Chapter 46 – A God in a Box

Two hours of sitting had turned my wooden body into a prison.

The VIP judge’s box was supposed to be the best seat in the house, elevated above the arena floor with a perfect view of the tournament grounds. Plush cushions, expensive wood, the whole nine yards. None of that mattered when you were a hollow puppet with joints that locked up if you stayed still too long. My butt was numb, which was genuinely confusing because I didn’t have nerves anymore.

The opening ceremony speeches were still going.

Some official in ridiculous robes was droning on about honor and tradition and the sacred bonds of martial competition. He’d been talking for forty minutes straight without taking a breath. I was impressed and horrified in equal measure. The crowd below looked just as bored as I felt, shifting in their seats and whispering to each other.

I couldn’t even whisper. My jaw was locked shut again.

A fly landed on my nose. I couldn’t feel the tiny legs or the tickle of movement, but I could see it perfectly. A fat, lazy fly, probably attracted by the smell of festival food wafting up from the market stalls. It rubbed its front legs together in that disgusting way flies do, completely at home on my wooden face.

This was unacceptable.

I tried to brush it away casually, just a quick hand movement to shoo the bug and get back to pretending to pay attention to the speeches. My arm moved way too fast. The puppet joints released all at once instead of smoothly transitioning, sending my hand rocketing toward my face at speeds that would make a normal person flinch.

SWISH-CLACK.

The sound of my wooden palm hitting my wooden face echoed across the entire stadium like someone had smacked two planks together. The fly escaped, buzzing away to freedom. My hand stayed pressed against my nose, frozen in place because the joint had locked up again in the new position.

The entire stadium went silent.

The official stopped mid-sentence, his mouth hanging open on whatever word he’d been about to say. Ten thousand people turned to look at the VIP box simultaneously. I could feel their eyes on me, a physical weight that made me want to sink through the floor and disappear forever.

Great. Perfect. Exactly what I needed.

I tried to play it cool, slowly lowering my hand from my face. The joint creaked and groaned with every millimeter of movement, stretching the awkward moment into an eternity. I tilted my head forward slightly, trying to look like someone deep in thought rather than someone who’d just accidentally slapped themselves trying to kill a fly.

The whispers started immediately.

My puppet ears picked up fragments of conversation from the crowd below, voices carrying in the weird acoustics of the arena. Each snippet was worse than the last, building a narrative that had nothing to do with reality.

“Did you see that?”

A woman’s voice, hushed and awed. I couldn’t see who was speaking, but I could hear the reverence mixed with fear. My wooden face remained expressionless, incapable of showing the mortification burning through my consciousness.

“He punished himself for a micro-movement.”

A man this time, speaking with absolute certainty about something he’d completely misunderstood. I hadn’t punished anything. I’d been attacked by an insect and lost the battle. There was a difference.

“His discipline is terrifying.”

Another voice joined the chorus, building on the previous interpretation. The whispers were spreading now, rippling through the crowd like a wave. I could track the progression of the rumor by watching heads turn and lean together in conversation.

“He’s signaling that the blood should begin.”

That one made me want to scream. Blood? What blood? This was a tournament with safety wards and healing mages on standby. Nobody was supposed to bleed, let alone die. I was just sitting here trying to survive boredom and basic motor functions.

The official on the arena floor cleared his throat.

He seemed to take my accidental self-slap as some kind of divine signal to wrap things up. His speech accelerated, words tumbling over each other in a rush to conclude whatever point he’d been making. Within thirty seconds he was done, bowing deeply toward the VIP box before scurrying off the arena floor.

The crowd erupted in applause.

I sat perfectly still, having learned that any movement I made would be interpreted as either judgment or prophecy. The clapping went on for way too long, building to a crescendo that felt more like religious fervor than appreciation for a boring speech. They weren’t applauding the official. They were applauding me for ending his speech with my divine displeasure.

I was so hungry.

The thought hit me out of nowhere, a reminder that my real body back on the mountain was probably starting to wonder where its consciousness had gone. This puppet didn’t need food, couldn’t process food, had no stomach to put food in even if I tried. The irony of being surrounded by festival vendors while trapped in a body that couldn’t eat was not lost on me.

Maybe I could carve a stomach into this thing later.

The logistics would be tricky. I’d need to hollow out more of the torso, add some kind of storage compartment, maybe install a release valve so food didn’t just pile up inside me like a wooden garbage disposal. The mental image of me opening a hatch in my chest to dump out rotten food made me want to laugh.

My jaw stayed locked. No laughing allowed.

The first fighters were entering the arena now, walking through opposite gates to take their positions on the combat floor. One was a big guy, probably mid-twenties, with armor that looked expensive and well-maintained. The other was younger, nervous, gripping his sword like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

I leaned forward to get a better look.

The chair groaned beneath me, a long, drawn-out sound like a dying animal. The wood creaked and popped, protesting the weight of my dense puppet body. I’d forgotten that this thing was heavier than it looked, packed with whatever magical materials they’d used to construct it.

Both fighters looked up at the sound.

Their faces went pale simultaneously, all the color draining out like someone had pulled a plug. The nervous kid’s sword arm started shaking visibly. The bigger fighter took an involuntary step backward, his confident stance crumbling into something that looked more like prey preparing to bolt.

I settled back into my seat, trying to distribute my weight more evenly.

The chair stopped groaning, returning to blessed silence. The fighters below were still staring up at me, frozen in place. Someone in the crowd started a new round of whispers, probably about how I’d leaned forward to examine them and found them wanting or chosen them for death or whatever cosmic horror narrative was currently popular.

Why was everyone so jumpy?

I was literally just sitting here, trying to watch some fights and maybe enjoy a nice afternoon. Every tiny movement turned into an international incident. Every accidental sound became a prophecy. I couldn’t swat a fly without people thinking I was punishing myself for the crime of existing.

This puppet body was a nightmare.

Back on the mountain, my disciples were weird but at least their weirdness was familiar. Sakura would probably be organizing my schedule right about now, making sure everything ran smoothly in my absence. The faction leaders were likely using my absence to argue about whose interpretation of my teachings was more correct. Life continued its strange but predictable pattern.

Here, I was a dancing monkey in a wooden suit.

The announcement bell rang, signaling the start of the first match. The fighters tore their attention away from me, focusing on each other with visible effort. The nervous kid looked like he wanted to forfeit immediately, but pride or obligation or sheer terror kept him in place.

I tried to get comfortable in my chair, accepting that comfort was a fantasy.

My wooden spine couldn’t curve naturally. My joints couldn’t relax. My weight couldn’t shift without causing ominous creaking sounds that made people think the apocalypse was starting. I was stuck in this rigid, upright position for however long this tournament lasted.

The fighters began to circle each other, weapons raised.

The crowd’s attention finally shifted away from me, drawn to the spectacle of actual combat. I felt the pressure of their collective gaze lift slightly, giving me room to breathe even though I didn’t technically need to breathe anymore.

This was going to be a long day.

The clash of steel rang out as the fighters engaged. The bigger one had better form, cleaner strikes, but the nervous kid was faster. They danced across the arena floor, neither gaining a clear advantage. It was actually kind of interesting to watch, a genuine display of skill and strategy.

I almost forgot about my discomfort for a moment.

Then my hip joint locked up, sending a spike of phantom pain through my consciousness. I bit back a groan that wouldn’t come out anyway and resigned myself to hours more of this beautiful torture.

At least nobody was crying this time. That was progress.