Buster Crasher of the Jungle
Buster's Beginnings
Every village sent a fighter.
The people in the cities didn’t participate, but they watched the Tournament nonetheless. They booed, they cheered, they all had their favorites.
The Tournament had existed for some time, early as an ancient tradition to the Gods and then eventually as a modern festival, and a way for several merchants to profit. Dozens of fighters from every part of the continent with a purse of several hundred gold to the winner. Enough to buy a new life for anyone.
Some villages had families who ruled with dynastic might over years of success in the Tournament. For the rest, daily survival was difficult enough.
Buster was born in the jungle. His existence started when he was found on the side of a trail. Some want for specifics, but there aren’t any. No one knows if his parents left him abandoned him there for want of a gracious stranger or were merely jungle nomads themselves and knew the fate of their offspring.
Instead, Buster was found by an old Blacksmith making deliveries between towns. The Blacksmith swore at himself, discovering the child at the base of a tree, knowing he had a cold heart but not quite cold enough to leave a child on the road.
The Blacksmith took Baby Buster and continued home, uncertain if it was best for either of them.
Buster grew up as a child without a childhood. It didn’t help that he had bright, red hair.
Surrounded by large pieces of sharp metal, Buster never learned caution around a bladed edge. He mostly played on his own, making bizarre weapons out of throwaway scraps.
Other kids had toys, but Buster had homemade shivs, daggers, and brass knuckles. The other boys snickered behind Buster’s back, made jokes about him, but they never dared to say anything to Buster’s face.
Buster tried to run away several times back to the jungle, but the Blacksmith always went back for him. One day, Buster stayed in the jungle for a weak, sleeping in a cave and eating raw berries. But eventually he went back to his home with the Blacksmith, though some part of him was always in the jungle.
Every summer, the tournament organizers came around.
As a teenager, Buster watched them take sign-ups from his village, sometimes just using the local pub to stopover and get drunk in between larger towns.
The Blacksmith had grown old, weak. Buster knew soon he would not be able to afford his living. He also knew the gold purse the Tournament offered. The choice for Buster was easy.
Buster ran away one last time, but this time he told the Blacksmith where he was going.
Buster was technically forbidden from entering the Tournament. Only combatants who had seen eighteen birthdays could fight, no children. It was a hard and fast rule. It would have been a problem, if Buster told organizers his age. But the Organizers took one look at the hulking muscles of the seemingly grown man in front of them and signed him up, feeling only pity for whatever poor soul Buster would face.
The first rounds were normally dictated by a holiday or coronation. When there was an especially bloodthirsty tyrant on the throne, spectators could be sure to witness a large-scale melee, usually with wild animals thrown in for good measure. Buster’s first round was no different.
Buster was pushed into the arena with a group of a half dozen other men, given a box of dull training swords. Buster found all the swords taken and was left with a wooden club with jagged nails jutting out of it. For a second, it was like he was a kid again.
The men stood in the middle of the dirt field, looking at the cheering spectators in the stands around them. Buster wondered how people in the city could be less civilized than their brothers and sisters in the jungle. But before the men could turn on each other, a gate at the other end of the Arena opened.
A dozen boars charged into the arena, each as heavy as five men, with razor-sharp tusks. They snarled, spit running from their mouths, clearly rabid.
Some men charged the boars, most of them were trampled or gored instantly. Amidst the initial clash, a boar charged into Buster and knocked him several feet. The boar’s fur was matted and, to make matters worse, it stank.
In the stands, though Buster couldn’t see them, people laughed and cheered, as if what was happening below wasn’t really happening at all. The boar charged Buster again and Buster jumped out of the way, almost knocking into another man trying to fight off his own boar.
As the boar charged once more, Buster swung his spiked bat and hit the boat square between the eyes, killing it. It squealed and then fell silent instantly.
The surviving men were separated into brackets.
Buster sat in the dark in a cell, cold, heart racing for some time after the fight. Before he could sleep, he was brought out again, this time facing just one other fighter—
Buster had never seen a goblin in real life, though he had heard of them. But now, he was standing feet away from a snarling gobbling in the flesh, or whatever it was, he wasn’t sure. Buster wondered if this goblin was captured or an emissary from some far-off village, but it stood two heads over Buster and several shoulders wider. It didn’t matter, Buster had to survive.
Before the Goblin could squash Buster, Buster used his speed and ran around the Goblin, climbed up its hairy back, and used his bat to crush the Goblin’s face. The crowd had never seen such a decisive victory so quickly.
Buster went back into the holding pens. After the cheers from the crowd, it was much quieter this time.
Buster wondered what life would be like after the tournament. He had never known not fighting, but after this, he didn’t think he’d want to pick up a sword for a long time. And if Buster succeeded, the Blacksmith back home wouldn’t have to pick up a sword again either.
The doors opened and Buster was forced to his feet and out into the blinding sun, again.
In front of Buster stood a spear-wielding Zimbala Warrior. The Zimbala Warrior’s spear dripped with a syrupy liquid that Buster initially thought blood but realized was some kind of jungle poison.
Buster charged at the Zimbala Warrior, but he was much faster than Buster. He was stronger, smarter. Any time Buster tried to strike, the Zimbala Warrior knocked Buster’s blows away. Buster felt, for maybe the first time in his life, in trouble.
Buster swung his bat, but the Zimbala Warrior rolled past Buster and slashed his back with the spear.
Buster felt like his flesh was on fire. Like a thousand ants were chewing at his skin. He could barely stand up, much less deflect the Zimbala’s blows. His brain was screaming and he felt like this could be the end.
Buster lay on his back, looking up at the sun. The Warrior stood over him, ready to finish Buster off. But as Buster closed his eyes, he heard the crowd scream.
A Golden Jaguar, fur glistening, bounded into the arena. No one knew where it came from. Buster had never seen it before, but the Jaguar felt strangely familiar to him.
The Jaguar jumped on the Zimbala Warrior, slashed him across his front and back, until he wasn’t a threat any longer.
Buster crawled to his feet and though there was doubt, shouting in the arena, it was clear that Buster was the last man standing.
Buster was awarded a large sack of gold, a knightship, a large house in the city, half a dozen servants. But when the Tournament Organizers came for Buster in the morning, they saw only the gold coins gone and the titles and awards all left behind.
Buster, and his Jaguar, had already headed back to the jungle, where they belonged.
Entered by: 0x2C32…1A46 and preserved on chain (see transaction)
