Competition Day

Steam rose from the grates along the streets, carrying the scent of metal polish and fried batter. Pulley-lines groaned as baskets of confetti and ribbons crept overhead, rattling softly before being dumped into the square. Shopfronts that hadn’t opened in months suddenly rolled up their shutters. Chatter could be heard everywhere.

A pair of old women yapped at a fruit stand about odds, one clutching a jar of coins while the other swore she’d bet against Rico. “There is so many that show up, there is no way he repeats a win again!” she insisted, slamming down a copper.

Across the street, a tailor stood on a stool, fitting golden buttons onto a vest, one he would try to sell to someone later. Children ran past with paper crowns, blowing toy horns that squeaked instead of whistled. "Hey! Watch it. I'm sowin' here."

Even the stray dogs had gathered near the fountain, drawn by the smell of the grill fires being set up for the crowd. One begged with the biggest eyes that a man just had to give in and let the dog have a piece of toast. The dog scurried away with her prize to eat alone.

Someone had redrawn the tavern’s chalkboard tally 'RICO: 23 / NEW BLOODS: 2', though a new sketch now joined the ducks: a wobbling man on stilts about to fall.

The unique thing about the bodybuilding competition is that it is a renowned event of this country that draws people from all over the world to attend, some even participating as contestants. The event has been sponsored by one of the seven elite rulers, which the Arbiter of Will, King Julian, happens to be a member of.

Since the sponsorship, the event has grown in prominence to showcase disciplined bodies and pure strength of muscles. It began many decades ago as a contest between two brothers which then evolved into the tradition that has persisted till today, which has been dominated for the past nine years by Rico.

Today, the people whispered if he could hold the title for a decade or if he would finally be defeated.

By the time Joren and the others arrived from the Inn, the town was packed. People were leaning from balconies, others were perched on crates and railings, some even sat on shoulders to see the surroundings better.

The event stage was the most shocking part of all, which was actually an entire facility connected to a stage to allow for people to get their tanning cream applied, among other things, and prepare for the stage walk where they would be scored by a panel of judges. The top ten that score the highest will then be put against each other all at once for the title.

Willow folded her arms, surveying the crowd. “Looks like half the country’s here for this,” she muttered.

“Correction,” Bart said, turning to her. “They’re here for us. Or, perhaps, the show."

Joren tried to steady his breathing. His muscles still ached from the previous night’s ‘training.’ “You sure we’re not biting off more than we can chew?” he asked quietly.

Bart shot him a look so full of confidence it bordered on delusion. “Chew? My boy, we’re about to gorge."

Then, from somewhere in the crowds of people, a familiar squeak echoed. Rico emerged, his orange jumpsuit as bright as a sunrise, his mustache perfectly curled, and his black hair slicked back like always. "Guess you didn't chicken out, huh, Cheddar head."

Bart’s grin sharpened like a blade drawn from its sheath. “Chicken out? Please. I’ve stared down monsters made of molten cheese and survived lactose storms you couldn’t imagine.”

Rico snorted, twirling his toothpick with theatrical precision. “Monsters of cheese? What the hell are you even talkin' about? Whatever. Just know, I ain't gonna lose."

"Wanna bet?" Bart replied.

"Shoot, sure. But I won’t lose to you." Rico told Bart, sneering a little bit.

Joren folded his arms, trying to cut in before this escalated again. “What happens if you lose, Rico?”

Rico paused, eyes narrowing as he pulled down his sunglasses slightly. “Lose? To him?” He jabbed a thumb toward Bart, incredulous. “Ain’t happening.”

"Yeah, yeah, but what if?" Joren asked again.

The man chewed his toothpick, thinking. “Fine. If, by some miracle, I lose... I’ll become your personal inventor. My status alone carries some real weight, so that's no light bet."

Willow raised an eyebrow. “You’re offering to join us if you lose?”

“Offering?” Rico scoffed. “I'm just raising the stakes, no way I'm losing to you guys."

"But," He continued. "If you lose, which I know you will, then you have to give up cheese forever.”

Bart froze. The grin slid from his face like butter melting off a hot pan.

“You—you mean for a day, right?” he said carefully, like the words themselves were fragile glass.

Rico adjusted his sunglasses. “No. Forever. No cheddar. No brie. No little snack wedges when you think no one’s looking. Gone.”

Gus blinked. “That’s... woah."

Willow looked impressed. “I actually kind of like him now.”

Bart clutched his chest as if stabbed. “You monster. You’d strip a man of his soul?”

Rico smirked, spinning his toothpick. “If your soul’s cheese-based, maybe it’s time to diversify.”

"Fine, you're on." Bart said, his eyes full of confidence and his brow furrowing.

That surprised everyone, for a bet of that magnitude meant Bart was serious, and Bart was never serious.

Rico spat into his palm and held it out. “Deal.”

Bart did the same, their hands meeting with a wet smack that echoed across the square.

Willow shook her head. “That was the grossest sound I’ve heard in weeks.”

Rico turned to walk back towards the crowd. "See you on the stage, little man. I assume you were conning these guys into contending for you, but they don't have a chance either."

With that, he disappeared.

Gus sighed. “So we’re actually doing this?”

Bart nodded, solemn again. “I have faith in you both."

Gus crossed his arms, giving Bart a long, unimpressed stare. “You’ve got faith in us? That’s rich coming from the guy who started this whole circus.”

Willow smirked. “Yeah, funny how the man who picked the fight isn't even competing."

Bart looked offended. “Coaches don't play, you dang turnip traitor. Sometimes you just need to let the new guys show them how it's done."

Willow gave a dry laugh. “Oh, that’s convenient. Start a feud, make the bet of your life, then hide behind your ‘students.’ Real leadership, Bart.”

Bart gasped like she’d insulted his entire bloodline. “Hide? Hide? I’ll have you know I’m the backbone of this operation! The strategist! The visionary behind the flex!”

Joren muttered, “You mean the guy who gets us in trouble and then narrates it like it’s destiny.”

Gus shook his head. “So what, you’re just gonna stand there and shout motivational quotes while we get booed off stage?”

“Have some faith. I know I do." He replied.

Willow pinched the bridge of her nose. “You’re impossible.”

Bart’s grin returned, the kind of grin that only appears before a storm. “And yet, you know I'm right."

They started down the street toward the competition facility, the chatter of the crowds looking for food and drinks growing louder by the minute. For such a dinky town, it sure knew how to attract a crowd. Shoot, even the facility was like the one they trained in at the Valtryn base, maybe even nicer.

Bart stopped at the entrance and looked over his shoulder with mock solemnity. “Gentlemen… and turnip… beyond this door lies glory.”

Willow’s glare could’ve melted metal, but decided to play it cool. “Well, I think I'll go wander around until the show starts. I'll try to find my way to the front, that way you can hear me cheer for you guys."

Bart chuckled, unfazed, and pushed the doors open as Willow left the three of them to their fates.

The light from inside spilled out in gold and steam. The sound of air conditioning, the scent of tanning oil, and the sharp bark of stage assistants filled the air.

Inside, the facility looked nothing like they imagined. Everywhere Joren looked, there were muscles, and plenty of them. Men and women stood before mirrors flexing with mechanical precision, faces contorted like it helped flex more.

Assistants hurried between them, slathering bronzing oil across shoulders and biceps until the contestants gleamed like statues pulled fresh from molten gold.

“Gods…” Gus whispered, staring. “They’re shiny enough to blind a man.”

Bart inhaled deeply, as though he’d just entered a cathedral. “Do you smell that? Determination… passion… cocoa butter.”

”I smell something, alright..." Joren muttered.

They passed by a row of contestants practicing poses. One man wore a metal mask to look more intimidating. Another had two tiny people next to him that would point and yell "BANG" or "POP" any time he flexed. That was a little obnoxious, they collectively thought.

A woman nearby struck a pose so intense that one of the mirrors cracked. Her handler applauded like she’d just performed sorcery.

She will definitely make finals if she did that to a mirror.

They rounded the corner to a line of benches stacked with towels, dumbbells, and enough bottles of tanning oil to fill a moat. A pair of stage assistants scurried by, arguing over whether one competitor was “too bronze” to be allowed under the lights.

Joren glanced down the rows. “We’re really going through with this, huh?”

Bart clapped him on the shoulder hard enough to make him wince. “No turning back now. This is the proving ground of greatness!”

“Yeah,” Gus said, “and we’re about to get proven wrong.”

Before Bart could reply, a commotion rippled through the room. Heads turned as someone shouted, “Make way for the champion!”

The crowd of contestants parted like curtains, and in strode Rico.

His usual orange jumpsuit was gone, replaced by only a speedo. However, the lack of a jumpsuit showed off what he was hiding underneath.

And underneath...

Good god.

It was actually quite beautiful and mesmerizing.

Rico wasn’t just muscular. He was impossibly muscular. His frame wasn’t just huge, it felt like it was out of the realm of natural proportions.

Every contour was so refined, so balanced, that it looked like someone had beefed up the anatomy limits of a drawing out of pure ego and made it real. His veins traced perfect, symmetrical lines across his arms and there seemed to be no body fat on him at all. You could literally see the muscle fibers through his skin. Every breath seemed to resculpt him further.

The room had gone still. Even the sound of the air vents seemed to hush, like the building itself was trying not to interrupt him.

Gus blinked slowly, whispering, “That’s not muscle anymore. That's art."

Bart, however, looked like he was staring into the face of divinity. His lips trembled before forming the words, “A monument… built by will and whey.”

Joren tilted his head, still trying to process what he was seeing. “How does a human gain that much muscle?"

Rico turned slightly and his pecs flexed independently, which seemed to shoot air towards Bart's face as he closed the distance. Bart coughed as it hit him.

“Gentlemen,” Rico said with the calm of a man who knew the world already belonged to him. “Behold perfection forged by science, sweat, and an unholy amount of protein.” He smirked, twisting his wrist so the light caught the ridge of his forearm like polished marble. “This year, make sure to stretch before your humiliation. Don’t want anyone pulling something.”

He walked past them, leaving behind a faint scent of cocoa oil and ego. A LOT of ego.

Bart swallowed hard. “Alright, boys,” he said softly. “Change of plans. Go out there and hope for finals, because that's going to be hard to beat."

Gus sighed, rubbing his face. “You think? I just watched a man flex so hard that the air shot away from him."

Joren let out a nervous laugh, though it came out more like a cough. “Maybe he will trip or something."

Whatever madness Bart had dragged them into, there was no getting out of it now.

He adjusted his shirt, squared his shoulders, and muttered, mostly to himself, “Guess we’re really doing this.”

Bart clapped him on the back with renewed vigor, grin rekindled. “That’s the spirit! Stars shine brightest under pressure. Remember that!”

As they walked toward the prep area, the golden light flared brighter, and the air filled with the smell of cocoa butter, adrenaline, and a tiny bit of delusion. What waits for them next will be on the stage.