thought. Though the truth was, he didn’t care about this stupid tournament anymore. What he cared about was getting Hiuna to accept his apology, and he was pissed off that she hadn’t, mainly at himself. Baldy was looking up at him from the arena floor, chunky brow wrinkled, barefoot and green-robed, still with his hands held out in a ridiculous pose from having launched his earth attack. Might as well channel my anger somewhere, Sagar thought. Keeping part of his concentration on the air currents cushioning him in the air, Sagar thrust his palms forwards and shouted “Windaaaaaaaaarrrraahh!” A gale-blast of air wooshed forwards from his hands, hard as a hurricane. The baldy set one foot in front of the other and raised his arms above his face, crossing them and making fists to shield himself from the wind in a defensive stance. He even made some of the stone of the arena floor rise up and secure itself in two moulds around his feet to hold himself in place. Behind him, the audience members in the path of the gale screamed. The ones at the front clutched the wooden barrier to avoid being blown away. But they didn’t have anything to worry about–they were only getting the blow-back; Sagar was focusing the brunt of the attack on Huld. On Huld, who remained completely still and unmoved by the wind. It was as though he might not have even bothered taking his defensive stance at all. Well, the old timer wasn’t lying then, Sagar thought. Looks like my wind powers are completely ineffective against the element of earth. But he had known that much from that stupid temple. It didn’t matter. He hadn’t expected the attack to do anything anyway. Sagar leaned forward, dipping himself into the massive gale that he was directing at Huld. At the same time, he ceased the pressure from the gusts that had been keeping him up in the air, and instead changed their course to push him forwards, launching him even faster into his own wind attack. The gale caught him and he rode it, his hair and the loose parts of his shirt flapping around him. The exhilarating sensation of weightlessness took him, for a moment replacing even the dull ache for Hiuna, as he flew straight at Huld. He came in fast, stretching out both his arms in front of him for a double-fisted-punch. He smashed into Huld’s stomach, below the monk’s upraised arms… …and glanced off him, hitting the arena floor on his side and rolling over a few times. He came up. The gale having ceased, Huld dropped his defensive posture and broke his stone-shackles, then began to walk towards Sagar. Kufe it. The baldy was tough. Of course Sagar had known that too, but he hadn’t realised just how tough. He hadn’t had occasion to hit him before now. He called the wind, setting up another vicious gale to whip at Huld. The monk put one open hand up to shield his eyes, but he kept on walking. At least the wind served to distract him somewhat. This time Sagar ran at him, using the gale to lend him speed, but instead of rushing in head-on, when he was a few paces away he kicked off from the floor and sprang to the right, then jumped back towards the monk with a flanking side-kick. Huld’s hand snapped out and caught Sagar’s leg in mid-air, fingers constricting around it tightly. Uh-oh. The monk twisted, and twirled Sagar in a circle around him once, twice, thrice, several times, getting faster and faster. The audience members became increasingly blurry. Then Huld let go and threw Sagar out of the arena. Weightlessness took him again. He soared through the air, over the audience, who craned their heads up to track him. He was going to land among them, well out of bounds. Well, at least he would have if he hadn’t been able to fly. He summoned the wind again and used it to catch him, then divert his course, sending him flying back head-first towards Huld. A calm smile on the monk’s face. No surprise, no shock or awe or frustration or even a defensive stance this time. Just a calm smile. Arrogant kufer. Before he made impact with the monk, Sagar dived early, instead making impact with the arena floor with his two outstretched hands. His arms bent, and he flipped over and pushed himself off the floor at an angle, launching himself at Huld feet-first in a double-handstand-kick. The monk stepped out of the way and punched Sagar in the stomach. He smacked against the floor on his front. Ouch. His head rang. He rolled over onto his back, then froze as the monk’s massive bare foot appeared above him, about to stamp down. He rolled again, with the wind, to dodge out of the way as Huld’s foot crashed down to the ground, sending a shockwave through the stone floor that jolted Sagar as he rolled. He leapt up to his feet and staggered backwards the edge of the arena. The monk just watched him carefully. “Damn you!” Sagar yelled at him, furious at his immovability. The skypirate started to run again, calling the wind to lend him speed, not straight at the baldy this time, but round him, in a wide circle around the perimeter of the arena. He ran faster and faster, keeping his wind projection up against his back, and sent random gusts of air at Huld, flinging them out with his hand at erratic intervals. The monk didn’t even bother rotating to watch him. He just stood there in the centre of the arena, and on each pass Sagar glimpsed that same infuriating, calm smile. Sagar kicked off the floor, darting inwards at Huld from behind, rushing along the ground with the wind. He landed a right-handed punch in the small of the baldy’s back. This time monk didn’t even move. Sagar howled with rage and threw a barrage of follow-up punches, calling the wind to lend each of them force. Huld took the full force of each blow on his back. Sagar must have hit him ten, twenty, thirty times, feeling the force of his punches reverberating through his fists, but the monk remained unmoved. He ran out of steam, and came to a rest with one fist still against the monk’s back, panting and drenched in sweat and with aching arms. Now Huld turned, slowly, to face Sagar as he dropped his throbbing arm, still with that stupid smile on his face. “How are you so strong?!” Sagar asked in desperation, only loud enough for just the monk to hear. “No matter how much the wind howls,” Huld said, “the mountain will not be moved by it.” Sagar’s lip curled. “Don’t quote your stupid religion’s proverbs at me, baldy!” he yelled. “Very well,” said Huld. “I won’t.” The monk kneed Sagar in the face. The skypirate wasn’t aware of what had happened until he was flying backwards, nose and mouth bright with pain. He flipped over in the air involuntarily, and landed on his back at the edge of the arena, head just poking over one of the border tiles, looking up at the dark cloud-filled sky. He put a hand to his agonised mouth and it came away wet with blood. His tongue found that his front two teeth had come loose. He would need the old timer to heal that after this was over. The cheers of the crowd filled his ears, loud and resonant with bloodthirst, almost drowning out the announcer’s count. They must be very glad to see one of their own dominating his foreigner opponent in a semi-final. Huld’s knee had kicked up so quickly that Sagar hadn’t even had a chance to react. The baldy was strong and fast. Sagar didn’t see a way that he could win this. Much as he hated to admit it, he was outmatched by the monk. Not only were his wind attacks completely ineffective against the Earth-Emerald-touched baldy, but the man was just a stronger, faster and better hand-to-hand fighter than him. Kufe it, but this match is pointless. It was just like all his attempts to get with women: doomed to failure from the outset. He ground his teeth, and almost let out a growl. But damn him all the same if he was going to just give up this easily. Captain Sagar Edbini, Scourge of the Imfisi Skies, did not give up this easily. He would see this through to the end; he wasn’t going to go down without a full, proper, finished fight. He had a reputation to protect. At least the monk hadn’t followed up straight away with another attack. Apparently he was waiting to see whether Sagar was going to get up or not. Sagar turned over onto his front with a groan and began to push himself up. He stopped when he saw a face nearby, staring intently at him. A tomboyish but female face with short black hair. “Hiuna?” he said. She was standing in the small cordoned-off area of the crowd reserved for other combatants to watch from, currently its only occupant, right up against the wooden barrier. Only about six paces away from Sagar. “Did you really mean it?” the woman said, her deep frown indicating deadly seriousness. “Mean what?” asked Sagar, still on his hands and knees. “What you said. Did you really kiss me because you wanted to?” Sagar blinked. He remembered what she was talking about, and found he didn’t need to lie: “Yes.” “Did you really regret throwing me out of the arena like that?” “Yes.” “Did you really think that we had a connection?” “Yes.” “Prove it.” Sagar got up fully now. The people in the audience around them were staring at them quizzically, starting to mutter and whisper and grumble, but he didn’t care. “What do you mean ‘prove it’?” he asked Hiuna. “How?” “Forfeit this match. You might never have been in it anyway if you hadn’t thrown me out of bounds when you did. If you really regret it, you won’t mind forfeiting now. If you forfeit, then…we’ll talk some more. That’s all I’m promising.” She folded her arms and looked up at him, defiant challenge sizzling in her face. But not just that. In those bright green eyes, that tight line of mouth, there seemed also to be some desperate hope that he would show himself true by forfeiting this match. Two different forces smashed together inside Sagar’s heart. On the one hand, there was his reputation, and his pride, and his ego, to maintain, and his tempestuous fury at not being able to beat Huld. On the other hand, here was Hiuna, whom he had recently kissed, and who had kissed him back. She was only promising that they would talk, but Sagar found that that would be enough for him. He just wanted to be near her again. “Sagar of Imfis!” the announcer yelled out of all a sudden, yanking him out of his thoughts. “Are you going to carry on with this match?” The skycaptain turned. Huld was still waiting calmly for him in the centre of the arena wearing his infuriating serene smile; a green, immovable mountain. Sagar made his decision. “No,” he said loud and clear to the announcer. “I yield.” The crowd issued a collective gasp, then immediately erupted into a complaining chorus of boos and jeers. Sagar ignored them, walking out of the arena, and went to go and speak with Hiuna. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit sagaofthejewels.substack.com (https://sagaofthejewels.substack.com?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_1)

3. 

   1 Jun 2026

   Semi-Final One

   Previously on Saga of the Jewels… The life of seventeen-year-old RYN, bookish son of a wealthy landowner, changes forever when his hometown is destroyed by the EMPIRE and everyone he has ever known is killed. Ryn discovers that the Empire are seeking TWELVE PRIMEVAL JEWELS which grant the power to manipulate different elements, and that his father had been hiding the FIRE RUBY. He sets out to take revenge on the Imperial General who killed his family and retrieve the Fire Ruby, and along the way meets NUTHEA the lightning-slinging princess, SAGAR the swaggering skypirate, ELRANN the tomboy engineer, CID the wizened old healer, VISH the poppy-seed-addicted assassin, RISS the spirit-summoning girl, and QUEL the water-projecting bard. Together the adventurers decide to find all of the Jewels in order to stop the evil EMPEROR from finding them first and taking over the world. They have thus far succeeded in retrieving the Fire Ruby, borne by Ryn, and the Lightning Crystal, borne by Nuthea. They have now come to the land of FARR where they are competing in a hand-to-hand fighting tournament in order to attempt to win its grand prize, the EARTH EMERALD… EPISODE FORTY-TWO: THE TOURNAMENT: SEMI-FINAL ONE “Alright, team huddle time,” Nuthea said when she had got everyone assembled in the dugout. The tournament officials didn’t seem to mind that they were congregating in the stuffy underground chamber even though they weren’t technically all combatants. The party formed up, linking arms and making a face-to-face circle. Though the newcomers hesitated at first they got the idea easily enough, even if Cid and Elrann had to stoop slightly to fit Riss in. “Right,” said Nuthea. She needed to be quick, as after Cid had healed Huld the Governor had said they had five minutes before the next match. “Let’s review how things stand: Ryn, Captain Sagar, and Shadowfinger Vish all won your Quarter-Final matches–well done!” Ryn nodded. “Thanks.” Sagar grunted the barest acknowledgement. He appeared to be sulking about something. Vish didn’t say anything. Nuthea suppressed a sigh. “Grandfather Cid will heal all of you too so that you’re ready to fight again, since the Tournament is going to be carrying on straight away.” “Why did the Governor change his mind on that?” asked Ryn, wasting time. “I’m not sure. Probably something to do with the change in weather. That has gone in our favour.” “Yeah, what’s the deal with that?” said Elrann. “Clear skies all day, and now all of a sudden it looks like it’s going to pour.” She looked over at Quel. “You have water powers, right, music-man? Are you something to do with this?” Quel shook his head, the blue hair of his fringe quivering. “No, Mistress Elrann; it has nothing to do with me. The Sapphire-touched can manipulate water in gaseous and solid as well as liquid form, true, but it would take quite a lot of us to influence the course of an entire weather system, and I am just one man.” “Never mind that now,” said Nuthea, eager to move the discussion on. “What’s important is that the Governor has decided that the tournament can conclude today. Now, the two semi-finals will be Ryn against Shadowfinger Vish and Captain Sagar against Brother Huld. Sagar against Huld is straightforward enough, as we know who we want to win–” “Do you think you can take him, Sagar?” Ryn asked, cutting Nuthea off. “Hm?” said Sagar, attention coming back from wherever it had been. “Oh, yeah, you had better damn well bet I can take him. I’m not afraid of Baldy.” “You are aware, aren’t you,” Grandfather Cid said before Nuthea could get another word in, “that the element of wind is completely ineffectual against the element of earth, in combat terms?” Sagar blew the air out through his nostrils. “Yeah, I know, old timer. But that don’t mean I can’t use my powers to my advantage. Just you watch. I’ll beat him without blowing him over.” “If you’re sure…” said Cid. “Anyway,” said Nuthea, “what is more pressing for us to talk about is Ryn and Shadowfinger Vish’s match, since both of you are in our party.” “What’s there to talk about?” said Sagar. “The scumsucker is the better fighter. You should just let him win,” he said to Ryn, “and be done with it.” “Hey!” said Ryn, and the air in the huddle got a little warmer. “Shut up, Sagar! Vish may have been fighting longer, but I have fire magic!” “Well it’s not like it matters anyway,” Sagar said, “as I’m just going to thrash whichever one of you goes through in the Final in any case.” “Shadowfinger Vish,” Nuthea said, before Ryn could rise any further to Sagar’s posturing, “what do you think is the best course of action?” Vish regarded her coolly above his face covering. “It makes no difference to me, girl. Tell me what you want me to do, and I will do it. I will win this battle, I will lose this battle, I will stay out of the Final, I will go into the Final–whichever. All I care about is that you give me some more poppy when this is done. As long as you do that, I will do whatever you want.” Nuthea saw Cid hold himself back from saying something. “Okay…” she said. She knew that Vish was by far the better fighter as Sagar had said. But she didn’t want to hurt Ryn’s feelings. “What would you rather do, Ryn?” “Well, I think that–” “People of Farr!” came the shout of the tournament announcer from outside all of a sudden. “For your first semi-final, I give you Ryn of Efstan versus Vish of Aibar!” “Was that really five minutes?!” said Ryn. “We haven’t—” “There’s no time!” Nuthea said, breaking the huddle. “Quick, get out there into the arena, both of you! I’m sure you’ll figure it out! Er, good luck!” She ushered Ryn and Vish off in the direction of the entry tunnel., As Ryn looked briefly over his shoulder at her before walking out Nuthea ignored the twinge of guilt in her chest. Neither of them moved. Vish just stood there in his black uniform and head covering, eyes bleary and bloodshot. He didn’t even bother adopting a fighting posture. A memory flared unbidden in Ryn’s mind of the first time he had fought Vish. How the Shadowfinger had suddenly fallen upon him and the others in the woods outside Ast, how he had been vicious, methodical and deadly, in the end only stopped by an unexpected pistol-shot from Elrann. Did Ryn really have any kind of chance in a contest of hand-to-hand combat against such a skilled and highly trained fighter as Vish? Probably not, no; not even if I have trained hard and gotten a lot better at fighting since then. But Ryn did have something which Vish didn’t. Damn him if he was going to use it straight away though. “Begin!” shouted the announcer. Ryn ran at Vish, crossing the arena floor in a matter of moments, and punched him in the face. To his surprise the punch connected, the impact flashing across Ryn’s knuckles, and Vish’s head snapped back. The Shadowfinger took a couple of steps backwards, then steadied himself. Huh? Nobody in the audience cheered or made any kind of noise. They were as confused as Ryn. Investigating, he stepped forwards and kicked the Shadowfinger in the chest with his right foot, using a kick that Vish himself had taught him. Vish grunted, taking the force of the blow, and stepped back a few more paces. Ryn followed through with a series of punches that finished with an elbow strike, using another sequence that Vish had taught him. Every blow hit home. The Shadowfinger took the full force of each one, shuffling backwards and coming to a halt a couple of paces away. “What are you doing?” Ryn whispered to the Shadowfinger, hoping that nobody else would be able to hear. “What do you mean, ‘what am I doing’?’” Vish replied, having the courtesy to keep his voice low too. “Why aren’t you fighting me properly?” The Shadowfinger shrugged. “You didn’t say what you wanted me to do yet.” “I want you to fight me!” Ryn hissed. The Shadowfinger raised a dark eyebrow. “You do? Are you sure?” “Yes! Don’t go easy on me just because we know each other! That won’t impress anybody, and it might get us disqualified for cheating!” The other eyebrow raised. “You are really sure?” “Yes!” “Alright then.” Ryn took two steps forward and swung a right hook at Vish. The Shadowfinger sidestepped as easily as if he was performing the learned steps of a dance. And then his leg lashed out. Ryn lifted up into the air, came down, hit the ground on his back and rolled over a few times. Then he felt the pain. He curled up, clutching his stomach, which ached horribly where Vish had kicked him. Now the crowd cheered. The noise of it filled his ears, hurting him even more than the kick had. Why were they cheering for Vish, and not him? Ryn supposed that Vish’s attack had had a bit more of an effect than his own… “One!” called the announcer, beginning the count. Ryn pressed his hands to the arena floor and shakily pushed himself up onto his feet, stomach still smarting. Vish was standing a long way away. He had kicked Ryn so hard that he had flown across half the arena. And yet, he sensed that the Shadowfinger had still held something back. Vish could have finished this match in one blow had he wanted to, like he had done in his last match. Fire rose in Ryn’s chest, but he willed it down and breathed out, letting the energy dissipate through his nostrils. He wouldn’t resort to it yet. He had more pride than that. He ran at Vish again, this time arriving with a jumping kick–another move the Shadowfinger had taught him. Vish stepped lazily out of the way and countered with a punch to Ryn’s chest, quick and precise as a pistol-shot. This time Ryn hit the arena floor so hard that he bounced and flipped over, landing face down and seeing stone. Searing pain in his chest joined the pain in his stomach. Had Vish broken one of his ribs? “Three!” he heard the announcer call over the noise of the crowd. He hadn’t heard the first two counts. Had he blacked out for a moment? “Four!” Ryn managed to force himself up by the count of “Five!” He gave a few agonising coughs and some blood came out of his mouth and ran down his chin. He wiped it away with the back of a hand. Vish stood a few paces away. “Are you sure you want me to fight you?” the Shadowfinger whispered, inclining his head. “It does not seem to be going very well for you.” Fire rose again. “Yes!” Ryn growled through gritted teeth. “Would you like me to hit you out of bounds to get it done quickly?” “Just shut up and fight me properly, Vish!” Ryn shouted, no longer caring if the audience heard. “Fight me as if I was a regular opponent! Treat me like a man, not a little boy!” Some people in the audience laughed. “Raaargh!” Ryn thrust out two hands and launched a fireball at Vish from only paces away. The Shadowfinger’s eyes went wide and he cartwheeled to the side, turning over in the air as the fireball rushed through the air where he had just been standing and out over the heads of the crowd, who gasped and ducked. Ryn chucked another fireball at Vish as he landed, then another and another. He aimed them at Vish’s feet so that when the Shadowfinger dodged out of the way of them they hit the arena floor, scorching it black. In moments Ryn had the Shadowfinger running and leaping around the arena to get out of the way of his fireballs, which he hurled again and again at him, listening with pleasure as the crowd now murmured and marvelled at his own attacks. Vish was incredibly fast and agile, but he couldn’t keep this up forever. Could he? The Shadowfinger executed a leaping somersault to get out of the way of a fireball that came dangerously close to hitting him, sending him particularly high. Ryn saw where he was going to land. He flung his hand out, launching another fireball at the spot. Vish came down exactly where Ryn had predicted, and the fireball hit him in the legs, engulfing them in an orange burst for a moment. Vish cried out, and fell to the ground, rolling over a few times from the momentum of his leap, which also served to put out the flames around his legs. Ryn grimaced. His satisfaction at the hit had been immediately tempered by the worry that he might have hurt Vish. Some fighter I am. But the Shadowfinger quickly patted out the remaining flames on his trousers that hadn’t been extinguished by his roll, then sprang back to his feet and ran back across the arena, straight at Ryn. Straight at Ryn, who was too shocked by the speed of Vish’s reaction to get out of the way in time. Ryn lit himself on fire. Vish pulled up, stopping just in front of Ryn with his fist held back ready, but not following through with his punch. The crowd made admiring noises at Ryn, and he smiled. He couldn’t help himself. “Ingenious…” Vish said, staying still as the flames flickered all around Ryn’s body, enveloping him in a fiery aura. “If you are covered in fire, it will burn me to touch you. Although I might still be able to hit you hard enough once to knock you out of bounds or incapacitate you without burning myself too much. Is that a chance you are willing to take, boy? And what of your so-called ‘mana’, that the old man is always talking about? How long before that runs out?” That was a fair point, but Ryn wasn’t about to concede it openly. Now that he was using his fire magic he might actually have a chance against Vish, and at preserving his pride. “I think the real question,” he replied, “is how long you will last against me while I am using my fire. I’ve been working hard at training and getting stronger with it. And Nuthea told me that every time I’ve fought and pushed myself to my limit and used all my mana up, my capacity has increased afterwards.” Vish nodded. “Then this may be something of an even fight now.” Ryn bristled. What an arrogant thing to say. But he knew Vish was just stating a fact. It didn’t seem in the Shadowfinger’s nature to gloat. “Looks like it w–” Ryn started, but then Vish stepped forwards and followed through with his original punch, taking Ryn completely by surprise. He was knocked backwards, stumbling over his own feet, his fire-aura extinguished. His feet came to the edge of something and he teetered on it, waving his arms in circles to try to regain his balance.. The edge of the arena! He was about to fall out of bounds! As he began to fall, Ryn put out his arms behind him, flattened his palms, and blasted fire from them. The audience gasped as the force of the flames thrust Ryn back into the arena. He kept on going, turning his propelled movement into a run, and lit himself on fire again. Vish had been shaking the hand he had hit Ryn with up and down, and now his eyes went wide with surprise. But Ryn was moving so fast he didn’t have time to prepare a proper strike. Instead he just lowered his head and crashed into the Shadowfinger like a flaming human battering ram. “Ungh!” grunted Vish, from the impact or the heat of the flames, Ryn did not know. The Shadowfinger fell on his back and Ryn came to a stop standing over him, still on fire. Acting on instinct, he held out his hand where he stood, palm in front of Vish’s face. The crowd cheered for him now. Please let Nuthea be watching, he thought. “One!” the announcer began his count since Vish was down and on his back. “Move, and I’ll blast you with fire,” Ryn said through the flames that radiated from his body. Sweat trickled down Vish’s forehead and into his eyes. “We both know you will not do that, boy,” the Shadowfinger said as he pushed himself up onto his elbows so that the announcer stopped his count. Ryn hesitated. It was true. But he was doing so well, and he still had the advantage. “You don’t know that for sure…” Ryn said carefully. “Even if I hit you point-blank with a fire attack, Cid can always heal you afterwards...” “But do you know that for sure, boy?” Vish said. “What if you accidentally kill me? You’ve killed Imperial soldiers with fire attacks at greater distance. The old man won’t be able to bring me back from death.” Ryn opened his mouth, but he didn’t have a response to that. “Go on,” said Vish, more quietly this time so that only Ryn would be able to hear, fixing him with his grey eyes. “Do it. Trust me, boy, you’ll be doing me a favour. I am probably never going to change anyway.” Ryn faltered. Was Vish seriously asking him to end his life? There was no way in Mid he would ever do that. He had made that decision once already, and that had been before Vish had fought alongside him and saved his life multiple times. Ryn sighed, though he still kept his hand held out in front of him. “Why don’t you just yield, Vish? What other option do you have?” Vish snorted through his face covering. “I have more options than you think, boy. It is clever, setting yourself on fire, I will grant you that. But I discovered two things in our little exchange just now: One, you need to concentrate in order to keep yourself on fire. And two, if I hit you fast enough I can avoid burning myself too much.” Ryn gulped. Vish pushed himself up with his elbows and twisted, sweeping Ryn’s legs with his foot. Ryn fell on his side, hitting the stone of the arena floor painfully. He had been caught so off guard he hadn’t reacted in time. He scrambled back up as quickly as he could, but the Shadowfinger wasn’t in front of him anymore. A black-clothed arm wrapped itself tightly around his neck from behind, trapping him in its crook. It was then that Ryn realised his fire had gone out again from the shock of having his legs swept. Poodoo. Vish strengthened the chokehold and Ryn gasped for air. He found some, but only a little. “See?” Vish said menacingly in his ear. “One quick little kick, a heartbeat to sneak behind you, and I have you.” Vish gave a little squeeze, showing Ryn that he could cut off his air supply completely if he willed. Ryn choked. The Shadowfinger loosened his grip again a fraction, just enough for Ryn to find some air. “There you go,” said Vish quietly. “I have done what you asked: I have fought you properly. I expect to be rewarded with poppy later. Now, I suggest that you yield, so that we can finish this in the smoothest possible manner.” Ryn gripped Vish’s arm tight, trying to wrench it off, but the Shadowfinger was too strong. He kept willing for fire to explode out of his body, like it had apparently done when Rogar the Unsurpassable had squeezed him unconscious, but nothing happened. Maybe I’m out of mana. Maybe his concentration was too consumed by trying to breathe. Maybe he had to actually pass out in order to activate his secret reserves… “Vish…” Ryn croaked between frantic gasps for air. “Before…I yield…can I…just ask you…one thing?” “What?” said the Shadowfinger, vaguely curious. His grip loosened ever so slightly again–not enough for Ryn to break the hold, but enough for him to speak more clearly. “If Huld beats Sagar and ends up in the Final against you, do you think you can beat him? A pause. “I am not sure,” said Vish. “I have observed the monk, and he is an extremely skilled and well-trained fighter. And he possesses elemental magic. You have the magic but without the fighting skill. To face an opponent with both…I am not sure that I could win, no.” Ryn could barely believe his ears. “Why didn’t you tell us this before?!” “You did not ask,” Vish said simply. “Do you think I have a chance against him?” “With your fire magic?” Another brief pause as Vish considered. “Against his ‘earth alignment’ which the old man tells us is vulnerable to it? On that basis only, yes, even though he is by far the superior fighter: Yes, I do.” “So actually what you’re saying is that I would have a better chance against Huld in the final than you?” “Yes.” Ryn couldn’t believe that the Shadowfinger hadn’t thought to tell him this before. He must be so preoccupied with his poppy obsession that he hadn’t paid proper attention to the discussion. This was no longer about Ryn’s pride–if he wanted to maximise their chances of winning the Earth Emerald, he needed to be in the Final. “Alright,” he said. “I’ve changed my mind.” He kept his voice quiet, hoping that the crowd, who had started to murmur and mutter to one another at this bizarrely long choke-hold exchange, would not be able to hear him. “I don’t want you to fight me properly anymore. I want you to let me win.” “As you wish.” The Shadowfinger’s grip began to loosen completely. “Wait!” whispered Ryn. “We need it to look good! We need to make it look like you didn’t let me win!” “Alright…” said Vish. “That will be difficult, but we can probably manage. Do exactly as I say…” The Shadowfinger whispered some instructions to Ryn. “Okay, got it,” Ryn said. Then he passed out. Or at least this time he pretended to pass out. He shut his eyes and went limp, letting his arms fall to his sides. Vish lowered him gently to the ground and lay him there, for which Ryn was grateful as he wasn’t sure that he would have been able to maintain his act had the Shadowfinger just casually dropped him. The crowd cheered, but a bit weakly, like their hearts weren’t really in it, presumably because the match had apparently ended in such a boring way. Eyes still closed; Ryn heard the announcer begin his count: “One!” Then he heard Vish say, “Would you like me to stay in the arena until you complete your counting this time?” “Oh…” said the announcer. “Well, it is customary, if you don’t mind. There is a chance he will get up again before the count finishes, isn’t there?” “No. But I will stay anyway.” Ryn continued to lie still on the warm arena floor, watching the colours dancing on the inside of his eyelids and listening to the announcer’s count and the mutterings of the crowd. “Well that was a bit of a disappointing ending…” “How come he didn’t do his exploding fire trick like last time?” “The Aibarian was just too strong. He choked him out before he could do it.” When the announcer got to “Nine!” Ryn opened his eyes and sprang to his feet. The crowd inhaled collectively. Vish was standing at one edge of the arena, facing away from Ryn with his arms folded. He began to turn to see what had happened. Ryn was already running towards him. When he saw him, Vish held up his hands in what Ryn knew was mock surprise. Come on Vish, he just had time to think, at least try to look a bit more surprised. Ryn lit himself on fire and executed a leaping side-on kick. He hit Vish square in the chest between his upraised hands, and bounced backwards off him, landing on his back on the arena floor. Vish flew backwards from the kick in the opposite direction, landing in the sand that encircled the arena, out of bounds. The crowd exploded with noise, whether from approval, or outrage, or confusion, Ryn couldn’t tell, though he hoped it was the former. And that was how he won his Semi-Final match against Vish. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit sagaofthejewels.substack.com (https://sagaofthejewels.substack.com?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_1)

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