CRADLE: RISE OF LORDS (Cradle Collected–Book Three)

Copyright © 2021 Hidden Gnome Publishing

All rights reserved.

Book and cover design by Patrick Foster Design

Rise of Lords cover painting by Ashley MacKenzie

* * *

This book collects volumes 7–9 of the CRADLE series, previously published as individual editions.

UNCROWNED

Copyright © 2019 by Hidden Gnome Publishing

All rights reserved.

WINTERSTEEL

Copyright © 2020 by Hidden Gnome Publishing

BLOODLINE

Copyright © 2021 by Hidden Gnome Publishing

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Look, we don’t know what to tell you. This is a collection of Cradle books seven through nine. They’re terrific books, but it’s an awkward place to start the story.

Contents

Uncrowned

Wintersteel

Bloodline

About the Author

Also by Will Wight

Uncrowned

Cradle: Volume Seven

Copyright © 2019 by Hidden Gnome Publishing

Book and Cover design by Patrick Foster Design

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

WillWight.com

To Travis Baldree, the voice of Cradle.

Prologue

“Something is wrong with your home,” Orthos rumbled.

“It’s not my home,” Kelsa said.

As the sun rose over Sacred Valley, Samara’s ring faded away to a dusty arc of white around the eastern mountain’s peak. A bag of fruit over her shoulder, Kelsa led Orthos to the base of a different mountain. She had found a hidden grove tucked away between hills, surrounded by wilderness and far from the nearest road.

It was there that she’d hidden her father.

“I don’t mean this…hatchling’s cave.” The sacred turtle snorted smoke. “I mean your whole valley. My power has leaked away day by day since I arrived, and now I am no higher than a Jade.”

They crested a hill, looking down onto thickly clustered trees and a creek trickling from a nearby spring. Tents, huts, and lean-tos surrounded many of the trees, and perhaps half a dozen people looked up as she approached. Other exiles.

Kelsa reached out to a nearby boulder, letting her madra activate a security script etched into the stone. It shone briefly purple, the color of her White Fox madra, disabling the boundary field that would send out alarms if the wrong sacred artist entered.

She gestured Orthos forward, but his words had caught her attention. “You were stronger before?” When she thought back to how he had destroyed that detachment of Fallen Leaf artists only hours earlier, she couldn’t hold back her excitement. “How much stronger?”

The turtle lifted his black, leathery head in pride, his eyes shining circles of crimson. “I was a Truegold before your grandparents were born.”

“Gold?” Kelsa exclaimed.

Orthos’ chuckle shook the ground as he lumbered forward. “You should see your brother.”

They descended the hill into camp together, but Kelsa still hadn’t contained her shock. She had known her brother was dead. She was certain of it. Or she had been yesterday.

Kelsa caught the sentry, a Kazan clan man she knew who stared at Orthos with eyes wide as fists. She explained that Orthos was an ally.

Though she didn’t explain why she was leaving the turtle with him. Just because he had fought the Fallen Leaf School didn’t mean she could trust her father’s safety to him.

When the sentry finally understood, she turned back to Orthos and lowered her voice. “Stay here. I have an errand to run, but I’ll have more questions about Lindon when I return.”

Orthos examined her with black-and-red eyes, smoke drifting from his shell, but eventually he nodded.

She left in the wrong direction, and when she had put enough trees and tents between her and the turtle, she looped back around to go see her father.

Wei Shi Jaran was right where she had left him, as expected. He crouched on a stool beneath a roof of oiled canvas stretched between two pale branches of an orus tree. Their belongings were organized into boxes around him—Kelsa liked to be neat, and her father tolerated that—and his cane leaned up against the tree trunk. A large boulder blocked the wind from one side.

He had a gameboard spread out on a makeshift table in front of him, running his fingers over the pieces so he could tell one from the other. Occasionally he reached up to scratch at the wrappings around his ruined eyes.

At first, every glimpse she caught of her twice-crippled father had filled her with pain and righteous rage. Now, after almost three years, the wrath had faded, leaving hollow sadness.

She let none of that into her voice as she spoke—loudly, in case he had missed her footsteps. “Sixteen orus fruits!” she declared. “One of them lit up the detector. I think it’s on the verge of becoming a spirit-fruit.”

Jaran moved one piece forward then reached out to the other side, feeling the opponent’s piece as he played both sides of the board. “Trouble?” His voice was rusty with disuse; he probably hadn’t spoken with anyone all day. He liked to share stories with some other old men in the camp, but they didn’t gather until evening.

“Fallen Leaf artists,” she admitted. She didn’t want him to worry, but her fight could jeopardize the safety of the entire camp. “I’ll spread the word tonight.”

He straightened, and now his voice sounded more like the father she’d grown up with. “Did you kill them?”

“Not me, Father. I found an ally.”

Something heavy slapped the ground behind her, and she whirled around.

Orthos stood behind her, examining Jaran with scarlet eyes. “I am your ally,” he said. “I will not harm you.”

“How did you find me?” she demanded.

“No one in this camp is even Jade. You might as well all be blind.” He examined Jaran. “At least he has an excuse.”

Jaran rocked back as though slapped, and the breath froze in Kelsa’s chest. The despair could catch her father like a flood, and if this was the stone that finally dragged him under…

Her father began to laugh. It was a weak chuckle, but that was the most she’d heard out of him in months. “This one is Wei Shi Jaran.” He gave a slight seated bow. “It sounds as though you saved my daughter’s life.”

“You are her father?” When Jaran nodded, Orthos hesitated, and Kelsa begged the heavens that he wouldn’t mention Lindon’s name. At least not before Kelsa got the truth out of him.

Finally, the turtle said, “I am Orthos.”

“You have quite the voice, Orthos. Forgiveness, but are you not human?”

Orthos straightened. “I am a majestic turtle and a descendant of the black dragons of the Blackflame Empire.”

Jaran bowed more deeply than before. “Gratitude, Orthos. I am ashamed that I can’t see you myself. I would love to hear the story of how you came to save Kelsa.”

“I will tell you,” the turtle said gravely. “But first I believe I should speak with your daughter alone. She has questions that I must answer.”

Jaran was visibly confused, but he nodded, and Orthos began to walk away without any further discussion. Kelsa dropped her bag of orus fruits near her father and hurried after the sacred beast, reaching out to grab his leathery skin and pull him forward.

He was hot. She snatched her fingers away and shook them out. It seemed the smoke rising from his shell wasn’t just for show.

“Lindon never mentioned that his father was blind,” Orthos muttered, too softly for his words to carry.

That stirred up too many emotions in Kelsa for her to sort through. She was impatient for him to tell her more about her brother, angry on her father’s behalf, and adrift in half a dozen other emotions she couldn’t name. But she decided to answer the implicit question.

“He wasn’t,” she said bitterly. “The Heaven’s Glory School came to the Wei clan looking for a girl. ‘The disciple of the Sword Sage,’ they called her, said she had killed a bunch of them. They said Lindon had taken her home.”

She relaxed her hands, which had tightened into fists. “Obviously it wasn’t true. You can blame whatever you want on an Unsouled.”

Orthos grunted as he walked, tilting his head to watch her out of the corner of one eye.

“The clan elders immediately gave us up to Heaven’s Glory,” she whispered. “They didn’t even hesitate. All three of us were taken for questioning, and I went along. I thought they would let us go once they knew we had nothing to do with it. I didn’t realize my parents had resisted. The School blinded my father as a punishment, but my mother is a Soulsmith. She was taken.”

She spoke through a tight throat. “When I got an opportunity, I ran with my father. They didn’t leave much of a watch on us, but they suddenly cared about us once we ran. They’ve been looking for us ever since…and I haven’t seen my mother in years.”

Kelsa had intended to trade that story for Orthos’ story about her brother, but she didn’t trust her voice anymore. While she took deep breaths, cycling her madra and getting control of herself, Orthos spoke.

“He isn’t Unsouled,” the turtle said.

Kelsa’s heart was still in turmoil, but somehow hearing that Lindon wasn’t Unsouled was stranger than hearing he might be alive.

She had already accepted his death. She and her father had dreamed of other possibilities, but they both knew it was true. As soon as the Heaven’s Glory School had decided he was an enemy, he was dead.

It relieved her to hear that he was alive, of course, but if that were true, then why hadn’t he come home? Did he really rebel against Heaven’s Glory and escape? Or did he give in to them to save himself?

“He made it to Copper?” she asked quietly. That would help explain how he had survived.

Orthos reached out and uprooted a small, dry bush with his mouth. He began to chew, speaking around a mouthful of splinters. “He was Iron when I met him.”

“Iron?” That was difficult to believe. “How did he make it so high?”

The turtle stopped chewing and gave her a strange look. “Outside of this…death-trap…Iron is nothing. If he had stopped at Iron, I would not be here.”

She wanted to hear the full story, but this was such an absurd claim that she had to hear the end of it. “You’re saying he’s Jade?”

“Jade…If Lindon returned today and saw what I’ve seen, he would leave every Jade in the Heaven’s Glory School as a pile of ashes.”

Kelsa’s hopes receded. She had somewhat believed him at first, but this was too ridiculous. To begin with, his claim contradicted itself. “You said that entering the Valley made your spirit weaker. If that’s true, he couldn’t be any stronger than a Jade.”

Red-and-black eyes met hers. “I said what I said.”

He was a confident liar, she had to give him that. But he had known her name. She settled onto the ground, leaning her back against a nearby tree. “All right, Orthos. I think you owe me a story.”

1

Outpost 01: Oversight

Makiel, the Hound, stood at the center of creation and watched the past. He had finally caught his prey.

He drifted in the arctic air, surrounded by the home he had carved in the north pole of the planet he'd created. Every atom and idea in this place was focused on enhancing his sight, like a great telescope at the heart of existence.

There were only a few criminals in all existence that could steal from him. He knew exactly who to look for. He just hadn't known where.

Until this morning, when Suriel reported a world missing.

That was the thread he followed backward in Fate. Back, to find where he'd failed.

He reached out, tapping into the Way Between Worlds, and opened a celestial lens. It formed into a rectangular screen of purple-tinted light only a few feet from him, but the image was fuzzy and indistinct. Her wards, veils, and shields, protecting her from detection. The same ones that had stopped him from seeing her in the future.

They had done their job. She had slipped by unnoticed.

But no one could defy the Hound once he caught their scent.

Her wards crumbled, and the image snapped into focus. He could watch the image play out with nothing more than his eyes, but he needed as much information as possible. His attention sunk into the lens, and he became the criminal.

[Target Found: the Angler of the Crystal Halls. Location: Iteration 002 Haven, approximately one standard year ago. Synchronize?]

[Synchronization set at 99%]

[Beginning synchronization...]

Iri was robbing the Abidan.

She stayed focused on her excitement to distract her from the fact that she was packed inside a box buried beneath one of the most secure Abidan facilities in their vault-world of Haven. The box was ten meters by ten—hardly a coffin—but it was so packed with shining amplification crystals, gold rune-boards, tubes of fluid, and matter condensers that she had almost no room to move.

Not that she needed much room. She had always been small and skinny, and ascending out of her original world hadn't changed that about her. It had turned her hair a bright, electric blue—not the most subtle color—and marked each of her eyes with a shining blue triangle inside her irises. It was the stamp of the Endless Pyramid, the artifact that had made her who she was.

The last thing she'd stolen as a mortal.

Iri's bare feet stuck out from the end of frayed pants. She braced one foot against the cold metal, hauling on a lever in the ceiling with her whole body weight. She could have drawn it down easily with her will, but she was trying not to draw attention. That meant acting physically as much as possible. Lines of runes and symbols flared all over the ceiling, and a hologram bloomed in the center of the room.

It was a map of the Way. It started as a single blue light in the middle, shining like the core of a galaxy. Rivers of sapphire light snaked out from it, forming branches, until it was a tangled nest of blue with little white spots hanging on it like berries. The Iterations.

She waved her hand through the light on the outer edge of the orb of branching lines. A cluster of lights shone...and two of the Iterations darkened from white to a swirling gray. Corruption in Sector Seventy-two, and both worlds were still there. The Reaper hadn't come for them.

Iri cackled to herself and swept the map away. As she'd suspected, Ozriel was gone. The Abidan were spread too thin.

Her operation was a go.

She reached out and grabbed Ziomachus, an obsidian wheel packed with the energy system of a long-dead world. It was with this artifact that she had earned her name and built her worlds-famous collection.

She held her hands apart and the black wheel hovered between them. Gold symbols shone on both sides as it responded to her will, filling the room with another shade of light.

Invisible, a strand of her authority slipped up through the soil. It slithered undetected past the detection-wards and patrolling energy constructs that protected against incursion from below.

The line of power slid easily through the foundation, composed of an ore intended to disperse such power. It oozed up, past the Abidan Hounds and Spiders and Ghosts, guided by the force of Iri's intentions.

The vault was a seamless cube of mirrored steel bigger than the box in which Iri waited. Suspended in the center of a sealed room, it floated in midair, guarded by such workings of the Way that even Iri and Ziomachus could never penetrate it.

If the Abidan fell and the guards plundered the rest of the Iteration and returned home, Iri could spend a millennium trying and find no purchase. It was the perfect defense.

So the Angler sat with her power extended like a fishing-line, dangling outside the impenetrable vault. Waiting.

She knew what was locked in the vault, and she knew that with Ozriel dead or missing, the Hound would send for its contents. He would never come himself—that would leave too much of a trail—but this vault would soon open. She only had to be patient.

For nine months, she waited.

Finally, a lesser Hound arrived at the facility. She sat up, the triangles in her eyes burning. Through hundreds of meters of rock, she could see the authority of Makiel on this messenger.

She summoned Ziomachus to her hands, sat down, and kept a tight rein on her excitement.

The messenger passed through layer after layer of security, taking most of the day. Before sunset, he was allowed into the room with the vault. He waved a hand, and his Presence provided the key.

The mirrored cube unfolded like a paper box spreading itself flat one facet at a time. As it unraveled itself, it drifted down until the polished metal sat on the floor, presenting its contents: a rack of weapons.

Each was black and sleek and curved—bladed tools from a simpler age. To the mortal eye, there was nothing special about them. They would be neither effective weapons nor farming tools, these dozen scythes.

The Angler flexed her will, and the obsidian wheel floating between her palms began to spin. Faster and faster it spun, filling her room with a shrill whine and casting off brighter golden light.

She struck with the fullness of her power, and every alarm in the world of Haven went off at once.

Doors snapped shut, sirens screamed, sentries snapped their heads in her direction, constructs took aim at the box buried beneath the ground that they had overlooked for months.

The assistant of Makiel reacted appropriately for a man of his standing and skill. He projected a shell of Way-power around the scythes, lunging for the nearest weapon with his hand and with his mind.

But the invisible line of Ziomachus had already touched them.

With the authority of the Angler and the ancient artifact combined, they rewrote one property of the weapons: their position in space.

The scythes were not, in fact, in a rack within a secure facility. They were inside a locker that Iri had prepared exactly for this purpose.

In no time at all, it was so. The locker, empty a moment ago, was filled with twelve black scythes.

Just before the Abidan security measures reduced her to a fond memory, Iri mentally slammed her emergency retreat.

Then she and her room vanished.

She drifted in the bright, endless blue of the Way, safe for the moment. Her Presence took over navigation of her vessel, scrambling her direction and taking her to random Iterations one at a time to disrupt the search. When the Spiders were thoroughly confused, she would slip out of their web and back to her fortress at the Crystal Halls. Where these scythes would be the crown jewels of her collection.

Except...they didn't work, did they?

The Scythe of Ozriel was unique, and these were only pale imitations. It would take the greatest craftsman in all the worlds to cobble them together into something resembling the original. Something worthy of display in her Halls.

Iri cracked her knuckles and got to work.

[Synchronization interrupted. Target lost. Continue search?]

[Searching...]

Makiel's Presence guided his own power without need for his conscious intervention. He let it work, hunting down the Angler.

Meanwhile, he closed his eyes. He had never augmented his body the same way the others had—ascension had preserved his physical form, made it so that he never had to worry about the burdens of mortality, but he had never altered the human body that had brought him that far. He had seen no need to.

His skin was dark and wrinkled, his hands calloused, his hair winged with silver. He had often been told that he looked like an old soldier, but he was as timeless as any of the other Judges.

Moments like this made him feel old. Weight settled into his bones, his joints, and his eyes cried out for sleep he no longer needed. It was not a true physical sensation, he knew. Merely a feeling. But it weighed him down nonetheless.

Those scythes were no creations of Ozriel. They were his. Reproductions of the real thing. The true Scythe of the Reaper could erase a world with no waste or corrupted residue, but such power should never rest in the hands of one man. Makiel had done his own research into duplicating the weapon, and he had stored his twelve most promising failures in Haven, where no one could find them or steal them.

No one but the Angler.

He had even looked into fate to see if she could break in, but it had been such a remote possibility that he had discounted it. As soon as the theft was reported, he had begun hunting her down. But this was not the only pressing concern that required his attention, and his experimental scythes were not the greatest threat in the cosmos.

At least, they hadn't been. Until the Phoenix had found a dead world.

Now, they were all on borrowed time.

* * *

Lindon sat on a chair in the center of a dungeon. Contraptions that looked like torture devices lined the walls: a copper lobster claw that crackled with lightning, a black coffin standing upright, a spool of wire with blood-spirits coiling around it, and a host of others. It was hard to see the walls through all the tools that covered the stone.

Though both Akura Charity and Mercy had assured him that he would be safe here, he still worried. If he tried to fight his way free of the Akura clan headquarters, he wouldn't make it ten steps down the hall.

He had seen their guards on the way in.

The lone door opened, and an old man entered. He was bald, with a long, wispy beard and immaculate black-and-white sacred artist's robes. He had the same Goldsign that Mercy did, with hands dipped in tar-like madra up to the elbows. In those gloved hands he carried a book-sized slate.

Lindon rose and pressed his fists together in respect, but the old man did not acknowledge him.

“I am Akura Justice. I am told that the Sage of the Silver Heart has selected you to represent our family in the Uncrowned King tournament.”

Purple eyes looked up from the slate, and Justice released his veil. Suddenly, the pressure of an Archlord's spirit filled the room. Though there was no attack, Lindon felt his eyes water and his breath constrict.

“This is subject to my approval,” Justice said, his voice hard. “I am the First Gatekeeper of the Akura clan, and it is my job to inspect any goods from the outside that are to be in the presence of the head family. I would never contradict the orders of the Sage, but should I find that you are not up to the clan's standards, I will recommend that you be replaced in the tournament and imprisoned for wasting the family's time.”

He slapped the tablet against one black-gloved palm, and the smack echoed throughout the room. “Am I understood?”

If Lindon had felt any hostility in the man's spirit, he would have flinched at the sound of the slap. He felt only ice-cold resolve.

Lindon was certain that Justice meant every word he said. “I understand perfectly, honored Archlord. I thank the Akura clan for their hospitality and the Sage for her high estimation of me, but I too believe that I am unworthy. If I were permitted to return home—”

He cut off as the Archlord's spirit tightened, and this time Lindon sensed anger.

“Your voice should be used only to answer questions. If the Sage and I say you are a prince among men, it is so. If we say you are a worm groveling in the dirt, it is so.”

Fear and frustration warred in Lindon's chest. He was afraid of stepping on the Archlord's temper again and frustrated by his forced induction onto the Akura tournament team. All he wanted was to leave.

But what would he do if he returned? Mercy lived here, and Yerin and Eithan were competing in the Uncrowned King tournament. If he left, he would not. The Blackflame Empire competitors had already been chosen.

“Sit,” Justice commanded, withdrawing his spirit back into a veil.

Lindon obeyed. This inspection would determine his fate, one way or another. He couldn’t hold back in the tests—an Archlord would know—but still, he hoped to fail. At least then he could return home and rejoin Yerin.

Unless Akura Justice made good on his threat and tossed Lindon in prison.

The Archlord reached out, and a long spike with jagged glass on the top floated over to him. “Hold out your left hand,” Justice said, and Lindon reluctantly did so.

He only had one real hand left.

“This device measures your lifeline.” The spike was over a foot long, but Justice pushed the sharp end into Lindon's wrist only enough to break the skin. It was only a minor sting, easily ignored. The top end of the jagged glass began to glow green.

“If you are not really under thirty-five, you should tell me now,” he said sternly. The green brightened. “The color of the light indicates your age, and it cannot be fooled. If it turns yellow, you will fail, and be charged with wasting family time.”

The green color stayed bright. In fact, it grew stronger.

“It seems you are eligible.” Justice gave no sign of any reaction. But he also did not withdraw the spike. “Now, the brightness of the light will illustrate how strong the lifeline itself is, and thus how resilient your life-force. I couldn't tell you how many young sacred artists have ruined their lifelines with elixirs or ill-advised bargains, sacrificing their future for short-term...gain...”

The light had only grown brighter and brighter.

Now it was blinding.

Justice finally jerked the spike out of Lindon's skin, and the light died away. One side of the Archlord's face twitched. He threw the glass-capped spike carelessly aside, but an invisible force caught it, and it drifted back over to its place on the wall. A deft manipulation of aura using soulfire, or so Lindon assumed. His spiritual perception was restricted, and even if it were not, using it in front of Justice might seem rude.

“Lifeline is...uh, adequate.” Justice scribbled something down on his tablet. “But your spirit is the most important.” The copper lobster claw floated over to him. “Your hand once again.”

This time, Lindon was even more reluctant to hand over his arm. Justice slid the metal around his flesh, and sparks tingled on Lindon's skin, but fortunately the claw did not snap shut.

“Two cores? Hmph.” Characters of blue light floated over the instrument, and Justice read them with a displeased look. “You aren't the first to try it, but they're always shallower than one alone. This tool will measure the capacity of your cores, and we'll see if your spirit is—Heavens above!”

He looked at the device. Swept his spiritual perception through it. Checked it again.

“Did I pass?” Lindon had confidence in the depth of his cores, thanks to the Heaven and Earth Purification Wheel, but he was nervous that the Archlord's outburst meant he had discovered Lindon's Jade cycling technique. Eithan had warned him to keep it a secret.

“...you pass.” Justice made another note on his tablet. “So far.” He didn't reprimand Lindon for speaking.

The next six tests passed in silence. Justice had tools for gauging madra density, recovery rate, and stability, which all registered within acceptable limits.

Lindon had to step into the upright coffin, which crushed him with pressure from every angle, testing his physical strength. His blood was taken and examined for blood essence. A thorn-covered cap that pricked his scalp assessed his spiritual perception.

In those three tests, he scored above average. Justice praised him grudgingly, but nothing caused him to react like he had in the first two. He seemed to have recovered his equilibrium.

“Your basic capability has reached the standards of the tournament, which is no surprise, given that you attracted the Sage's eye.” He had seemed surprised enough a few minutes before, but Lindon said nothing. “However, potential alone is not enough. You must be able to draw out your abilities to their fullest extent. What good is an army of strong soldiers without a skilled general to lead it?”

He summoned a bucket-like tool from the wall nearby. Rings of script on the outside began to glow purple, and only when he reached up did Lindon recognize it as a helmet.

“Now we come to the mental tests,” the Archlord continued. “Reaction speed, memory, force of will, and resistance to incursion. These tests have disqualified many would-be geniuses, so I hope you are prepared.”

Within Lindon's mind and spirit, a voice spoke up.

[Oh, those sound like games!] Dross said. [I love games!]

* * *

That night, Akura Charity entered Justice's office to find him slumped over his desk, drinking.

When he did not rise to greet her and show proper respect to a Sage, she knew he was truly disturbed.

“Have you laid your concerns to rest?” she asked.

The old man stared deep into the wall, bottle dangling from one hand. “He's a monster.”

“I take it you approve.”

“Until today, I wondered why you did not recruit Eithan Arelius. When I met him, I suspected him of surprising depth. I understand now, but…”

Justice took a long drink from his bottle. The spirits spilling from his lips burned his beard. Smoke actually rose from the white hair. “Fate can be so...fickle. How many children like him have we ever seen, even in our clan? If I had such talent at his age...”

He didn't finish the sentence, but his expression grew melancholy.

Charity needed to cut off this line of thinking. Justice, a distant cousin of hers, had reached Archlord before she was born and been stuck there ever since.

“The heavens care nothing for our plans,” she said. “When they grant their gifts, we can only try to use them to our advantage. What did you think of his results?”

“He has cores like deep lakes and a lifeline like a thousand-year ancestral tree. Were those his only gifts, I would call him merely talented. Certainly nothing to rival young Mercy. But his mental tests...perfect scores in all categories. I've never seen anything like it. If he has the skill to bring out his full potential—”

“He doesn't. But he will.”

* * *

Yerin steeled her nerves as she faced her opponent. Her fingers did not shake, but she trembled on the inside. She was an Underlady now, but instinct told her this was a fight she still couldn't win.

Eithan, her opponent, stood on the opposite side of the Skysworn practice arena, running a comb through his long yellow hair.

The practice arena was a broad oval a hundred yards long and about fifty wide in the middle. Banded plates of scripted metal covered the walls, scratched and pitted from years of collateral damage. An enormous cloud with a flame at its heart adorned the floor—the Skysworn emblem.

Railings around the outside held Skysworn both in and out of armor. Many had gathered to watch a match between Underlords, especially two who were infamous.

Neither Yerin nor Eithan wore their green armor. She had found a black sacred artist's robe like the ones her master had worn, and Eithan wore an intricate many-layered ensemble of red with patterns of gold stars.

Eithan pocketed the comb and faced her with his perpetual smile, blue eyes sparkling. “To surrender, rather than first blood, I imagine?”

Yerin steadied her breathing, slowly drawing her master's sword. The pale blade caught the harsh light of the scripts overhead. “I'm aiming to push myself to the edge and over. Leaning on you to do the same.”

“Of course! It is the duty of the master to train his disciples directly.”

Six gleaming sword-arms stretched out behind Yerin, and she released the control on her spirit. The edges of her robe, and her hair—longer than she was used to—fluttered in the wake of her released power. Some of the Skysworn Golds took a step or two back from the railing.

“I'd contend you should take this seriously.” Silver sword-aura crackled around Yerin’s limbs. “Because I will.” She calmed her heart, focusing on Eithan. Something deep in her spirit still told her this was a hopeless fight...but that was all the more reason to take it.

In a flash, she kicked off.

Using the soulfire she'd gathered, she pushed behind her, a simple shove against the wind aura that propelled her forward. At the same time, she fed madra into her Steelborn Iron body. It filled her with unstoppable strength.

Her movements would be a blur even to Underlord eyes, her sword an arc of blinding white as she swung for Eithan's throat.

Casually, he leaned backward. The cold blade passed over his nose.

She had already expected that. The three sword-arms on her right side shone brightly with her Enforcer technique: the Flowing Sword. They gathered madra and aura within them, becoming sharper and more powerful as long as she held the technique.

While she was still turning into the heavy swing of her sword, her Goldsigns swept at him like claws.

He slid to the ground, pushing against the floor with his right palm, which launched him past her blades. Only by an inch. The sword-arms caught edges of his hair.

But she didn't stop her turn. She leaned into it, spinning around, filling the other three sword-arms with the Flowing Sword as well. They extended as she spun, sweeping at him backhand.

She had always known that the first, heaviest attack wouldn't touch him. She had prepared three, each following the other with virtually no lag between them.

Yerin didn't see how he evaded the third attack, only that he did. Her spiritual perception was locked on him, and he ended up on his back foot.

She leaped into the air, flipping around to see him beneath her. Her feet met the ceiling and she kicked off, shooting downward, her Goldsigns still filled with the Flowing Sword. Her master's sword rang like a bell.

The sword-aura detonated into the Endless Sword, a storm of invisible blades exploding away from her. She had even poured soulfire into the technique, magnifying it far beyond what she could manage on her own, so the storm shook the entire arena. Scripts lit up all around the walls, protecting the bystanders from the wild, deadly aura.

She slammed into the ground blade-first, her Goldsigns spearing into the stone floor. The chamber rumbled with the impact, air screaming as her Ruler technique sliced through it.

She ended up on one knee, sword and six arms driven into the stone. She pulled them out, releasing the Flowing Sword. Silver light drifted into the air, flashing and crackling over the edges of her seven blades.

Eithan stood nearby, unharmed. He whistled.

“If I didn't know better, I’d think you had some unresolved aggression against me. Would you like to talk?”

Yerin ground her teeth. This wasn't enough.

The Akura clan would be preparing Lindon and Mercy for the Uncrowned King tournament in nine months. If she wanted to keep up with them, she had to break through her limits.

She dug into her spirit and touched her Blood Shadow.

Instantly, the parasite bloomed beside her, a copy of her in shades of red. It had grown in detail ever since she had started practicing the Sage of Red Faith's techniques for raising it; it looked just like her, if her eyes and hair and robes were all red, and her skin had a pink tinge to it.

It had been torn apart by the Seishen Underlady Meira only a week before, but Yerin had reluctantly given it the food it needed to recover. Her advancement to Underlord had affected it too, so now the Shadow was not only whole, but stronger than ever.

She still hated using it. Even touching its spirit with hers disgusted her.

But only a fool tossed aside a weapon.

The Blood Shadow often failed to follow her orders, but this time, it focused totally on Eithan. Its expression was serious, its perception locked on Eithan's. Six gleaming crimson sword-arms emerged from its back, and liquid red madra oozed from its palm and formed into a copy of the Sword Sage's weapon.

Eithan opened his mouth to say something, but neither Yerin nor her clone were in the mood to listen.

The arena echoed with cracks of thunder once again as Yerin and her Blood Shadow unleashed everything they had.

The Shadow came in, low and savage, and Yerin jumped over it. Eithan had to go high to avoid the parasite, and he found Yerin already airborne, plunging her blade at his chest.

Now that they were both Underlords, Yerin's Steelborn Iron body gave her the overwhelming advantage in strength. Even if Eithan used a weapon to block, the impact from her strike would launch him into the stone wall.

Without hesitation, or even losing his grin, Eithan smashed his fist into the flat of her sword.

Not only did it deflect her sword off-course, but he had shoved against the weapon, pushing him to the side. Adjusting his trajectory in midair.

Before he could land, her Shadow slashed upward with all of its blades and a host of Striker techniques. The razor-sharp crescents of blood madra caught him in a wave.

For an instant, Yerin thought she'd gotten him.

She wasn't worried about his safety. She couldn't be. If she held back against him, she'd never be able to push him to his breaking point. And she had to, if she wanted to ever catch up to him. Her master would have beaten him, even as an Underlord. She was sure of it.

Eithan shoved one palm forward, and pure madra blasted out of his hand in a wave. It was almost colorless, with the bare tinge of blue-white to it, and it wiped the Striker techniques from existence before engulfing the Blood Shadow itself.

The spirit gave a silent scream as it resisted, its form wavering and melting like wax before a campfire.

Eithan released his technique as he fell, landing easily next to the Shadow, which lay in a quivering half-melted lump.

Yerin had already released a Rippling Sword at him, a wave of deadly sword madra.

He wiped it away with a casual backhand, then began to clap. “Well done! I was trying not to use any techniques, but you backed me into a corner. I have a few pointers for you, as well as perhaps a few insights into your training going forward—”

He cut off as Yerin marched forward and seized him by the collar. Her anger burned hot.

“Serious, Eithan! Be serious!” She shook him as her Blood Shadow re-formed behind her. The spirit's anger boiled against hers, feeding her fury. “I don't have a Dross! I don't have a Sage left to light my way! All I’ve got left to help me is you, so I need you to stop holding back!”

Eithan's smile was calm. “As you wish.”

Yerin released him, taking a step back and steadying her breaths. “That’s more than nothing, then.” Her Blood Shadow felt like it wanted to tear Eithan apart with its teeth. Focusing her spirit, Yerin raised her master's sword.

Before she could make a move, every protective script in the arena lit up at once.

To her spiritual senses, the atmosphere grew painfully heavy, as if the air had suddenly turned to water. Her spirit screamed a warning, and she threw the Endless Sword up like a barrier, surrounding herself in sword-aura.

Her Blood Shadow exploded. Blood madra splattered all over the walls in a spray as though it had been struck by the hand of a Monarch.

Yerin had seen nothing. She had felt only a brief spike of pure madra.

Where was Eithan?

She cast her perception out for him, but she sensed nothing. She spun in place, hunting for him.

He was right behind her.

His smile was gone, his eyes twin needles of ice. His hostility was so thick she could taste it. A fist squeezed her spirit, and it was all she could do to keep her madra circulating. She gathered a Rippling Sword at the edge of her blade, whipping a quick Striker technique at him.

Eithan did nothing to stop it. The madra cracked against invisible armor that coated every inch of his skin.

He pointed his finger up, and only then did Yerin realize there was something above her.

She leaped back, but the seething cluster of blue-white stars against the ceiling followed her. She raised her sword, filling it with madra.

A cascade of blue-white light speared down, powerful enough to drive right through her spirit.

It lanced into the ground in front of her. When the light faded, the floor was completely unharmed.

Her muscles shuddered in relief, and she lowered her pale sword. Her Goldsigns sagged, and she stared in disbelief at the spot where his technique had landed.

Eithan slid over to her, grin returned, his overbearing malice withdrawn. The protective scripts around the arena faded. The bystanders had gone silent.

Yerin stared at the untouched floor. “What are you?” she asked quietly.

“An Underlord,” he answered. “People always think that the way to improve your power is to push for advancement, but that's not always true. A child and a veteran swordsman, given the same weapon, are vastly different opponents. With enough skill, there's no reason you couldn't do what I just did. In your own way, of course.”

Yerin looked over at the puddle of blood madra pulling itself together. “Teach me.”

2

A week had passed since the Sage’s transportation had brought Lindon to the city of Moongrave.

From the outside, the Akura capital had looked less like a city and more like a fortress for evil giants. Remnants out of a nightmare guarded its black and spiked walls. Their physical manifestations were so detailed and solid that he almost mistook them for twisted sacred beasts. He hadn’t been able to see the end of the city’s walls, which stretched all the way into the horizon.

Dark towers rose from behind the walls, and the cloudy sky crackled with purple lightning. The spiritual weight reminded him of the Night Wheel Valley, as though if he opened his perception too wide he would be blinded.

From the inside, Moongrave gave off a different impression. It seemed as though everything inside had been designed by an artist, like a dark paradise. Carefully cultivated rows of glowing blue, white, and pink flowers flanked gardens of black trees that sheltered flickering, shadowy shapes. Remnants and sacred birds flew through the sky, often carrying passengers or pulling floating carriages.

Lindon had spent most of his time here isolated, but the crowds he glimpsed always walked at a relaxed pace, gentle and civilized, as though they had all the time in the world.

When he looked out over the city, it stretched before him like an ocean. He could scarcely imagine an end to it.

Now, Lindon followed Mercy through a pair of iridescent doors that swung open before them, revealing a broad hall that seemed to be woven from liquid black branches and glowing stained glass in shades of blue, purple, and violet. A long walkway stretched out to the back of the room, with rows of benches on either side.

The benches held a crowd of three dozen young, purple-eyed Underlords.

Mercy strode between them, waving excitedly to some she recognized. These shuddered back or looked away, pretending not to see her. Only a few waved back halfheartedly, though they looked pained as they did so.

Rather than focusing on Mercy, they all seemed to prefer watching Lindon. Like a pack of proud wolves watching a scrawny dog that had dared to wander among them.

[They don’t look happy to see you. Maybe if you smiled a little more.]

Charity appeared at the end of the walkway, on a raised dais beneath a stained-glass depiction of a giant female figure covered in purple armor.

The Sage of the Silver Heart looked over her relatives with no expression. She looked no older than they, no older than Lindon, but she had the poise of a judge.

She was a slight woman, but one in complete possession of herself, as though every movement of her body were deliberate. She wore the same fine, layered black-and-white robes as the rest of her family, but her outfit had been designed to suit her. The others seemed only imitators.

The Akura Underlords all rose to their feet, dipping their heads to Charity. “Greetings to the Sage,” they shouted in unison, and the force of their voices shook the room.

Lindon stopped walking when the Sage appeared in front of him, but Mercy grabbed him by the wrist and pulled him forward to stand next to her.

A number of eyes focused on that black-gloved hand on his arm, and already-cold gazes grew frigid. Delicately, he slid his hand back.

“Young Lords and Ladies, you have fought hard to serve the clan in the Uncrowned King tournament,” the Sage said. Her voice was placid and cool. “To have made it this far, you are the best of your generation. However, only one of you will earn the ultimate honor, and that one will fight as part of a team with these two. I thought it fair that I introduce them.”

Soft violet light rose around Mercy, outlining her for the room. “You all know Mercy. The daughter of the Monarch, she bears Eclipse, Ancient Bow of the Soulseeker, and the Book of Eternal Night. To fight alongside her, you must prove yourself her equal.”

Lindon expected the crowd of ambitious young Underlords to look eager for the opportunity, but it was the exact opposite. They seemed to lose all their spine when their eyes fell on Mercy, shifting in place, staring into the ceiling, clearing their throats, or fidgeting uncomfortably.

Lindon glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. Was she so amazing, or were these Akura Underlords not as impressive as he'd imagined?

For her part, Mercy didn't seem to care what the crowd thought of her. She was craning her neck, looking over the heads of the first few rows, as though searching for a particular face among them.

Light began to rise around Lindon, who straightened himself to try to project dignity, but Mercy interrupted before the Sage could speak. “Pride? Where are you?”

The spotlight highlighting Mercy dimmed back into shadows. “Akura Pride,” Charity commanded, “step forward.”

From the back of the room, behind a taller Underlord, a man moved into the walkway.

He looked to be about Lindon's age, but almost two feet shorter. He had the same black hair, pale skin, and purple eyes of his family, but swirling tattoos flowed down from his ears and chin, down the sides of his neck, disappearing into his clothes. They looked like trails of ink, but they seethed as though alive, so Lindon assumed they were his Goldsign.

He stood straight, straining for every inch of height, and he glared at Lindon as he emerged.

Mercy brightened at the sight of him. “Pride!” She scurried forward, stopping as the short Underlord held out a firm hand.

“Control yourself,” he said angrily. “This is not the place.”

Mercy's shoulders slumped, and she shuffled back to Lindon.

“Who is that?” Lindon whispered.

“My little brother.” She let out a long, heavy breath.

It was always awkward to step into another family's affair, and this time Lindon was all the more aware that he was the only outsider in the room. Some of the faces he saw had eye colors other than purple, but they still had the look of the Akura clan.

A feeling in his spirit drew his attention back to Pride.

The short Underlord stared at Lindon with murderous hatred. Lindon could sense it like a stench on the air.

Dross gave a whistle. [He doesn't like you, does he? Do you think he knows you left his cousin to die?]

Lindon hurriedly averted his eyes as violet light rose up from beneath his feet.

“The stranger is Wei Shi Lindon Arelius,” Charity announced. “He rose up from nothing in the Blackflame territory, developing a pure madra Path with the guidance of an Arelius clan Underlord, and inheriting a fire and destruction Path from the former Imperial family. He now practices them both. He distinguished himself during the local selections, and he owes our clan a debt. I have called him here in order to repay that debt with service.”

There were the hungry looks Lindon had expected earlier. Every Lord and Lady in the room eyed Lindon like they couldn't wait for Charity to leave so that they could tear him to pieces. His spirit shivered more than once as they scanned him.

Pride had never looked away from Lindon. “You have chosen him over us, Aunt Charity? ...and Mercy?” His voice smoldered with barely-contained anger.

Mercy seemed surprised that he had included her.

“I have,” the Sage said smoothly. “I believe he can bring glory to the Akura clan, and if two-thirds of our team consists of family members, that will be enough.”

“Then Mother’s nomination goes to Mercy, and yours to the outsider. Only Uncle Fury's nomination remains for us. What if there are two of us more qualified than this Blackflame?”

Charity leaned forward as though about to take a step. The first row of Underlords shifted back.

“Have you advanced to Archlord while I went north, Pride?” she asked.

Pride shivered. “I apologize, Aunt Charity,” he said, the boldness in his voice fading. “My concern is for the honor of our family. I will treat him as an adopted member of the clan.”

Lindon didn't know exactly what that meant, but several of the wolf-eyed Lords suppressed sudden smiles. He felt like he had been threatened.

“An adopted clan member and a protected guest,” Charity added. “That will be acceptable.”

Mercy gave him a consoling pat on the shoulder, and Pride bared his teeth as though he almost couldn't keep from throwing himself at Lindon.

The Sage let a whisper of her spirit move over the room, which quieted all speech. “I trust none of you will waste too much of Lindon's time. Or Mercy's. Over the next nine months, we will be training them even harder than we train the rest of you. At the end of that time, my father will hold a competition to select the final competitor of the Uncrowned King tournament. I suggest that you all try your hardest to distinguish yourselves.”

With that, Charity turned to Lindon and Mercy, speaking in a lower voice. “I will now leave you to get to know your peers. I believe it could benefit everyone. Mercy, can you handle it?”

Mercy, still looking at her brother, nodded.

“Good. Father will be along to train you any moment. I hope. In the meantime, please keep Lindon safe.”

“What?” Lindon said. “I mean, ah, forgiveness, but...couldn't I come with you?”

“Think of this as an opportunity for training,” Charity said. Then, a breath later, she faded into the shadows.

Leaving Lindon standing on the dais next to Mercy.

Half of the Akura Underlords surged forward at once, but Mercy stepped in front of Lindon. “I'm back, everyone!” she called. “I've missed you! Hey, I’ve got an idea: why don't we have a little competition to celebrate my return?”

The crowd wilted back.

“Are they afraid of you?” Lindon whispered to her.

“In a way they're afraid,” Mercy said, but she didn't keep her voice down at all. “We compete for standing and favor a lot, and I’ve beaten…yeah, I think everyone here at least once.” Some faces flushed, or fists tightened in embarrassment, but no one said anything to dispute her.

“I hoped they would be glad to have me back,” Mercy said sadly, her gaze drifting back to her brother.

Pride pushed his way through the others. He looked from his sister to Lindon, standing right behind her, and his face twisted with the hate that Lindon had sensed earlier. Was he so offended that Charity had chosen Lindon?

“We've all seen what Mercy can do. Now that she's an Underlady, I'm sure she's even more...impressive.”

Mercy walked toward him. “Come on, Pride, let’s go home first. I missed you.”

He held up his hand again, just as he had before, but he didn't look at her. He was fixed on Lindon.

“None of us have seen what you can do, Arelius,” he said. “How about you show us?”

[I can think of many ways this could go wrong,] Dross said. [So many ways. In fact, I'm having trouble imagining a way in which this goes right.]

Lindon was in perfect agreement. “I apologize, brother Pride, but I must save my strength for training.”

Pride's spirit exploded out of its restraint. Benches pushed back, the shadows darkened, and black tattoos crawled on his skin.

“Brother?” the Akura Underlord choked out, his skin red with rage.

[Is that an insult here?] Dross asked, but Lindon was just as baffled.

Pride disappeared in a puff of shadow.

He reappeared in front of Lindon in the same instant. Black lines coiled over his skin, spiraling up each of his fingers and his arms, even across his face. He struck with thunderous force, punching at Lindon's chest.

Thanks to Dross' enhancement of Lindon's mind, he reacted in time. The Soul Cloak sprung up around him, a blue-white haze of energy, and pure madra carried power through Lindon’s body. The back of Lindon's fist knocked Pride's away, but rather than following up with another attack, Lindon hesitated.

This was his chance.

Pride’s left hand took Lindon in the chest, and a burst of black madra exploded from it. An ice-cold detonation launched Lindon backward, into the purple stained glass.

His back smacked into it, but the glass didn't crack even a hair. Instead, Lindon slammed against it as though into stone.

But the pain in his body was nothing to the pain in his soul.

Whatever technique that punch had contained, it had struck at the madra channels in his chest, searing his spirit. The shock blanked Lindon's mind for an instant.

He came back to himself as he lay crumpled at the bottom of the wall, but Pride had not given up. Mercy had barred his path with her staff of slick, twisted black madra, and was trying to talk to her brother.

Lindon extended his perception to try and get a sense of Pride, but it was hard to read him. It was as though Lindon’s spiritual senses slid away.

[A property of shadow madra, I'm sure,] Dross said.

That would make it harder to react to anything Pride did, and more difficult to read his techniques. Pay close attention, Lindon said to Dross.

He could drop it here. Let Mercy take care of her brother.

But this was his opportunity to leave. If he could show Charity that he wasn’t the right choice for the competition, she would send him home. Mercy would make sure nothing terrible happened to him.

If he played this correctly, he might be able to learn something too.

He would have to make the fight convincing, so he pulled Blackflame madra from his core. With the Path of Black Flame filling him, holding back became twice as hard. He didn’t want to take a loss. He wanted to teach Pride a lesson.

The Burning Cloak sprung up around Lindon, a flame of black and red surrounding his body, and the dragon advanced.

Lindon rushed forward, slamming his white Remnant fist over Mercy's staff and into Pride. The short Underlord caught the blow on his forearm, but the force still launched him down the entire hall and out the open doors.

He landed on his feet, but Lindon had followed him with another punch.

Shadow burst like smoke where Pride had stood, and he disappeared again, Lindon's fist passing through immaterial darkness. He turned, expecting Pride behind him, but something slammed into his ankles. Pride had gone low, sweeping Lindon's legs out from under him, and Lindon pitched onto his back.

As he hit the ground, the air rushing from his lungs, Lindon hurled a dragon's breath upward. Pride would have followed up with a new attack, ready to hit him while he was down.

Sure enough, Pride had followed him, and a beam of black-and-red madra caught him full in the chest.

Lindon cut off the technique immediately, for fear of drilling a hole in Mercy's brother, but Pride was unharmed. Gray haze covered his skin, and the Blackflame madra had simply washed over him.

He drove his fist down onto Lindon, and an orb of shadow madra exploded from the hit, this time into Lindon's stomach.

Lindon's spirit screamed in pain, and so did he.

His consciousness blurred away for longer than it had before. This time, when he came to, he found Pride glaring contemptuously at him from fifteen feet away.

Mercy stood over him, veil lifted, her staff in the form of a bow.

“...test yourself against me,” Mercy was saying, with more anger in her voice than Lindon had ever heard. “If you're too much of a coward for that, then go cry to Mother.”

Pride looked to the side, past his sister. “Uncle Fury, do you want this representing the Akura family?”

A man walked into Lindon's view, laughing sheepishly, as though he felt guilty about something and was trying to laugh it off. He wore a loose black sacred artist's robe, but only one layer, with a bare chest revealed beneath. He looked to be perhaps thirty-five or forty, with hair made of living shadow. It rose and drifted and shifted like sea-grass in the currents. Unlike the others present, his eyes were bright red.

“Hmmm, I don't know.” Fury’s voice was bright, reminding Lindon more of Mercy than of anyone else he'd met in the family. “He looked pretty weak, but you did attack him before he was ready.”

“Talk to Aunt Charity,” Pride insisted. “He doesn't deserve her nomination.”

Lindon’s hope rose as his Blackflame madra faded away. Akura Fury evidently had the power to decide the competitors for the Uncrowned King team. He could send Lindon home.

“Eeehhhh...I taught Charity myself, when she was a girl. She's always had good eyes.”

Lindon pushed himself to his feet. The ache in his body was dull, but the pain in his spirit was sharp.

With effort, he pushed his fists together to salute the man he suspected was a Herald.

“Forgiveness, but I was not raised with the training of the Akura clan. I do not see how I could be worthy to compete beside Mercy or Pride.”

Pride’s head jerked back as though Lindon had struck him, but Mercy sighed. She knew what he was doing.

Akura Fury turned red eyes to him and gave him a pitying look, hands in his pockets. “I don't see much in him either, but Charity knows him better than I do. But hey, there’s still a slot left! I'll have my selection fights in a few months, and then you can show me what you've got.”

Pride gestured angrily to Lindon. “Haven't I already?”

“I’m afraid I’m not his opponent,” Lindon said, as though it were a painful admission.

[Orthos would have ruined your ruse by now,] Dross said. [‘Grr, a dragon doesn’t pretend to be weak. Throw fire at him!’ It’s a good thing I’m here to help.]

Fury let out another embarrassed laugh, but spread his hands. “Sorry, boys! It's not up to me.”

Pride glared again, mostly at Lindon, but sparing some for Mercy as well. Finally, he bowed to Fury and stomped away.

Lindon searched his mind for a new line of attack. The rest of the young Lords and Ladies were still watching, and if he presented himself as too weak, they might really try to kill him.

Fury scratched the back of his head. “He's pretty mad. Even more than usual.”

Mercy's bow shifted back to a staff, and she leaned on it. “It's my fault. I'll go talk to him.”

“Nah. It's training time!”

Mercy ran to hide behind Lindon, which put him in the awkward position of standing between a Herald and his niece. “Sorry, Uncle Fury, but I have to get Lindon settled in. And I really should speak with Pride. Just give me a few minutes, and then I'll be ready.”

“Or better yet,” Lindon said hastily, “you could send me home! Wouldn’t that solve everything?”

Red eyes moved to the rest of the crowd, and Fury jabbed a finger at Lindon. “Someone take care of him, okay?” Then he grabbed Mercy around the waist, picking her up with one arm. “Now, training!”

Mercy protested, but Fury had already leaped.

Through the clouds.

Lindon and the others stared up to where they had vanished, but they never came down.

Leaving Lindon weak and lost, surrounded by hostile strangers.

His hopes of leaving came crashing down around him, but he might have won another small consolation. Did you get it? he asked silently.

[That’s a lot of pressure when you put it that way, you know that? If Pride’s Path is the same as Mercy’s, he should only have four techniques available, and he used four. So I have a reasonable model, but not what I’d call a perfect one.]

Lindon looked through the hole in the crowd where Pride had left. That’s good enough to start.

* * *

One of the young Underladies finally agreed to lead Lindon to a guest room where he could recover from his wounds. She said nothing as they leaped over black ponds filled with glowing white fish, trees that scraped at the sky, trying to grab them, and statues with amethysts for eyes. They jumped from one tall, black building to another, and she showed no consideration for his wounds.

Lindon had fought for his life while in worse condition than this, though even the Soul Cloak felt painful running through his strained madra channels. As a Truegold, he would have had to exhaust himself to keep up with her and may have injured his madra channels doing so. But his Underlord body picked up the slack, and he followed her to their destination.

She looked him up and down as they landed as though surprised that he was still on his feet, but she said nothing. In fact, his Bloodforged Iron body had already begun repairing his physical injuries, straining his spirit even further while doing so.

They stood before a three-story home with black tiles on the roof and a smooth gray wall surrounding the property. Trees and bushes poked over the top of the wall, so he assumed a garden surrounded the house. Upon close inspection, Lindon took it for an inn. The Akura clan would have plenty of traffic from the outside; he only had to hope that they would pay for his stay.

A servant in black-and-white layered robes and a cap stood next to the plated iron gates, bowing when she saw the Akura Underlady.

“He's a guest,” the Underlady said, speaking for the first time. “Get him registered.”

“I will see to it at once, Underlady,” the servant said into the ground.

Without another word, the young Akura woman took off again, leaping away.

The servant bowed to him. “Greetings, Underlord. Please allow me to provide you with a key and, if this residence is suitable for you, I will enter your name into the clan registry as a guest at this location.”

She held both her palms out flat, a black card resting on them. A script gleamed in its center like moonlight.

“Gratitude,” Lindon said, taking the card that he assumed was the key. “If you don't mind, would you show me the way to my room?”

He tried to find the place he could touch the card that would cause the gate to open, but as soon as he ran his pure madra through the script, the iron plates rose soundlessly up. They hung overhead, suspended on wind aura, waiting for him to pass beneath.

The servant woman spoke hesitantly. “I apologize for correcting the Underlord, but I was obviously unclear. The house is yours.”

The statement sent equal parts excitement and alarm rushing through him. He didn’t want a house here; he wanted to leave. On the other hand, it was a house.

The Wei clan had spoiled him for space, but all the houses of the Shi family added together would have made up only one story of this building. And there were three stories.

From the inside of the wall, he realized the yard was much bigger than he had imagined; it stretched all the way around the house, and he couldn't see the far end. It was covered by bushes that flowered a glowing blue, and trees with fruits like red glass. The aura was as thick here as anywhere in Moongrave, and somehow the house gave off a calming feel.

“I am...grateful,” Lindon said, “so pardon me for my ignorance. This house is mine? No other guests will stay here?”

The servant looked offended. “No, sir! My staff and I will maintain the house and grounds and provide meals upon request, unless you require isolation for your training. There is a sound-proof, spiritually contained basement for meditation, and the garden is at your disposal. If you require anything for your training or daily needs at any time, please let me or any of the servants know.”

Seeing that he was still skeptical, she continued. “For as long as you are a guest of the Akura family, you will be considered the owner of this house, whether you leave tonight or stay here the rest of your life.” Her voice echoed with pride, as though she took personal responsibility for the quality of her service.

Lindon couldn’t help admiring the Akura clan. They hadn't made the best impression on him, but they certainly weren’t cheap.

While he was here, he would squeeze out all the benefits he could.

“In that case, could I trouble you for some clothes?” He had been transported here without warning, and he only kept one change of clothes in his void key. “And please let me know if this is too much, but I could use some mental enhancement elixirs, madra restoration pills, and—if you can spare one—a parasite ring.”

He searched her face for reluctance as he tested the boundaries of the family’s generosity. She didn't bat an eye, giving a precise bow. “Of course, Underlord. Will there be anything else?”

Lindon didn't hold back. “Yes, as long as it isn't a problem. I'd like as many high-quality pure madra scales as you can find, some firewood, a hot meal whenever is convenient for you, sealed water jugs, preserved travel rations...”

She listened attentively, bowing when he was finished. “Your requirements will be fulfilled in haste, Underlord.”

Not only did the servant not balk at any of his requests, but everything was delivered within the hour.

Most of it he set aside for his training or daily use, but some items went into his void key—the restoration pills, some firewood, three water jugs, ten travel rations, a steel knife, and a sturdy travel blanket. Now, no matter when they sent him home, he had already made a profit.

The thought cheered him immensely.

When he finished his preparations, he locked himself into the basement: a vast, bare room the size of the entire floor above. He inspected the scripts himself, checking that he was truly isolated, and then released Dross and Little Blue.

The Sylvan Riverseed couldn’t wait to scurry out of his void key, chattering her frustrations at him like an irritated mouse. She was upset that he had left her alone in there for so long, glaring at him with a face the color of the deep ocean, hair flowing behind her like waves. She slapped his shin with one blue hand, leaving a spark of cool energy.

[You’re right to complain,] Dross said. [It’s actually wonderful out here. Beautiful sights, fresh air…oh, it’s amazing. And I can leave whenever I want to. Watch!]

Dross spun into Lindon’s spirit and back out, projecting his body of pebbly purple flesh, with one eye taking up most of his body. His mouth moved as he spoke, revealing sharp teeth, and he waved his two stubby tentacle-arms in the air as though demonstrating his freedom.

Little Blue folded her arms, sulking.

“Dross, do you think you’re helping?”

[Not helping you.]

Lindon tried scooping up Little Blue in his hand of flesh, but she scurried away from him. He had to chase after her, begging her to stop while Dross egged her on.

After ten minutes of running after her all over the basement—and trying not to step on her by accident—he finally caught her. She stopped in place, allowing him to get a hand around her, and he gently lifted her into the air.

She refused to look at him.

Lindon held up one of the pure scales that the Akura servant had brought. It was high-grade, roughly what would be produced by a Truegold. Since no one reached Truegold without harvesting aura, the Akura must have purified other aspects of madra to get this scale.

“I'm sorry. Peace?”

Little Blue turned up her nose at the blue-white coin.

“I have more, if this isn't enough.”

She squeaked. Sometimes he had to ask Dross to translate for her, but this time he thought he caught her meaning.

“Mine? You want me to make one?”

She nodded.

“We get these for free. As many as we want. I’ll make them for you myself when we get home, but while we’re here...”

He trailed off as she squirmed in his hand, turning her back on him.

Finally, he sighed and gave in, beginning the process of gathering his madra together to produce a scale. It didn't take long, but the quality and stability required to Forge a perfect scale put a strain on his madra channels. Which, in his condition, caused him real pain.

When he finished, holding a perfect translucent blue scale between his fingers, she turned back around. The scale was bigger than her head, but her mouth enlarged in an instant, and she gulped it down.

She flashed sapphire, giving a whistling breath of satisfaction and patting her stomach.

“I do apologize,” he repeated. “Friends?”

She chirped brightly and dashed up his arm, coming to rest on his shoulder opposite Dross.

[Good for you, holding strong in your negotiations while his spirit is wounded. You can't let him pressure you into helping.]

Two cold spots pressed against him as Little Blue suddenly grabbed the side of his neck. He felt an odd tickling as she sent her awareness into his spirit.

Since when had she been able to do that?

When she discovered the injury to his madra channels, she gave a high-pitched wail, flooding his spirit with her cleansing power.

Her madra helped, but it was a bit like throwing a bucket of cold water on a sunburn. He hissed and gritted his teeth, his spine straightening. Spiritual pain wasn't necessarily any worse than physical pain, but it was much harder to ignore.

The sharp spike of discomfort began to ebb almost immediately, and he could feel his spirit recovering already. Little Blue burbled apologies, leaning against the side of his face.

“I'm perfectly fine, see?” He turned to smile at her.

On his other shoulder, Dross gasped. [What is that? Do you feel that?]

Lindon hadn't before Dross pointed it out, but when he focused on his perception, he felt a dark hole in the center of the basement that he swore hadn't been there before. The basement was well-lit by scripts drawing their power from a madra furnace upstairs, but he could feel a black spot in the middle. Now that he noticed, he was starting to see it, like a puddle of smoke gathering on the floor.

Dross drifted closer, peering with his giant eye. [I don't ever...oh, it's her!]

Lindon recognized the madra shortly after Dross did, but by then it was too late. Akura Charity materialized from darkness in the center of the basement. Lindon immediately pulled Dross back into his madra channels.

Or he tried. His madra channels were blocked. He focused his spirit, pulling at Dross. The spirit remained where he was, peering curiously into the Heart Sage's eyes.

“Well,” Charity said, “this explains a few things.”

3

Lindon stood still, quiet panic growing in his mind, as Akura Charity examined Dross. The spirit was the creation of Northstrider's Ghostwater, and as far as Lindon knew, was completely unique. Lindon could easily imagine someone as strong as a Sage murdering him in order to pry Dross from his Remnant.

But Eithan had sensed Dross' presence without understanding his nature. Lindon had to hope that others wouldn't be able to tell how valuable he was either.

[You're the Sage of the Silver Heart!] Dross exclaimed. [I didn't know much about you before the last few months, but when you blanked those minds, just bam! and they're out, I was impressed. And jealous. I mean, not jealous! Well, yes, I was...I was a bit jealous.]

“You bonded with a mind-spirit,” Charity said, still examining Dross. “And a surprisingly advanced one, considering how stable its manifestation is. Now I understand how you did so well on your mental tests.”

[Not to take credit, but that was entirely me.]

“And you have taken a drop of ghostwater as well,” she went on. “Between the two, it's no wonder that you have such an impressive mental foundation.”

That wasn't totally accurate, but Lindon took the way out that she'd offered. “I could never hide anything from a Sage. I was blessed to stumble on good fortune inside the Ghostwater facility.”

“Not just there,” Charity focused on Little Blue, who ducked shyly behind a lock of Lindon's hair. “It would seem that you have been blessed by the heavens on more than just one occasion.”

Lindon thought of the glass ball burning quietly in his pocket. “I humbly agree.”

“And yet you were beaten today.”

Lindon usually thought of the Sage as cold or impassive, but this time he detected the anger behind her mask. He chose his words very carefully, feeling his breath come more quickly.

“I am honored by your estimation of me. But, if you’ll allow me an observation, I am also lacking in basic knowledge and skills. Your Underlords are not. If Pride were my enemy, I might find some way to stop or defeat him, but within the confines of a judged duel, I’m afraid I am truly not his match.”

He had long been aware of his weaknesses. He had worked hard and learned much in the past two years, but in many areas, he still hadn't caught up to those sacred artists who’d received the best training their entire lives. He'd made it as far as he had through relentless determination, reliable companions, and leaning hard on his areas of strength.

As Charity remained quiet and studied him, her expression grew more and more distant, as though she were contemplating some abstract problem.

Sweat beaded on his skin. He had been honest with her, hoping she would respect his humility, but maybe he had misjudged her.

He pulled Little Blue down from his shoulder, cradling her in his hands to comfort her.

“You don’t know what we’re fighting for, do you?” Charity said at last.

“For the pride of the Akura clan, and I'm not certain that I am worthy to carry such a great burden.”

She slowly nodded, like she had come to some conclusion. “And you don't feel such pride, so you do not value it.”

Dross looked between them, his wide eye staring into Lindon from an inch away. Lindon began to sweat in earnest. “I do not dare to underestimate the pride and honor of a Monarch's family, which is why I feel that I may be unsuited for this task. If the reputation of the Akura clan affects the survival of nations, I don't—”

“It does,” she interrupted. “It affects your nation.”

Lindon stopped.

“The dragons have been pressing in on us for longer than you can imagine, but we have managed an unsteady balance. Now, with the uncertainty of the Dreadgods added in, all has been called into question. Every major house and family is pushing their boundaries to gain as much as they can.

“The Uncrowned King tournament is an exhibition of our future military power. If the Dragon King believes we are weak, he will take what he wants from us. If the other great families believe we are weak, they will not help us. There is no sense investing in a loser.”

She pressed her fingertips together, and though she was over a foot shorter than Lindon, it was as though she towered over him. “They want the Blackflame Empire.”

Dross gasped.

Lindon didn't want to believe her. He wanted to think she was lying to him in order to motivate him to fight. But she didn't need to lie, she could simply order him to do as she wished, and he would have no choice but to comply.

And it made sense. The Empire had once been ruled by dragons, and now the dragons wanted it back.

He followed her line of reasoning, but he still held out hope. “How far do we have to make it?”

“Farther than the gold dragons,” she answered. “But there is far more at stake in the tournament than this. If at least one of you does not reach the top eight and become one of the Uncrowned, preferably Mercy, then we may find ourselves in great danger.”

That brought him to one final question, the one that had loomed larger than any other ever since Charity had kidnapped him.

“Then why me?” he asked. “If it's so important, why bet on a stranger?”

Charity glanced down at Little Blue, who had scrambled down his body to hide behind his ankle. “I have many reasons. Let it be enough for you that I think you can win.” Purple eyes returned to his. “So will you stop this charade, or will you allow others to decide what happens to your home?”

[We don't know for certain that the gold dragons wouldn't rule better than the Akura clan,] Dross pointed out. [And there's no reason it has to be you. This Pride or one of the others will still fight even if you're not here.]

Lindon stood up straighter, looking down on the Sage. “I will fight.”

He had never been willing to leave the fate of his home in someone else's hands. He wasn't about to change his mind now.

[That's good, because I was lying before. The royal gold family of dragons is notoriously vicious and cruel, especially to humans. I just didn't want to worry you.]

Charity brushed her hands clean like a woman done with a mundane task. “Now, however, you have a problem. You have given the other Akura Underlords a reason to think you are weak. They taste blood, and they will not allow you to rest.”

Lindon thought back to the fight with Pride. The other Underlords had watched him with disdain...and jealousy. They would be coming for him.

He felt more pressure from that than he had before. Only minutes ago, he would have been satisfied with disqualification.

“Pardon, but I will need help addressing my weaknesses. I do not have the formal training in combat that your relatives do.”

Charity nodded. “If you are to fight under my family’s name in the tournament, this lack of knowledge must be remedied. You will be facing sacred artists of varied and unknown abilities. You must be able to determine their capabilities quickly and respond appropriately under any circumstances. This is not a training regimen that should be attempted in only nine months, and yet you must complete it.”

She addressed Dross. “If he hopes to meet the deadline, he will rely on your help.”

The purple spirit puffed himself out, closing his eye and folding his arms across his body. [Leave it to me! I’ll drag him through, no problem!] He opened his eye a crack and added, [...on second thought, actually, it sure would be easier with a little bit of your madra to help me. Just a taste?]

Charity stared at him, impassive as always.

[No? That's, ah, that's all right then.] He forced a chuckle. [I was joking! That's a little mind-spirit humor for you.]

There was a subtle flicker of power from the Sage, and she held up a silver-and-purple scale. Its madra drew Lindon's eyes to it almost hypnotically, and the room seemed to darken in its presence.

[Oh, you…you’re doing it! See, I told you she would help instead of wiping us from existence.]

She flipped it to him, and Dross swooped in to snap it up like a bat taking an insect. As soon as the madra entered him, he shuddered at the flood of energy.

“It's gentle and stable,” she said, “but it is still an Archlord's power. Be careful.”

Without a word of acknowledgement, Dross faded back into Lindon's spirit. He could feel Dross processing the scale: it felt tiny but unbelievably powerful, like a thunderstorm the size of a fingertip.

Lindon bowed. “Gratitude. Will he be all right?”

“A spirit of that density should be fine. It should absorb the scale's essence over a week or two, during which it will not be conscious or able to serve you. After that time, you should find its efficiency greatly increased.”

[Ah, now this is the good stuff,] Dross said into Lindon's head.

Stay quiet, Lindon urged him. Don't let her know you're awake.

[I'm sure the Sage would appreciate the master's grand work more than you do.]

Please. I don't want to be killed and have my Remnant dissected.

[I’m not rushing off to be dissected myself, but we can trust Charity. I have a good feeling about her.]

Charity handed Lindon a multi-faceted ball that fit in her palm, like a dark red jewel. It sat in his hand, warm and heavier than he’d expected.

“This is a training program we use to train our Coppers in close combat. It will contain information and training programs about all five basic categories of Enforcer techniques and how to react to them. When you have achieved a perfect score, tell your house servants, and they will deliver a message to me.”

“Forgiveness,” Lindon said, “but it’s a Copper test?”

“It is a test of knowledge and skill, not of power. Superior advancement will not help you, though your experience will.” She folded her hands in front of herself. “As a Copper, Mercy earned a perfect score within three days. Just so you have a…benchmark.”

Her shadow began to crawl up her feet, but she looked up as though staring through the ceiling. “You have a visitor,” she informed him. “Another young Underlord dissatisfied with my decision. They cannot reach me, so they take out their frustrations on you, hoping I will change my mind.”

Lindon took a deep breath, bracing himself, thinking of the pain in his spirit that Little Blue had just relieved. His flesh was still tender.

She noticed. “Would you like me to stop them?”

He would, and Little Blue urged him to with a whistle in his ear. Even Dross made an appreciative noise in his mind.

“If I didn’t have your protection, would they be allowed to challenge me?”

She inclined her head. “You are a worthy guest. They would be permitted to duel you openly, so long as no one was injured too badly.”

“Then let them, if you would. I’ll consider it training.”

If his problem was a lack of battle experience, then there was no better solution than to face a gauntlet of opponents at his own level. It would help build up Dross’ knowledge too, to help him predict fights in the future.

And when Lindon grew skilled enough, he could make a powerful demonstration in front of all the other clan Underlords. One that would prove beyond a doubt that he deserved to be on the team.

But he didn’t look forward to the beatings he was about to take.

Charity gave an expression that might have been an approving smile or just a quirk of her lips. “Don’t let it become a distraction.” Then shadow swallowed her, and she vanished.

Then Lindon went upstairs to let in the Underlord who hated him.

The young Akura challenged him to a duel, fought in Lindon’s own basement, with a construct to project the fight as witness.

He controlled a fan of a half-dozen flying swords, using pulses of shadow and force madra to keep Lindon at a distance as Lindon dealt with the weapons. Lindon made the mistake of focusing on the swords, knocking them away with his hands and allowing his opponent to overwhelm him at a distance.

He should have ignored the swords, taking the hits with his Bloodforged Iron body, and broken the Akura's concentration by outmatching him in Striker techniques.

Lindon came to this conclusion while he lay on the floor of his basement, aching, waiting for his Iron body to repair the holes in his skin.

If it had been a real fight, Lindon could have won. He consoled himself with that fact.

He had explosive constructs stored in his void key that he had prepared for his fight with Kiro but never gotten a chance to use, not to mention his Skysworn armor, which would have held up against the swords for long enough to close the distance. And Lindon had to hold his techniques back; he could hardly use dragon's breath to its full potential when it wasn't a fight to the death.

But Lindon had faced plenty of life-or-death situations. He wasn't preparing for a deadly showdown; he was training for a series of matches with rules and limitations. These elite Akura Lords were far better suited for fights like those. He was playing their game, and he had to learn how.

He would learn by losing.

When his body had recovered enough and Little Blue had soothed his spirit, he rose to his feet. His stance was unsteady. Pain shot through his joints, and he wanted nothing more than to lie down and wait for his aches to fade. No one would blame him if he slept. Dross would encourage him.

But sleeping wouldn’t move him forward.

“Dross, could you show me my opponent?”

Lindon's vision blurred for a moment, and then the young Underlord appeared opposite him, six scripted blades floating behind his head.

[Did you see how fast that was?] Dross said. [And look at all that crisp detail! I already want more Sage madra, and I haven’t even finished digesting it yet. Will she give me some more when I’m done, do you think?]

Lindon resolved to find out. He was afraid that revealing Dross' appetite would make Charity suspicious about his nature, or that making too many requests would anger the Sage, but he could push a little.

Improving Dross might be just as important as training himself.

Dross simulated the battle, and Lindon attempted his strategy. If he ignored the swords and fought with only Striker techniques, he could indeed pierce through the opponent's techniques and kill him before Lindon himself died, but that resulted in a dead opponent and a few severe gashes on Lindon. There had to be a way to win without murdering the other person or taking wounds himself.

Lindon tried again.

When Dross grew tired, Lindon switched over to the Enforcer training. The device left by Charity projected images into his mind, so it felt much like practicing with Dross. But this one transported him to entirely new scenarios.

First, he stood on an icy mountain as the wind whipped snow by him. Flocks of ice-feathered birds flew past, slicing the air with their wings.

A bald old man, wearing only a wrap around his waist, blazed with golden light. He slipped away from one diving bird, crushed another with a fist, and spun into a kick that knocked a third from the sky. As he fought the flock, his movements blurred until Lindon could barely follow them.

Charity's voice echoed everywhere. “The full-body Enforcer technique. It is common and flexible, and its properties depend on the madra, but it does not excel in any area as a more specialized technique might. Full-body Enforcement often radiates light or has external markings, but even when it does not, it can be easily sensed by anyone Jade or higher.”

The scene changed, and suddenly Lindon found himself deep within the earth. Shining green sap dripped from the ceiling like a very slow rainstorm. A woman walked through the sap, wearing a very broad, flat cap that kept her dry. Beneath her hat, she wore a long cloak with a high collar, so Lindon could see almost nothing of her.

“Attack techniques are also very common,” Charity's voice said, as the woman cocked her fist back.

The fist began to shine with white madra, which shaped into a tiger's head and roared as the sacred artist plunged her fist into a nearby stalagmite. The impact shook the entire chamber, the force blowing her cloak back. She had to hold onto her hat with one hand. The stalagmite cracked.

“These are, just as they sound, individual attacks that carry the power of a technique behind them. They are considered Enforcer techniques because they primarily enhance the effect of a single motion, even though they may project power outward as Striker techniques do.”

The stalagmite, cracked by the woman's fist, exploded as a tree-sized worm burst from within it. The worm screamed, revealing a round mouth filled with teeth on all sides, and the sacred artist gathered madra into both hands.

“Indeed, many such techniques have characteristics of both Striker and Enforcer techniques, and could be developed in either direction depending on the needs of the Path. Enforcer attack techniques carry more power than full-body techniques, but as a result they can be clumsier. They tend to leave the user open for counterattack.”

The scene changed again, and Charity took Lindon through examples of movement techniques, weapon techniques, and defensive techniques.

How am I supposed to get a perfect score? Lindon asked Dross. Will there be a quiz?

[Oh, this is more than just a dream tablet. It is interactive. I'm sure...ah, you see? Here it is.]

Now Lindon stood in a blank white room, but the man in the loincloth stood in front of him.

“This man will randomly use Enforcer techniques ten times in a row. You must accurately identify the type of technique within one second.”

It was harder than Lindon had expected because he couldn't use his spiritual perception. The illusory man was a void to Lindon's senses, so he had to rely on visual clues alone.

Dross, of course, identified every one instantly. When the man adopted a defensive posture, so Lindon was sure it would be a defense technique, Dross correctly called it as a full-body technique.

“How did you know?” Lindon asked.

[His breathing, his arms, his calves, his posture, and the way his eyes moved.]

“...oh.”

If Lindon simply had Dross hand him the answers, he would have passed immediately. But he had to learn on his own.

After two hours, when he had finally recognized every detail about the man's techniques, he thought he'd finished. Then the woman in the hat and cloak appeared.

“This woman will randomly use Enforcer techniques ten times in a row. You must accurately identify the type of technique within one second.”

Her madra was completely different from the man's, and she showed different physical cues. It was harder to see her at all, shrouded as her body was.

[If you're going to finish this in three days without my help, I hope you have some Dream Well water left. You're going to have to go without sleep.]

Lindon did have some, but not much. He was down to one jar and two small bottles. He had used it sparingly, primarily to nourish Dross, and he didn't want to use it up here.

But he did use just enough to stay sharp.

Especially because, the next day, no less than five different Akura Underlords challenged him to duels.

Between fighting, recovery, and the analysis afterward, it took him two days and a night to complete the Enforcer training.

He handed the dark red jewel-device to his servant with a heavy heart, telling her to report to Charity. Even as an Underlord, he had beaten Mercy's accomplishment as a Copper by only a few hours. Though the test had nothing to do with advancement, he was older and more experienced than Mercy had been as well. He had hoped to finish within a few hours.

Charity did not send him a comment in return. Instead, she sent him a new gem-construct. This one was dark blue, instead of dark red, and contained information on Forger techniques.

Lindon got to work.

* * *

Information requested: Seshethkunaaz, King of Dragons and Monarch of the eastern Ashwind continent.

Beginning report…

Path: Wasteland. The Path of the Wasteland has aspects of earth and wind, and its techniques take the form of blowing golden sand. It is a versatile and adaptable Path, often used to call sandstorms, form complex shapes from sand at great distances, and scour flesh from bone.

Gold dragons have a natural affinity for fire and water aura, but Seshethkunaaz was born in the desert. An exile, he was left by the rest of his kind to die.

He was found by a group of human nomads, who saved the dying dragon and raised him as part of their family. He formed a contract with one of their children, providing him with enough pure madra to dilute his spirit. With time and great effort, he was able to change the nature of his madra and embark on the Path of the Wasteland.

He and his contractor were raised as brothers, and they advanced together at great speed. When he reached Underlord, he took on a human form like that of his contractor. His adoptive parents shortened his name to Sesh, introducing the two of them as twin brothers, and explaining Sesh’s remaining draconic traits as part of his Goldsign.

For years, they remained content. Until Sesh’s brother killed a child.

In a conflict between hot-tempered boys, Sesh’s young contractor lost his temper. He struck a Lowgold, forgetting his strength as an Underlord. His victim perished instantly.

In many lands, an Underlord would not be held responsible for any actions against a Gold. But the laws of this nation prohibited the murder of anyone regardless of advancement, and the young victim was the descendant of a powerful clan.

Sesh’s family fled in the night, but they were soon caught. Sesh’s brother was executed for murder, reckless use of power, and fleeing justice.

To this day, the King of Dragons walks the desert in the form of a human boy, hair dark and skin tanned by the sun, wrapped in a cloak against the harsh wind. He admires humans, but hates human civilization, that collection of unnatural rules under which the weak are favored above the strong.

If power and survival were the only laws, he believes all would benefit. Even humans.

Suggested topic: Seshethkunaaz and the Dread War. Continue?

Denied, report complete.

* * *

Naru Saeya, sister of the Blackflame Emperor, hovered above Yerin. Emerald wings from the Path of Grasping Sky barely flapped as wind aura held her motionless in the air. Even when they both stood flat on the ground, Saeya loomed over Yerin, but that wasn't enough. She just had to fly too.

She wore sacred artist robes in a color that matched her wings, and the cloth was as fresh as if it had been sewn this morning. Her hair had been tied back into a tail, all the better to fight, but a fan of peacock feathers still stuck up over her ear.

Yerin glared at those feathers, clutching an iron bar in her hands. This was a handicap she had given herself; blunt instruments gathered no sword aura. She had to beat her opponent with combat skills, not with her madra techniques.

It was more irritating than she'd expected.

“You expecting us to get much practice done when you're hanging from the ceiling?” Yerin asked.

The ceiling in this wing of the imperial palace was over a hundred feet tall, and Saeya wasn't even close to it. If she had been, maybe Yerin could have dashed up the wall or tried something else.

The Emperor's sister looked as irritated as Yerin was, holding her own iron bar. She had refused to take any weapon advantage over her training partner.

“It will only go the same as before,” Saeya said.

Yerin sharpened her senses, letting madra flow through her Steelborn Iron body. Strength flooded her Underlord body, and she felt invincible as she never had as a Truegold.

“One more try,” Yerin said through gritted teeth.

Saeya didn't say anything, but wind madra gathered up inside her, and then she vanished in a blur of green. Yerin swung her bar with all her strength, whipping up a whirlwind in the training room, but she hit nothing.

A sharp pain cracked against her back.

“If I slow down enough to let you hit me,” Saeya said from behind her, “you'd break me in half.”

The Naru woman walked around to Yerin's front, letting her practice weapon drop. “We're a bad match. I have virtually no defense against your Path, so if you had a real sword, I'd have to keep my distance. When you don't, either I'm too fast or you're too strong.”

Saeya hurled her iron bar so hard to one side that it struck against the wall like a bell and sent a chip of stone flying.

Yerin felt like doing the same thing. The iron bar felt odd in her hand, and she looked down to see that she had squeezed fingerprints into the metal.

“You want to go into the tournament betting that you'll only face good matches?” Yerin challenged. In truth, she felt the same way. Neither of them were getting good practice out of this.

Naru Saeya took deep breaths, clearly fighting down her frustration. “We need to be familiar with each other if we're going to fight side-by-side. Maybe we should spar together against another pair of Underlords.”

“Cheers and celebration, you've struck gold. I'll sit here and polish my sword while you find another pair of Underlords who can match us.”

The Blackflame Empire had doubled its number of Underlords during the competition in the Night Wheel Valley, but over the last few weeks, Yerin had found out firsthand that most of the newly advanced Lords and Ladies weren't much to her. If she held back everything from her Path, they weren't her match in swordsmanship. The gap only widened with madra.

The only young Underlords worth anything to Yerin had been stolen by Akura Charity.

The older Underlords would be a real challenge, but they had one and all left the capital to deal with their own responsibilities. They had been gone for too long during the qualification fights, and now they had to make up for lost time.

As far as Yerin knew, only two people left in the city could challenge her or Naru Saeya. One was the Emperor, who was busy signing laws and looking stern. The other was Eithan, and only the heavens knew where he had vanished to.

Naru Gwei had dumped Yerin and Eithan out of Stormrock at the first possible opportunity and had suggested that he wouldn't come close to Eithan ever again without an Imperial command.

“We fight for the honor of the Empire,” Saeya said, “but we can't sacrifice the stability of the Empire for the honor of the Empire. This is our problem to solve.” She didn't sound happy about it. She stared out the window overlooking Blackflame City, glaring at the buildings below as though they were holding her back.

“Then let's stop fighting like Coppers.” Yerin tossed her iron bar aside, too. She walked over to the corner, where she had propped her master's sheathed blade. “We gather up every Underlord and Truegold we can get our hands on and face them all at once. Pile on enough straws, and eventually we'll feel the weight.”

Saeya let out a long breath. “You're right, we should. It's important that we get you more experience against different opponents.”

“If you had so much more experience than me, you'd be too old for the tournament.”

“There's a big difference between thirty-five and...what are you, twenty?” The tall woman eyed Yerin.

Yerin herself wasn't sure how old she was, but twenty had to be about right. “Thought you had to be under thirty-five.”

“As long as you haven't begun your thirty-sixth year by the time the tournament begins, you're eligible,” Saeya said. “I qualify by less than a month. That's the human standard, of course. Some sacred beasts can be almost—”

Saeya stopped. She turned from the window in a way that Yerin recognized: she had sensed something.

Yerin extended her own senses, feeling a growing shadow in the next room. It was cold and dark, like the air of the Night Wheel Valley leaking into Blackflame City.

“Akura clan likes to take their time,” Yerin muttered. They had been promised training support from the Akura Sage, and this must be it.

She strode forward, joined by Naru Saeya, throwing open the doors to the hallway outside their training room. An ornate chest of black wood sat on the crimson rug, emanating darkness. Its lid shone with the moon-pale image of a mountain range topped by three stars—the symbol of the Akura family.

A shiver passed through Yerin's spirit as a construct in the box scanned first her, then Naru Saeya.

Confirming their presence, the box opened, its lid slithering apart.

The sense of spiritual power within blinded Yerin's eyes and her perception at once, but it instantly improved her mood. The Akura clan lived up to their reputation if they were sending gifts that felt like this.

Saeya's expression had softened into something that looked like awe. “We'll have to track Eithan down to give him his share,” she said absently.

“I'd bet a sackful of gems against two hairs that he's standing around a corner waiting to pop out.” Yerin knelt to pick up the box.

When Yerin straightened, Saeya had turned all the way around to stare into the training room they had just come from. “No...he's climbing up the side of the tower to slip in through the window.”

“Counts as a corner,” Yerin said, carrying the chest back through the door.

As Naru Saeya went to the window to look down, Yerin settled on her knees in the center of the room, rummaging through the box. It was divided neatly in three, and from the feel of each section alone, she could tell which section belonged to each of them.

Small, narrow tubes leaked sword-madra, certainly containing scales intended for Yerin. A series of stones next to them would be dream tablets, and that was it for her. Scales and dream tablets, though the tablets looked a little strange, polished and cut like gemstones. Maybe that was how the Akura family preferred them.

The partition next to hers contained Saeya's share: more scales and dream tablets, as well as a small scroll with a wing on it. Eithan's section had no tablets, only scales of pure madra and a pile of books and letters.

Naru Saeya had clearly lost patience waiting for Eithan to climb up. With wind madra, she reached over the side. Eithan came drifting up, bundled in green-tinged air, hanging like a doll in invisible hands. His long blond hair dangled, and he was breathing heavily, but his smile didn't suffer.

“Good evening, ladies!” he said. “I was trying to surprise you, but I'm afraid climbing up a smooth wall using only my fingertips was more tiring than I assumed. You know, this tower is very tall.”

Saeya dumped him onto his feet, heading toward the box, but she kept her eyes on him. “You're not hurt, are you?”

“Only my pride.” Eithan stretched and knuckled his back. “And also the skin of my fingers.”

Naru Saeya brightened when she reached the box. “Top-grade scales! Before the Night Wheel Valley, those alone would have been worth more than everything I owned.”

With both hands, she picked up a jeweled dream tablet, her eyes glazing over as she sunk into it. Eagerly, Yerin started to do the same.

Eithan extended a hand, stopping her. “Don't be too eager. One of those is a sound transmission construct, perhaps for Akura Charity to contact you. The rest are training courses, sent under the assumption that we wouldn't have any worthy opponents to train against here in the Empire.”

“We don't,” Yerin said. Despite Eithan's words, her excitement for the tablets had just gone up.

“Don't we? What did you learn by training against Saeya?”

Yerin's fingers were still itching to pick up one of the tablets, but Eithan had a purpose for asking questions like this. Usually. And he hadn't touched his own pile of books.

She noticed they hadn't sent him any training courses.

“I need a better answer to fast feet and good eyes,” Yerin said. “Same thing as when I'm fighting you. If I can trap them in with the Endless Sword and stop them from running around like a newborn rabbit, I'll win. If they slip past me and land a hit, I'm dead.”

“And how would you solve that problem, if the heavens granted you one almighty wish?”

She nodded to him. “I'd take your ability. Eyes of my own give me a better chance to move. Or I'd ask the heavens to make me faster than any sacred artist living. But since that's nothing but dreams and shadows, I can double up the Endless Sword with the Shadow.” She still grimaced and felt a pang of revulsion whenever she mentioned using the Blood Shadow. “Cover more ground, give them less space to run.”

Eithan stroked his chin. “Would you like my help?”

That was typical of Eithan, leaving her with a fake choice. Of course the only correct answer was yes; how could she turn down training before a tournament in front of the entire world? Her master never would have.

“I sense that my reputation is under attack, so let me defend myself,” Eithan continued. “You are already on the right path. With or without my help, you will close off your weaknesses. If you feel that you would benefit more from figuring this out on your own, I will respect that.”

She sensed unusual sincerity from him. Cautiously, she asked, “What would you suggest?”

From within his outer robe, he withdrew a long stretch of bright blue silk, probably meant to tie a different set of his robes closed. He held it up for her inspection.

“One answer to superior awareness is improving your own,” he said. “As you fight, tie this around your eyes and rely on your spiritual perception instead.”

She almost laughed at him. “I'm not an Arelius. I can't see without my eyes, I can only feel. And only if there's madra.”

If she closed her eyes and focused on Eithan, he felt only like a mass of pure madra. When he attacked, she would feel a spike of danger, but that told her almost nothing about where the attack was coming from. Relying on her spiritual perception to fight was like trying to find her way through a maze by smell.

“Sometimes,” Eithan said, “I do forget what it is like not to see all around me.” He let his eyes drift closed. “I spent my childhood learning how not to see, how to deafen myself to my opponent's heartbeat, their rasping breath, their gurgling stomach. But my actual spiritual perception was no better than yours.”

His eyes opened again. “You will have noticed upon reaching Underlord that your senses can be cast wider and farther than ever before. I suggest you challenge yourself in an area that most Lords and Ladies ignore until they are a higher stage: to make your perception sharper and deeper. I myself took on this training, when I first realized how long the journey to Overlord would be. It's a small advantage over your fellow Underlords, but it can turn the tide.”

He held out the blindfold with one finger.

“Maybe one of the others will be some kind of challenge with this on,” Yerin said, stuffing the blindfold away. “You're not going to tell me that there are six more levels of this training, are you?”

He shook his head. “This is entirely up to you. The more you restrict your physical senses, the more you will get out of this training. You might reap a greater reward than I did; blindfolds are only so effective for me, you see.”

Naru Saeya still sat in a cycling position, eyes distant.

Yerin returned her attention to the Akura clan box. “That's enough about me. What did they pack for you?”

He still hadn't leaned over to look through the chest. “Combat records and manuals from the main House Arelius on the Rosegold continent. I mastered most of these as a child. Still, it can be nice to see something from one's ancestral home.”

“Thought you grew up here.” Yerin snatched a dream tablet from the box.

“I was born there, raised here, and then returned there as an adult for a number of years. Most of those I knew on the other side are gone, but I have a message I'd like to deliver to the others.”

In spite of herself, Yerin was curious. “What message?”

“I will tell them to hold on,” Eithan said softly. “Help is coming.” Something in the box caught his attention, and he reached down, brushing aside his manuals to find a letter. “Ah, and look, a letter from the Sage herself. She hopes that we will find these simulated opponents useful...some other things, I'm not entirely interested...and intends to retrieve us in approximately eight months after the Rising Earth and Frozen Blade teams.” He tossed the letter down. “Well, at least we have a time limit.”

He had to have noticed when Yerin's spine stiffened and her hand froze on the dream tablet, but he didn't ask what was wrong. He merely watched her, his expression somewhat curious.

“...the Frozen Blade school?” Yerin’s eyes flicked to the Sage's sword against the wall. “They're going to be there?”

“They're one of the larger vassal factions under the Akura clan, so I imagine they will be.”

“So the Winter Sage will be too, then.”

He peered into her eyes and for some reason grew more excited. “You know the Sage of the Frozen Blade, don't you?”

“Like an arrow that missed my neck,” Yerin muttered. “My master almost married her.”

4

Through the eyes of her living Forger technique, a silver-and-purple owl, Charity watched Lindon.

The owls were made of her own madra, a blend of shadow and dream aspects, so they could be difficult to detect. Though Lindon was alone in the bare basement of his guest house, he gave no sign of noticing the owl in the corner.

She checked on him every few days to ensure he was following her training program and that none of the Akura Underlords had beaten him too badly. So far, he had exceeded her expectations. Not only was he finishing her training courses faster than she'd planned, his actions demonstrated obvious determination. He rose early and worked late. Even while eating, he took notes.

The pen she had provided him looked tiny in his hands, and he hunched broad shoulders over the desk. Unkempt hair fell around his face, and he wrote at a feverish pace. He was a large young man, built like her father, and that appearance could be used as a weapon.

But he was not taking care of himself. His eyes had rings under them, ugly welts and fresh scars remained in spite of his Iron body, his hair was unwashed and his skin pale. Whenever he glanced up, his eyes were dull but determined, as though he’d pushed himself to stay up all night every night.

Sometime soon, she would have to force him to take a break. She wanted him pushed to the very limit he could handle, but no further, and she had seen too many gifted young sacred artists ruin their minds, bodies, or spirits by over-training.

She removed her consciousness from her owl and drew a book from the pocket of her outer robe. She made a quick note to find a task for Lindon that might help him relax.

When she looked up from her note, her father stood in front of her desk.

Akura Fury held up a hand in greeting. “Hey, Charity! Who are you watching?”

With his wild, shadowy hair, his bright red eyes, and his huge frame, Fury should have been a terrifying figure. Many of the family's enemies found him so.

But for those who knew him, his personality undercut all possibility of intimidation. He acted on his own whim, and it was almost impossible to get him to do anything he didn't enjoy.

He looked forward to fights most of all, so advancing to Herald had been one of the great regrets of his life. Now it was so hard to find a worthy opponent. Fury spent most of his time veiled and restricted, trying to wheedle Lords into duels.

Charity let her madra flow into an orb at the corner of her desk, and the owl's viewpoint was projected into the air. Now her father could see what she'd seen: Lindon in his basement, slamming his empty palm into a scripted tower the height of his chest.

The scripts on the tower lit up, but Lindon shook his head, frustrated. His Sylvan Riverseed, playing at his feet, ran over to pat him on the ankle.

“Oh, it's Mercy's friend. How is he?” His tone was only mildly interested, and Charity knew that if Fury wasn't intrigued, he might wander away at any second.

There would be little danger of that once he heard what she had to say. The trick would be keeping him interested without having him challenge Lindon to a duel.

“His most frightening aspect is comprehension speed,” she said. “His mind-spirit should still be asleep, but he has completed all the training I prepared for the first six months.”

Fury rubbed his hands together. “Really really really…How long has he been here?”

“Three weeks.”

“Hmmm, I see, I see.” A dangerous interest gleamed in Fury's red eyes.

“But his techniques are poorly developed,” she added hastily. “I'm having him do self-guided technique training. With a little more effort—”

She looked to see how he was taking it, but he had already vanished.

Seconds later, he showed up in her projection.

* * *

Lindon turned around, surprised by the sound of a casual “Hey!”

He had been prepared for the possibility of someone showing up out of nowhere as soon as Dross had pointed out the Sage's owl in the corner, but this wasn't Charity's voice.

Had one of the young Underlords come straight into his house? He hadn't sensed anything...

[Try not to panic, but you are now sharing a sealed basement with a man who could destroy this whole city. I recommend deep breaths.]

Lindon fell to his knees when he saw the intruder: tall, robes open to bare a muscular chest, red eyes, shadowy hair, broad grin that reminded him of Mercy.

The Herald, Akura Fury.

He and Dross had done a bit of research in the few weeks since arriving at Moongrave. Fury was Malice's child from before she was a Monarch, and he was the Sage Charity’s father. He was the only direct descendant of Malice to have ever made it to Herald, and was Malice's favored child.

He was known for waging war singlehandedly. His techniques toppled cities and blighted forests. He had killed a dragon Herald, the Eight-Man Empire had a bounty on his head, and some cultures included him in their mythology as an omen of war. He was Malice's sharp sword, a legendary one-man force of devastation.

Fury dropped down into a squat and twisted his head almost upside-down so he could look Lindon in the eyes. “It's going to be hard to talk like this.”

Lindon rose to his feet, staring into the wall, but Fury bobbed and weaved so that his face was always in front of Lindon’s. Finally, Lindon gave in and met his eyes.

“Saw you were practicing a palm strike. It just so happens that I...who's this? Hey there!”

To Lindon's horror, Little Blue had scurried up to the Herald's feet, staring up at him from the ground. Lindon darted forward to grab her, but Fury had already squatted down again.

He gave a broad, open smile, holding one hand out to Little Blue.

With a cheery ring, Little Blue reached up to grab Fury's fingers, hauling herself up onto his palm. She immediately ran up his arm to his shoulder, staring at his face from an inch away.

Lindon was afraid to move. This looked friendly enough, but he was terrified that the Herald would grow suddenly offended and crush the Riverseed from existence.

“What's your name?” Fury asked gently, and Little Blue gave a series of chimes in response.

“That does make sense. Are you having fun here? No problems? ...yeah, training can be lonely. You'll be back with your friends before you know it. Speaking of friends...” He turned to look at Lindon, and so did Little Blue. “What do you think of him?”

Lindon had never before been so worried about Little Blue's opinion.

She made a long, complicated whistle. It carried more meaning than Lindon could untangle.

Fury's drifting, shadowy hair rose to a point. “Really? Well, I look forward to that day.”

Little Blue squeaked and hopped off his shoulder, sliding down his robes like a child down a hill. Then she scurried back over to her toys: a pile of miniature junk that Lindon had arranged for her to play with.

Lindon tried to smile. “Apologies. I'm sure she intended no disrespect.”

Fury gave a blank look, as though he didn't understand what Lindon meant. “Oh, okay. Anyway, she seems to think that you'll pose a threat to me one day soon.”

Lindon felt as though every pore in his body had started to squeeze out sweat. “She didn't mean it! Certainly, I wouldn't oppose the Akura clan. Did she really say that?”

“You should give yourself more credit. Sylvans with a state of existence this complete are good judges of character. And I hear the leader of the gold dragon team is out for your blood.”

Lindon winced—he could imagine why the gold dragons might be after them. But Fury beamed at him.

“If you can't threaten me in a few years, I'll be disappointed!” He gave a broad, hearty laugh as though he expected Lindon to share it.

Lindon forced a few chuckles.

Fury ran a finger under his eye as though to wipe a tear away. “Ahhh, that's enough business.” He clapped his hands together. “Charity says she has you doing focused technique training. Let me see that palm strike again.”

Again? So it hadn't been just a Sage watching Lindon train, but a Sage and a Herald?

He pictured an entire room full of people crowding around to watch him lose fights and practice his self-taught techniques, and he suddenly felt very self-conscious.

[Don't worry about that,] Dross said. [You already have me watching you all the time. What's a few more?]

Feeling Fury's eyes on him, Lindon hesitantly stepped up to the post that Charity had delivered to him.

The script on the center was three concentric rings. He was trying to control the output of the Empty Palm so that he could light up either all three or just the one in the center. The ultimate goal was to improve the effect of the Empty Palm so that he could use it for more than just disabling the enemy's core.

Lindon drove the Empty Palm into the script, trying to spread his madra out as much as possible. Two rings lit up.

He shook his head and prepared to try again, aware of Fury's attention on him, but a hand on his shoulder stopped him.

“Okay, that's enough.” The Herald pulled him away from the pole. Fury put his chin in one hand, thinking, as his black hair drifted away behind him. Finally, he snapped his fingers. “Seems to me you've got a few options. You could go with a standard Enforcer attack technique, like this.”

Lindon felt the madra moving in the Herald's body, sure that the man had exaggerated the spiritual movement for illustration. Fury gently slapped the pole, there was a surge of black madra, and all three rings lit purple.

“If you keep developing it in this direction, you could make it so that a direct hit on their core blocked out their powers for a little while, or even crippled them for life. A hit anywhere else could deal some real damage to their madra channels, which is about the same thing.”

He took a few steps away from the pole, then slowly drew his hand back, pulling madra into it with the motion. His spiritual movements were overstated again.

When he thrust the hand forward, a black lance of madra speared through the circle from five feet away. All three circles lit up.

“You are projecting madra, so you could develop it into a Striker technique. It's a little slower and weaker, and you'd be giving up the ability to lock down their entire spirit for a while, but you could still disrupt their madra channels. In most fights, that will be just as good.”

Fury laced his fingers together and cracked his knuckles, walking past the post. “Or you can try for the best of both worlds. It'll take a little more work, but I like the flexibility.”

He cycled his madra obviously once again, this time in a more complicated pattern. He was facing the metal-plated wall, in between the bands of script that ran along the ceiling and the floor.

When his hand crackled with black madra, he gently pushed it against the wall. A palm strike at one-thousandth the speed.

When it touched the wall, a dozen black hands, Forged from madra, struck at the same time. The room thundered as though he'd cracked the wall in two.

Every hand left a ragged handprint blasted into the metal.

Lindon stared in awe. It was as though he'd struck with thirteen palm strikes at once.

Fury turned, grinning and shaking out his hand. “This is the Crushing Black Palm. It's a Forger echo technique and an Enforcer attack technique all together. Not that you need to do exactly what I did, but you should be able to learn something from it, yeah?”

Lindon was staring at the wall, his mind churning. Dross, did you get that?

[I mean, I remember it, but I don't know if I can help you do it. He's using shadow madra, and he's just...you know, a lot better at this than you are.]

Dross ran him through a quick simulation in his mind. Lindon moved slowly on the outside, cycling his madra, trying to create the feeling that the Herald had just produced.

The first models that Dross fashioned didn't work well. It was a hard feeling to grasp; Fury had been using shadow madra, and Lindon was trying to make use of the same principles with an entirely different aspect. Not to mention that he'd never tried Forging something so quick and rough. It was more like a Striker technique than like Forging a scale.

He ran through the motions, both spiritually and physically, at reduced speed as Dross worked to process new possibilities and present them to him.

After a few false starts, Lindon made an attempt. It was like localizing the Soul Cloak just to his arm while executing the Empty Palm as he always had, and at the same time projecting a second copy of the technique off to the side. It took all of his concentration, aided by Dross, and it still felt as though he'd cobbled the technique together.

When he struck the post, he lit up all three rings of script. And there was a blue-white blur in the air above and to the right.

“Wrong,” he muttered.

[On the right track, though!] Dross encouraged him. [Who knows? By the time the tournament starts, you might be able to slap all the spectators at once.]

Lindon snapped out of his concentrated trance to find Fury looming behind him, red eyes blazing, shadowy hair writhing in excitement. He wore a crazed Eithan-like grin.

“Now that is what I like to see,” the Herald said. “Let me run you through a few more possibilities.”

5

Lindon slid on his back across the smooth floor of his basement. As he came to a stop, he spat out a mouthful of blood from a gash in his lip.

A short girl with long pigtails and a massive hammer stood over him. She snorted as she turned away, saying something he couldn't hear over the ringing in his ears. No doubt it was cutting.

That's her third time, isn't it? Lindon asked silently. These conversations with Dross gave him something to focus on besides how much he wanted to stop taking beatings.

[My model of her was at about ninety percent before, but now it's a nice and clean one hundred. If you had asked me for a combat report, you would have toyed with her. Why didn't you do that?]

Lindon dabbed the flesh around his eye, now tender and swollen. I almost had her on my own.

This time, he had gotten close with the Burning Cloak and landed a solid hit with his right hand. He could have activated the hunger binding in his arm and drained her madra or unleashed dragon's breath that would have torn her apart.

But he was trying to beat her using his pure madra alone. With only two combat techniques, it was a rough trail to walk.

Lindon rose unsteadily to his feet as the Bloodforged Iron body drew on his madra, but he stopped as he realized the girl with the hammer hadn't left. She stood with her arms crossed as her friend took over.

When they came to beat him, they almost never came alone.

A tall, lanky Underlord had been shifting from foot to foot in the corner, waiting for the first fight to be over. Now that it was his turn, he stepped forward eagerly, conjured lightning around his fists.

The observation construct intended to witness the fight drifted in the air around them, and Charity's silver-and-purple owl lurked in the corner.

“Wei Shi Lindon Arelius, I challenge you,” the young man said.

Lindon wanted to give up.

But this was the path he'd chosen.

“I accept,” Lindon said, though his voice wavered.

That was all the Akura Underlord needed before he cast a dome of crackling lightning over them both. A Ruler boundary field.

Lindon had fought him twice already. The boundary field was weak, only enough to give Lindon the occasional twitch or twinge of pain, but his opponent used it as a distraction to keep Lindon from concentrating on any larger techniques. In the meanwhile, he whittled Lindon down with thin whips of lightning.

Not every Akura clan member followed a shadow Path. He had learned that lesson early on. It was better for his training this way, because no doubt he would face opponents of all different aspects in the Uncrowned King tournament, but that meant the torments were new with each defeat.

This time, Lindon really didn't want to lose again.

He'd practiced against this young man's model a dozen times. With full use of his abilities, Lindon could win easily. It was all about keeping the fight short. With only his pure madra...

Lindon kindled the Soul Cloak as a lightning whip came flashing at him. He dodged, closing the gap, ignoring the sting of the boundary field.

The Akura triggered a binding in his bracer, and a pulse of force madra flooded out, pushing Lindon away.

But Lindon had already been reaching for it. As soon as the construct was activated, Lindon's right arm was ready. He drained the madra as it came out, so it didn't even slow him down.

The force madra rushed through his Remnant arm in gray veins, but he grabbed it and cycled it through his hunger binding. He had to use it up or vent it, or it would pollute his arm or his own madra.

His control over force madra was lacking, but it was enough for a very simple attack technique. Lindon’s punch to the Akura's chest flashed gray as it struck, smashing the enemy backward.

He flew into the wall, cracking his head against the metal plates, and Lindon dashed after him. He gathered madra into his Empty Palm, and the young man looked up with fear in his purple eyes.

Lindon hesitated.

His instinct, born from the last two years of bloody competition, told him to finish off the enemy immediately. If Lindon hit the Akura too hard, he might kill him.

It was only a moment of indecision, but it was enough. The lanky young man reached out to the boundary field, gathering it into one larger bolt of lightning.

It struck in a flash of light, and Lindon passed out again.

He woke up on the floor, aching and groaning, with Little Blue injecting soothing madra into him. She patted his forehead.

He glanced up to find that his visitors still hadn't left. Instead, another Underlord had joined them.

Akura Pride, short and glaring, folded his arms and glared down at Lindon. He stood apart from the other members of his family, and from the looks they shot Pride, Lindon gathered that Mercy’s brother still wasn't the most popular.

“Give up,” Pride said abruptly.

Lindon pushed himself to his knees. When he straightened his back, he could look Pride in the eyes. “They were just giving me some pointers on my techniques. Nothing to be upset about.”

The girl with the pigtails snorted.

“Go home,” Pride continued. “Leave my sister alone. Give up on the tournament. You won't even make it past the first round.”

Lindon was sick of kneeling before Mercy's brother. He rose to his feet, where he towered over Pride.

“That's why I'm grateful to your cousins for their help in my training.” Lindon smiled, tasting the blood on his teeth.

He had trained against Dross' model of Pride many times. Though Dross couldn't swear to its accuracy, Lindon only won three out of every ten simulated matches. Even with his full power.

In a real fight, he’d have to cheat.

Pride stepped so close that his chin almost touched Lindon's chest. He stared up, eyes full of rage. “Uncle Fury's selection is in ten days. I want you to be there. And when I win, I will challenge you in front of everyone. I will beat you into the ground every day until you give up or you can't fight anymore.”

“...apologies, but at some point I would just decline the duel,” Lindon said.

“Even better. Someone who will not face a fight against a strong opponent is unfit for the tournament.”

Lindon shrugged. “That's up to the Sage, isn't it?”

Pride glared at him for a moment longer, then took a step back. “Wei Shi Lindon Arelius, I challenge you.”

It had only been a minute since he had fought the boy with the lightning Path. And a few moments before that, he'd been beaten by the girl with the huge hammer. Despite his Iron body's work, he was bruised and battered all over. He throbbed with pain just standing there.

Nonetheless, Lindon clenched his jaw and said, “I accept.”

It ended no better than the last time.

He used his full set of abilities, but he was hardly in his best condition. Pride and the others left him conscious but reeling, staring up at the ceiling.

[My Pride model has been significantly improved,] Dross said. [Believe it or not, you pulled out more of his skills during this shameful beating than the last one.]

Lindon pulled himself up. He could barely stand.

“Show me,” he said.

* * *

In preparing for the tournament, Charity didn’t have enough time in the day. There were always more people who needed her commands, enemies who needed her deterrence, projects that needed her personal supervision.

As an Archlady, she needed very little sleep. Most nights, she could go without. But she tried to keep a regular pattern of rest anyway. A rested mind, she’d found, was a sharp mind.

Before bed, she checked in on Lindon. She had yet to find him resting.

Only a few days after her father had given him some pointers, she took another look at him. He sat diligently cycling, but even through her owl, she could see that he was out of balance.

His eyes were half-open and blank, his hair was matted and unwashed, his clothes were rumpled and stained with blood, and he hadn’t shaved in days. His Sylvan Riverseed lay curled up in his lap, sleeping, and he looked as though he would pitch over at any second.

She had intended to let him go a few more days before intervening, but everyone had a limit. This was his.

Charity glanced down at herself. She perched on the edge of her bed, hair undone, wearing only a thin single-layer robe. She wasn’t suitable for greeting a stranger. So instead of ripping open a human-sized tear in space, she made one about the size of her hand.

And she slid a construct through. It looked like a dream tablet made from a purple gemstone, but it was instead a rare and valuable transmission construct. She doubted he would recognize how valuable.

The instant the small portal appeared, Lindon’s eyes snapped open, and he reached out his pale right hand and caught the falling construct.

Charity spoke through the spatial connection before it closed. “A mind needs more than training to keep it active. Do not wear yourself out before the tournament begins. That construct will be active for one hour after sunset every other day. Do not waste the time. Instructions are contained within.”

She let the portal closed, but continued watching through one of her hidden owls.

At first, Lindon examined the gem suspiciously. He swept his spiritual sense through it, examined it from several angles, and then finally activated it. She could see on his face when he realized that it was a transmission construct, because his suspicion deepened.

She smiled.

A moment later, Yerin Arelius’ voice came through, speaking loudly through the stone in Lindon’s hand. “…who is this? Am I supposed to talk into this? Is it going to carry a message, or what?”

The change in Lindon was like the sun coming out from behind the clouds. He looked like he’d gained a full night’s sleep in an instant, and he began speaking eagerly into the construct at once.

Charity let her owl dissipate, cutting off the vision, and settled in to sleep.

6

Lindon sat on the roof of his house in Moongrave, watching the skies as he spoke with Yerin. Lines of cloudships followed each other in even lanes, passing over dark towers and black-leafed trees, and Yerin’s voice came from the jewel-construct sitting on the tiles next to him.

“…and I can beat Saeya so long as she keeps that sword locked away. If I had a weapon with a binding I could use, you can bet I’d be whipping her like a stubborn mule.”

The shadow aura hung so thick in the air that it tinged all the stars with a slight purple haze. He settled onto his back as he responded.

“Forgiveness, but I’m glad you don’t. I might have to fight you.”

A short laugh came from Yerin’s side of the construct. “I’d need something to knock you off track. Don’t have any surprises you haven’t seen.”

“I’m the one who needs a surprise.” Lindon’s early attempts to fight a model of Yerin made by Dross had not gone well. When she didn’t respond, he continued. “I’ve actually been working on something that might catch you off-guard, but I can’t tell you too much.” That should have caught her curiosity, but she still didn’t respond. “Yerin?”

He glanced at the horizon. Darkness had completely swallowed the sun, leaving the stars, the buildings in the city, and the vehicles passing overhead as the only lights.

Dross made a sound like he was clearing his throat. [Well, I’ve been working on something. I’m just using your brain.]

Lindon ignored him, sitting up and cradling the transmission construct. Sure enough, only a glimmer of light remained in its depths. It was deactivating on the time limit the Sage had left.

He let pure madra flood into the construct, along with a wisp of gray soulfire. He had learned early on that providing it with more madra would boost its performance for a short time.

Indistinctly, Yerin’s voice drifted through the air. “…there? Lindon?”

Lindon brought the construct close to his mouth. “We’re out of time. I’ll talk to you the day after tomorrow.” The weight of that time settled on him. Two days before he could have a break like this again. He added, “I wish you were here.”

The construct went dark.

Lindon tucked the jewel of Forged madra away, laying back down against the tile. Two phoenixes of violet flame circled each other in the sky, and he watched them as they ducked into clouds and reemerged.

Part of him wished Charity hadn’t given him the construct. Being able to talk to Yerin five times in the last week had made the time between unbearable. He’d never realized how short an hour was.

[You know,] Dross said, [I can’t tell if these talks make you feel better or if they highlight just how alone you really are. Anyway, I’m sure the best thing to do is not think about it. Just stuff those feelings way down deep where they can never hurt anybody.]

The phoenixes vanished, and Lindon realized he was lying on his own roof for no reason. He stood, stretching his arms. “I’m going to sleep early. You should, too. We have a big day tomorrow.”

[We’re still going with your plan, then? Oh, good. Good. I was worried you had changed your mind to something reasonable. No, don’t worry. Just go to sleep and dream of success. Maybe that will help somehow.]

* * *

The next day, Charity sat next to Fury in a viewing tower overlooking one of their fighting stages.

“I know this is to choose your representative,” Charity said, “but I didn't think you'd show up.”

Sixteen young Underlords—the last remaining candidates for the main Akura team—were lined up on the arena beneath them. Several dozen possibilities had already been eliminated, whittled down to this elite group.

An Overlord barked instructions at them—he was Fury's great-grandson, Charity's grand-nephew. The Underlords bowed to him and then to the tower where the Sage and the Herald waited.

The stage itself was a polished black square a hundred yards to a side, and the Akura family emblem glowed at the center. One large star and two small stars, all over three mountains. The stars and the mountains glowed purple.

The star on the left represented Charity. Fury was the star on the right, and Malice the largest star in the center. The one that rose over them all.

He tilted his head back, swallowing a bowl of soup bigger than his head. When he finished, he let out a long, satisfied breath, then picked up a loaf of bread. “Intuition,” he said between bites. “I feel like something interesting is going to happen.”

Two Underladies stepped up, saluting one another. One of them, Akura Grace, had a real shot at winning. She looked more like Malice than most of the Akura descendants, full-figured and beautiful, with long raven hair. While she had failed to bond with any of the Books of Seven Pages, she had developed considerable mastery of her sword and shadow Path and carried a long, curved saber on her back.

Grace's opponent was sadly unremarkable. She had made it this far by sheer luck.

At the end of the fight, the two bowed to one another, Grace unharmed and her challenger bleeding from the arm. There had been no tension there.

“And here comes something interesting now.” Fury tossed the uneaten half of his bread over his shoulder.

At first, Charity assumed he was talking about Grace's match, and she wondered if her father was feeling all right. Then she paid more attention to her spiritual sense.

Another young Underlord had removed his veil and walked toward the stage. He was tall and strapping, with a stern expression and a build that reminded her of Fury. He wore the black-and-white robes that the Akura family used for many of their disciples, with a glittering halfsilver hammer badge hanging from a ribbon around his neck.

When he stepped onto the stage, he pressed the fist of his white Remnant arm against his human left, bowing toward their viewing tower.

The Overlord demanded to know what he was doing there, but Charity sent a quick pulse of her madra, signaling him to stop. Pride and several of the others shouted angrily for him to stop, and a few other young Underlords began to climb onto the stage, ready to attack him.

Lindon straightened from his bow, ignoring the others and looking up at Fury and Charity. “Pardon the interruption,” he said, his voice echoing throughout the arena. “Since the winner here is going to be my teammate, I thought I would check their abilities for myself. One last time.”

Audacious of him to try something like this. He was leaning too hard on Charity’s favor. She was inclined to remind him of his disrespect...but only if she had been supervising this contest alone.

She knew what her father was going to say.

“Granted!” Fury shouted happily. “The winner fights Lindon!”

“Apologies, but I had something else in mind.” For the first time, he turned to look at his peers around him.

Charity detected disdain in him, along with more confidence than she had ever seen in him before. Suddenly, even she was intrigued.

“I challenge every Underlord here.”

They all reacted. Some shouted out of wounded pride, some prepared techniques, others laughed or called insults.

Fury turned to Charity eagerly, his red eyes flashing with excitement. “Where's Mercy?”

“The sixth island.”

“She'll want to see this.” He rose from his chair and started cycling his madra, but she stopped him.

“I'll get her.” Fury would fly over there faster than sound, snatch up Mercy, and leap away with no warning. Charity’s way was faster. With a moment of concentration, she stretched her spiritual awareness all the way out to the sixth of the thirteen Phantom Islands.

Mercy was tempering her concentration, pulling her four techniques from the Book of Eternal Night while nightmare beasts assaulted her mind. Charity seized her in the middle of her trial, pulling her through a fold in the Way.

Teleporting so quickly and precisely was the limit of Charity's ability, and she had always been skilled with spatial transport. Mercy tumbled onto the platform, her training outfit muddied and gray, her hair tangled and messy. She shoved herself up using Eclipse as support, and the sacred bow hissed.

Mercy looked around in a panic, disoriented. “Ah! What? Where am I? What? ...what?”

Charity used one pulse of her madra to soothe Mercy's thoughts, and another to command the Underlords below not to form into an angry mob and beat Lindon to death. “Your friend has just done something interesting. We thought you might want to watch.”

Mercy perked up. She leaned her weapon up against the wall and peered over the edge of the platform at the other Underlords below.

“What did he do? Wow, Pride does not look happy.” She pulled her hair back into a rough tail, tying it in place with a string of Forged madra.

“He challenged everyone to a duel,” Fury said, moving up to stand next to her. “I was just about to let it happen.”

By their relative ages, Fury should have been Mercy’s ancestor many generations removed. Instead, they were half-siblings separated by centuries.

Such was the reality of life in a Monarch’s family.

Mercy waved down to Lindon, who looked surprised to see her. “Does he know how strong they are?”

“Everyone down there has fought him at least once,” Charity responded. “Most of them multiple times. They did not enjoy seeing him placed above them, so they took out their frustrations on him.”

Without looking, Mercy extended a String of Shadow and pulled up a chair. “As long as he knows what he's getting into, then we're about to see a show.”

Fury slapped the railing in excitement. His red eyes gleamed, and his voice boomed out over the field. “First fight: Akura Shiria! Wei Shi Lindon! Let's see it!”

* * *

The others cleared off the stage, leaving Lindon and the girl with the hammer and pigtails. Shiria was a distant enough descendant that she had a normal name, and her force Path had been selected for her by her outsider father. But she still had the black hair and purple eyes.

Lindon had fought her five times in total, losing every time.

In his head, he'd trained against her two hundred and sixteen times.

As soon as the stage cleared, she loosened her hammer from its strap on her back, cycling force madra. Her Goldsign, a silver ring around her neck, began to hum. A pair of golden anklets started to activate, drawing a movement technique to her feet.

She couldn't use the Akura bloodline armor, but she hit hard and was surprisingly adaptable.

“Begin,” called the Overlord in charge of the stage.

Lindon slammed an Empty Palm into the air on his left. Rather than many echoes, like Akura Fury had created, he Forged one huge echo at the moment of impact and superimposed it over an Enforced palm strike.

As a result, when Akura Shiria finished her movement technique and appeared suddenly to Lindon's left, an Empty Palm the size of her entire torso caught her in the chest. The blue-white hand that struck her was ten times bigger than Lindon's and disappeared immediately.

Pure madra rushed through her core and her entire madra system, sending her spirit into chaos. The construct in her boots failed, her Goldsign dimmed, and her cycling jammed to a sudden halt.

The physical strike hit her with full force, driving all the air from her lungs, and her eyes bugged out. Without her spirit Enforcing her body, she lost her grip on the hammer, which tumbled from her limp hands.

She fell to her knees, wheezing for a breath.

“You favor attacking from the left side,” Lindon said, “and your movements are too wide when you use your boots.” She also tended to cycle her madra too far in advance of her attack, so it was simple to follow her with his spiritual perception.

“Victory: Wei Shi Lindon Arelius.” The Overlord glanced up at the viewing tower.

Akura Fury nodded and stroked his chin, and Charity looked as impassive as ever. Mercy cheered.

“Second fight,” Fury called. “Akura Courage.”

Courage, it turned out, was the young Underlord with the six flying swords and the Striker techniques. He strode up full of confidence, fanning his swords out behind him.

Lindon had only fought him once and hadn't caught his name. He might have other secrets up his sleeve, because Dross' model of him was not as precise as some of the others.

But Lindon had trained against it ninety-one times.

His eyes burned black.

“Begin,” the Overseer called, and Lindon fired a finger-thin bar of dragon's breath over his opponent's shoulder. It burned a line across the top of his outer robe, and smoke drifted up from singed cloth. His flying swords still hadn't reached Lindon yet.

The blades froze in midair. Courage's purple eyes had gone wide with shock. Clearly, Lindon could have put that Striker technique through his throat.

“You're too slow to start up,” Lindon said simply.

“Victory to Lindon.” The Overlord sounded angry this time, so Lindon wondered if Courage was a close relative.

Fury stood and laughed again, preparing to call out the next match when Lindon interrupted.

Dross heaved a deep breath. [And now the foolishness begins.]

“Forgiveness, honored Herald,” Lindon said, “but I had a different plan in mind.”

He looked to the remaining Underlords, more than half of whom looked angry enough to storm the stage at any second. The Path of Black Flame continued burning through his spirit.

“I challenged all the Underlords here,” Lindon said.

Of the remaining fourteen Akura Underlords, twelve of them looked instantly to Akura Fury, waiting for his permission. Only two continued watching Lindon: Pride and his distant cousin, Grace. Pride looked ready to commit murder, but Grace watched him with distant confusion in her purple eyes, as though she were trying to figure out his angle of approach.

Fury’s wild laughter preceded the words, “Go wild, kids!”

Twelve people leaped onto the stage, and Lindon sharpened his attention as Dross slowed the world down.

Seven young men and five women in Akura colors sprinted for him, drawing weapons and kindling techniques. Sword madra flashed in a silver wave, Forged needles of venom flicked for his neck, and a spear sailed through the air.

Thanks to Dross, Lindon had time to consider his response.

Dragon’s breath seared into a girl’s leg as Lindon snatched the spear out of the air with the explosive movement of the Burning Cloak then hurled it back. Dross projected their movements onto his sight, like ghostly outlines of the future. Lindon fell in line with the projections as though following a dance he had long memorized.

He ducked a fan of sword madra while rolling to avoid a spray of poisoned needles and drilling a finger-thin bar of dragon’s flame through a boy’s shield. As he’d hoped, Charity or Fury called out whenever they considered someone eliminated, so he didn’t have to hurt anyone too badly.

As they grew closer, he poured soulfire into the Burning Cloak. It propelled his every movement with such force that it became hard to control, each step a leap and each punch launched like a cannon-shot. Without weeks of practice, he would have tumbled straight out of the arena’s bounds.

By the time they reached him with their weapons, there were seven remaining.

So quickly that it sent pain lancing through his spirit, Lindon emptied himself of Blackflame madra and switched to the Path of Twin Stars.

That transition was the most dangerous time, and in his predictions, this was where he failed most often. Without Dross’ calculations, he would have been ground into paste between a Forged fist, a body covered in the amethyst Akura bloodline armor, and a blast of force madra.

In the fraction of a second when the Burning Cloak dropped and the Spirit Cloak rose up around him, he slipped each attack by a hair’s breadth.

When the pure madra Enforcer technique filled him, the fight ended.

He broke two legs and three arms, cracked a set of ribs, and drove an Empty Palm into an armored chest. A glowing blue-white handprint five times bigger than his own struck at the same time, quickly Forged out of his Twin Stars madra and shoved into his opponent’s spirit.

Her spirit trembled, the armor shrank away, and she collapsed to her knees. Lindon stood, breathing heavily and focusing on his spirit to keep his madra under control. He was the only one standing.

Fury now sat on the railing at the edge of his viewing platform, legs dangling, leaning forward so that it looked like he could fall off at any second. But the tower was only about thirty feet tall; a fall from that height would threaten him no more than a stiff breeze.

Charity still showed no expression, but Mercy saw Lindon looking and clapped her black-gloved hands together eagerly.

Lindon never had to use more than three techniques against any single opponent. His madra channels were a little strained, having to use so many techniques in a row with no breaks, but he had plenty of power left. He had taken one shallow cut, a few impacts that would bruise if not for his Bloodforged Iron body, and a spiritual attack to his core that he had drowned with pure madra.

Nothing worth complaining about after an overwhelming victory.

[Don’t let me interrupt you with reality, but we’re not done.]

Dross was right. There were two rivals left.

“Next opponent,” the Overlord said wearily, “Akura Grace.”

Most of the young Akura Underlords would be considered attractive; they were physically trained and had delicate features, with the resources of the Akura family to take care of them. Even their battle clothes were finely made, and they all had bodies remade in soulfire.

Akura Grace was on another level. Her every movement was beautiful, her skin smooth, her long hair thick and dark. As she walked onto the stage, she met his eyes with a clear gaze, carrying a lightly curved saber in both hands. She drew the weapon in one elegant motion and set the sheath aside.

Lindon had fought her only once. She had challenged him and won without injuring him. He got the impression that she was really evaluating him, not taking out a grudge on him as the others had, and she had gone away disappointed.

Now she looked interested again, like her ancestor, Fury. She readied her sword.

She had no other constructs on her besides the blade, her sacred instrument, though of course she could have something stored in her soulspace or a void key. But he suspected she wouldn't. Like him, she was pushing to train herself, not to seek a lonely victory.

[My model for her doesn’t have a lot of testing,] Dross said. [Should we think about this a minute? That’s a good idea, let’s think about it.]

“Begin!” the Overlord called.

Grace's sword was already at his neck.

Lindon had back-stepped immediately, expecting the rush. She used a full-body Enforcer technique that shrouded her in shadow, and she moved with a grace that proved her worthy of her name. Her advantage in this fight was her weapon. Lindon had completed some basic Iron-level weapons-training courses provided by Charity, but he’d never found a weapon that he felt suited him.

Though that was a problem now. She channeled an Enforcer technique into her weapon, and a shadowy black edge expanded its length and width a few inches. It moved faster now, a dark blur, and its movements were harder to track.

Lindon used the Soul Cloak. With the control it gave him over his movements, his Underlord body, and Dross' enhancement of his mind, he danced out of the way. She grew faster and faster, but he stayed inches away, even when she began to mix Striker techniques into her attack patterns. Sharp black crescents of madra flashed out at him, slicing the air, but he evaded them all.

Finally, she grew frustrated, stopping her sword for a moment to pour soulfire in it. Colorless flame flickered up and down the blade's length in an instant, and the pressure coming off of the weapon doubled.

But it provided the opening Lindon had been waiting for.

As soon as she stopped, Lindon gathered a gray flame of his own from the quiet bonfire burning in his spirit. He funneled it into a twist of spirit behind his cores, a binding in the making. The location of his Soul Cloak technique.

The smooth blue-white aura around him turned almost tangible, like a waterfall flowing in reverse up his body.

Before she swung, Grace realized what he'd done. She poured soulfire into her own full-body Enforcer technique, but it was too late.

In one motion, he closed the gap between him and jabbed two fingers into her wrist along with a pulse of pure madra. It disrupted her strength, loosening her grip, and he took the weapon from her.

But he didn’t turn it to point the blade at her. He released the Soul Cloak, holding her sword out to her hilt-first.

Her purple eyes were wide with astonishment, her lips slightly parted. She took the weapon back absently.

“Lindon's victory.” The Overlord sighed. He was almost inaudible over Mercy cheering and Fury clapping.

Grace scooped up her sheath, slipping the weapon inside. Then she turned back to him and pressed both fists together.

“Thank you for the match,” she said quietly.

Lindon returned the salute.

Then Pride strode onto the stage. Shadow madra pulsed around him, and Lindon could make out a phantom image in the air behind him: a red book made of madra, its cover sealed with silver chains.

Rather than announcing the sixteenth fight, Fury remained quiet. Pride glowered at Lindon, his spirit unrestrained.

In a way, Lindon was more confident against Pride than against Grace. He had fought Pride twice and seen more of his Path both times. Dross was confident that his model of the young man was at least eighty percent accurate.

But of the four hundred and fifteen simulated matches Lindon had held against Pride, Lindon had won only two hundred.

Pride used exclusively Enforcer techniques. If he managed to move in close, he won. Lindon won only when he kept his distance and peppered Pride with dragon's breath.

They stood facing each other in silence as the defeated Akura members stared at them.

Pride drew himself up to his full height, his eyes moving to the viewing arena. His madra spun quickly, and Lindon started cycling for the Burning Cloak.

“Enough.” Charity’s quiet voice swallowed up all else.

Akura Fury looked to her in childish disappointment, but both Pride and Lindon drew up short.

“Wei Shi Lindon Arelius, step back,” she continued. “Your point is made. Let all see that I have made my selection, and it is final.”

Pride bowed, and then turned away, his every step heavy with obvious frustration.

Lindon looked up to the tower, uncertain. He had expected to fight Pride last of all, so this sudden change wrong-footed him.

Charity stood up, surveying them all. “I suppose now we should have the actual selection tournament.”

“Eh, I'm going to pick Grace or Pride,” Fury said. He hopped down from the thirty-foot tower, landing easily on the ground below, and then began to walk away. “Fight it out between the two of you. Best two of three matches, return to good condition in between each match, Charity's the judge.”

His figure blurred as he shot away.

[What an abrupt man,] Dross said.

7

Lindon hadn’t seen Mercy much since arriving in Moongrave, but after the Akura clan acknowledged him as a qualified participant in the Uncrowned tournament, the situation changed. Now Charity required him to appear in public with members of the Monarch’s family to reinforce his new status. Since Charity and Fury were far too busy, that meant Mercy or Pride.

He had immediately chosen Mercy.

Delighted, she had taken the opportunity to bring him to a show. They now sat side-by-side in a theater box reserved for the Akura head family, looking down on the rest of the audience and on a broad stage. Onstage, sacred artists performed what they called ‘drake-dancing’; they rode serpentine lesser dragons through the air in complex acrobatics, narrowly dodging each other and a barrage of dangerous techniques.

The spectacle focused on the stunts, but the story engaged Lindon the most. The rider on the black drake was a fallen prince trying to regain his kingdom, but every step he took brought him further away from his true love.

An hour in, the director called an intermission, and the drakes landed. They carried their riders backstage to the sound of applause, and the audience’s murmurs rose to a dull roar.

Lindon immediately began cycling the Heaven and Earth Purification Wheel.

Mercy cried out when she saw his eyes shut, and she clapped her hands in front of his face, startling him out of the cycling trance. “You really don’t take any breaks, do you?” Her purple eyes shone with amusement.

“Apologies, but I don’t have time for breaks.” The truth was, he was embarrassed at how easily he had been swallowed up by the show. For a few minutes, he had almost forgotten to improve himself.

Mercy turned her body in her seat, folding black-gloved hands on the arm of her chair. “I’ve never seen you voluntarily take a break. Even in the Skysworn, you were cycling or practicing until you collapsed. Do you not have any hobbies?”

Lindon thought of training as his hobby, but he searched for a more appropriate answer. “I used to work in a library.”

From Mercy’s face, that was clearly not what she wanted to hear. “What do you like doing?”

That felt like the wrong question, but it took him a moment to find the words to explain why. “It’s not about what I like. I’m years behind you and Yerin. I have to work harder to catch up.”

“Lindon, this isn’t a test. What do you enjoy?”

“I like Soulsmithing,” he responded. He was answering from the gut, but that was the most honest answer he could think of. “It’s satisfying to come up with something that works, because Remnant pieces never combine like you expect.”

Mercy leaned even closer to him, eagerly awaiting more.

“I enjoy research. Searching through volumes of information and pulling out just the pieces you need, then putting them together.” He shrugged, self-conscious. “It doesn’t sound fun when I say it like that, but that’s what came to mind.”

Mercy’s tone became overly casual. “What about your talks with Yerin?”

“Of course.” This time, Lindon didn’t need to consider his answer. “She’s always excited to train, and that makes me enjoy it more. Having to advance on my own these last few months has made me realize…”

He trailed off as the music started up beneath them. The director emerged back onstage and began to announce the second part of the drake-dancing show.

Without turning from Lindon, Mercy raised her hand, palm-out.

The director corrected himself mid-sentence. “Ah, it seems that the show will resume in just a few more minutes.”

The musicians lowered their volume. A few members of the audience glanced up at their box, but most people kept their eyes low.

Lindon stared at Mercy. It seemed there were more perks to being a Monarch’s daughter than he realized.

She lowered her voice to barely above a whisper. “So I’ve never asked, but now that we’ve got this chance to talk…what exactly are you and Yerin? Are you…” She twined her fingers together.

Lindon felt like every light in the theater had turned onto him.

“First I thought you were together,” Mercy went on, “and then after watching you and finding out you had both been adopted into the Arelius family, I figured you might have thought of yourselves as brother and sister. But the more I watch you…there’s something there, right?”

Excitement painted every inch of her face. The music stayed low, the crowd murmured, and the show wouldn’t start until Mercy allowed it to.

Lindon’s face burned, and he dug for an excuse to get himself out of the conversation.

[Just move your mouth and make words come out,] Dross said. [Your thoughts are a mess, so talking isn’t going to make it any worse.]

“She…makes me want to work harder,” Lindon began. “When I’m not with her, I feel like something’s wrong. But everything is based on advancing together. That’s all we do.”

He looked down at the stage so he wouldn’t have to look into Mercy’s purple eyes anymore. “If we tried to do more…what would that look like? Would we have to give up advancement? Would we have anything in common?”

“And you’re okay with that?” She sounded confused.

He responded honestly. “I don’t know.”

Mercy settled back into her seat. After a few seconds, she waved her hand. The music swelled again as the show resumed.

“Well,” she said with a sigh, “there’s one easy answer: make it to Monarch. Then you can spend all the time you want on romance and no one can say anything. Just ask my mother.”

* * *

On the day Lindon was to leave for the tournament, the entire Akura family turned out in force.

In an open courtyard so vast that Lindon could not see the end, an uncountable number of people had gathered. They organized themselves into squares, some more precisely than others, representing the families and sects and clans within Akura territory.

It was an ocean of humanity. The noise they generated shook the ground.

Black towers rose evenly between the squares, and a grasshopper-like Remnant of white smoke wavered on top of each of those towers. The spirits played haunting music that drifted over the scene, weaving in and out of the crowd's titanic murmurs.

Lindon watched from above, on a platform supported by a violet Thousand-Mile Cloud. He stood to Mercy's left, while Pride stood to her right. Charity rose above them all, floating on a platform of her own.

They were on display. Two minutes after they rose into the air, the noise of the crowd heightened into cheers, and the music peaked in triumph.

Lindon stood stiffly, his mind choking on the sheer scale. In any direction he looked, he saw more people than he had ever imagined existed.

Constructs in each of the towers projected an illusory image of the three Underlords into the air so everyone in the endless crowd could see. Lindon could now see himself as a forty-foot-tall figure of madra, as flawless as anything a master of the Path of the White Fox could have produced. Every time another construct farther away sprang to life, showing Mercy and Pride and Lindon, a further burst of cheers erupted from the crowd around it.

This was a staggering display of the Akura clan's wealth. The weight sunk in as it never had before: he was representing them, a power that dwarfed the Blackflame Empire. Whether he liked it or not, he was one of the clan's faces now. He had to please them. The force of their displeasure would crush him.

Charity spread her hands, and a gentle ripple of madra drifted out over the crowd. Lindon was certain that even she couldn't reach the end of the gathered people, but when those in the center quieted, a wave of silence spread out over everyone.

The Sage began with a speech designed to reinforce the power and dignity of the Akura clan, and how their family was synonymous with the stability of humanity. Lindon listened intently until he realized he would learn nothing of value. This was only to impress everyone with the importance of what they were doing.

Instead, he examined his illusory image.

He had always been tall, but next to Mercy and Pride, that was even more apparent. With Mercy in the center, it looked as though they were arranged in descending order of height. Mercy came up to his chin, and Pride only his shoulder.

His expression had always looked like he was spoiling for a fight, but since ascending to Underlord, he had changed in a dozen tiny ways. Now he looked stern. Too stern, or so he thought as he examined the giant projection of his face. His discomfort made him look like a judge ready to order an execution. He tried to relax, but the situation was too tense.

He was dressed, as were Mercy and Pride, in the best the Akura clan had to offer. He wore a stiff outer coat with a high collar that flared behind him like a cape and plum-colored inner garments, tailored tightly.

The outside of the coat was black, but the inside was a bright violet that looked like it was on the verge of starting to glow. There was a line of script ringing the lowest hem of his coat that actually did glow bright violet, and after examining it thoroughly, he had been disappointed to find it was only decorative.

The one concession the Akura family had allowed him was his badge. Halfsilver now, representing his rise to Lord, the badge hung over his chest. It sparkled with bright points like stars in a gray sky, and its presence near his chest made him slightly uncomfortable, like a spiritual itch.

Halfsilver interfered with the orderly control of madra, and while it wouldn't hurt his sacred arts unless he tried to channel madra through it or kept it pressed against his skin, he still wished it were made of ordinary silver instead.

Pride wore an outfit much like his, without the badge, and Lindon was somewhat relieved to know that he had found the one person with a less friendly face than his own. Pride stood as though he were looking down his nose at the world, but his perpetual glare made him look like he needed a good punch.

Mercy looked just as at home as her aunt. Her outfit was sleeker and smaller than her male counterparts, and her hair had been tied up into intricate waves laced through by silver strings and dotted with amethysts.

She stood perfectly at ease, her black-gloved hands resting in front of her, the hint of a smile on her lips. The clan had given her powders and paints for her face, so her skin was flawless, her lips a shade more red, her eyes deeper.

The biggest difference between the three of them was their eyes. Lindon's were black—not Blackflame oceans of darkness, just ordinary dark human eyes—while the other two were the deep purple of the Akura head family. The same purple shared by the closest square of people, the ones arranged on a dais at the front of all the rest. Instead of standing on the courtyard, these each had a cushioned chair, their ranks rising up in tiered rows. The Akura head family.

These weren’t just the elite Underlords who had been eligible to potentially compete in the tournament, though he spotted some of them too. Akura Grace leaned back in her chair with her eyes closed, so that Lindon thought she might be cycling. Or sleeping.

But she was one among hundreds of all ages, from white-haired old men and women at the top row to squirming children of six or seven at the bottom. Not all of them had the purple eyes—maybe about half, as far as Lindon could see.

As a group, they stared at him just like everyone else.

When Charity had finished speaking, and the overwhelming cheers from the audience settled down, an old man from the Akura family spoke up. He described the troubles the Akura clan at large faced—incursions along their northern border, famine in the south, a loss of territory to nature, and so on.

As Lindon was beginning to wonder what his point was, he then moved on to how distinguished performance in the Uncrowned King tournament would solve all those problems.

Respect of their fighters would cause the wicked Dragon King to stop his raids to the north. Rewards taken from the other factions would make them rich enough to settle the famine, and new trade deals would open with other Monarch nations. Soon they would see an unprecedented golden age, with their youth leading the way as they pushed into the north and drove the dragons out, conquering the continent for humanity.

Thunderous applause followed, so much that Lindon couldn't hear Mercy commenting into his ear. The cheers continued for five minutes.

Another weight settled on him. Whether victory in the Uncrowned King tournament would really make all those changes for the common citizen of Akura territory, he didn't know. This all may have been a show designed to draw support from the people for the competition.

But at the very least, they thought it mattered to them. This human tide would be listening for news of his performance, deciding whether Lindon had done them proud or let them down.

The Blackflame Empire’s fate would be controlled by this tournament, but so would the lives of millions of other people he would never meet. His performance, the people he defeated, would matter more widely than he’d ever imagined. The knowledge settled into him.

He had to be worthy of it.

When the cheers began to fade, a sleek black cloudship slipped in from overhead. Its design made it look small, though it dwarfed even the Blackflame Emperor's ship. It looked almost like a slice of Stormrock, the floating Skysworn city. Lindon's stomach lurched as his platform began to drift upward, toward the ship.

Mercy and Pride raised their hands and waved to the crowd, Mercy eagerly and Pride reluctantly. Lindon did so as well, having been instructed to mirror anything the other two did. Once again, the crowd roared.

The platform dropped the three of them onto the deck of the airship, and Lindon let out a breath. “Are we finished now? Is it over?”

“Learn patience,” Pride ordered him, and Mercy rolled her eyes at her brother.

“We're going to fly off to make it look like we're leaving,” she explained. “Cheers. Well-wishes. Promises of victory. Everyone's happy. Then we're going to loop around and pick up everyone else. The whole family's coming.”

Except for the servants, Lindon would be the only one aboard the massive cloudship whose name wasn't Akura. That thought was no comfort.

“How long do we have to travel?” he asked carefully.

“It usually takes eight months to reach the center of the Ninecloud continent,” Mercy said, “though the journey is risky. There's never a guarantee of success. But the tournament is in two months, so the Ninecloud Court has sent us superior propulsion constructs and a navigational construct to ensure we reach our destination in six weeks.”

[A navigational construct, you say? That sounds like it might be full of delicious, delicious secrets.]

A different part of the statement had intrigued Lindon. “Ninecloud?”

Pride sneered at him. “The tournament is hosted by the Ninecloud Court. I suppose you’ve never heard of them.”

With Suriel at his side, Lindon had stood among the Court itself, watching Sha Miara's coronation. He hadn't known at the time, but he now suspected she was a Monarch.

Lindon gave Pride a smile that made the shorter man ball up his fists. “It so happens that I have.”

* * *

With her blindfold tight, Yerin sent her perception around the cloudship. The heavy scripts manipulated wind and cloud madra, keeping them in the air. Sealed in a construct below, powerful rainbow madra provided by the Ninecloud Court fueled the ship and gave them the speed necessary to reach the tournament in time.

The crew of the ship were mostly on Paths of cloud or wind, which allowed them to do their jobs, but Yerin sensed at least one on a fire Path and one that used force techniques.

Naru Saeya was a brighter spot than any of them, a concentration of wind madra, but Eithan proved more difficult to spot. Pure madra was easy to overlook. Yerin strained her perception not to reach further, but to drill deeper.

Her Blood Shadow stirred, hungrily reaching out, which gave Yerin another thing to distract her. She pushed the Shadow down, still scanning the deck, gripping her sword tightly. If she had to wrestle with the spiritual parasite for long, she would never find Eithan.

She heard nothing, but she felt him for an instant, a faint whisper of danger in her spirit. Her sword came up, ringing with her Ruler technique, and the air was sliced apart by dozens of invisible blades. Many of the crew stopped in their tracks, and Naru Saeya's spirit quivered in surprise, but Yerin ignored them and tore off her blindfold.

Eithan stood before her, frozen in mid-lunge, eyes wide. His one outstretched hand held a silver comb, which he had been using to attack. Its top half fell off, cut by the Endless Sword, and plinked to the deck. The edges of his ornate pink-and-gold outer robe were shredded, and a few strands of his hair drifted down.

He wasn't cut, but Yerin had never felt so victorious in all her life.

She raised her sword into the air and gave a triumphant shout as though she had just captured an enemy's fortress. Naru Saeya cheered along with her, applauding furiously, and several of the crew joined in.

After a moment, Eithan's shocked expression melted into an appreciative smile, and he added a few claps of his own. "If I had thought you'd pick it up so quickly, I'd have tied my hair back."

Yerin drew in a deep, satisfied breath, looking up at Eithan. "Next time, I'm drawing blood."

"You sound so eager."

She reached into her outer robe and pulled out the purple crystalline construct that had been delivered to her months ago. It wasn't the time for her to speak with Lindon yet, so he might not be able to answer, but it was at least the right day.

Yerin held it out to Eithan, who provided pure madra to activate it. Sword madra would work, but it would wear the construct down faster. It was already on its last legs.

But she wouldn't need it for much longer. In only seven more days, they would reach the Ninecloud Court. Lindon might be there already.

The construct shot sprays of madra essence in brightly colored sparks, and the light within it flickered. Dream and shadow madra twisted around each other into a whirlpool, and Yerin caught the faint impression that it was drilling into something...deeper.

But the impression was gone in a moment, and Lindon's voice came through, distant and weak. "Yerin, can you...may not...much longer."

The cloudship shuddered as the crew prepared them for landing; they would touch down soon to allow their scripts to draw on aura and refuel. The wind picked up as they descended, which didn't make it easier to hear.

"Lindon," Yerin shouted into the construct. "I cut Eithan!"

"That's not strictly true," Eithan pointed out, but she waved him to silence.

"...apologies...what did you...Eithan?"

"I cut him! I finally sensed him coming!" She had shared her progress in this training exercise with Lindon, and while she had sensed Eithan before, it was never quickly enough to interrupt his attack. He strengthened his veil every few days, and she’d begun to worry that she would never catch up.

Lindon's distant voice grew excited. "Really? That's...how did...even him."

The construct's light flickered again, and the sound died out. Yerin lowered it, trying to shake off her disappointment. Eithan could power the device again, but it was reaching the end of its life. Besides, she would be able to talk to Lindon directly in another week. Their cloudships were both supposed to arrive at about the same time; two weeks before the start of the tournament.

She pushed out a smile for Eithan and tucked the construct away. "You'll have to watch yourself from here on. Won't be able to sneak around like a rat."

"I wouldn't be so sure; I have many other rat-like qualities that will serve me well."

Naru Saeya stepped up, multi-colored sword in her hand. "My turn to cut Eithan."

"While Yerin is making excellent progress, she did not cut me. I want that to be clear."

"Draw your comb."

Yerin stepped back while Naru Saeya and Eithan exchanged blows. They both had Iron bodies suited for speed, which had recently made it hard for her to follow their matches.

Now, by extending her perception over the both of them, she could sense the changes in their spirit much more clearly and quickly than before. Those small shifts gave her a sense of what would happen a moment in advance.

She continued thinking about it as their cloudship touched down. It felt similar to how her spirit sometimes warned her in moments of danger, as she sensed signs of approaching hostility that her conscious mind was not yet aware of. That was the ability she was training.

But there was another layer to it, one she was just beginning to touch. Sometimes her spirit warned her of danger before she could have sensed anything. What was it feeling?

Her mind returned to the construct that allowed her to speak with Lindon regardless of the distance. She could track the shadow and dream madra as they twisted into one another, but they were held in place by...something else. There should be a third element there, but she felt nothing.

It was a vague concept, and as she wondered about it, she extended her perception around her. Beyond Eithan and Saeya's fight, she stretched it into the trees that now rose over their cloudship.

The aura was rich here, and she felt the power of the wind as it played through the leaves. A storm gathered overhead, but fire aura had gathered within it, so it was going to be a bad aura-storm.

Those happened sometimes, especially in lands with strong vital aura. She and her master had been forced to travel through rains of fire or winds of scorching poison, though of course she’d had a Sage’s protection at the time.

She found herself sensing for gaps in the aura, still chewing on the vague feeling she’d gotten from the construct.

Instead of an answer, she felt danger.

Saeya and Eithan jumped away from her at the same time Yerin's spirit screamed a warning, and all three of them shouted to the crew at the same time. Far overhead, a winged golden form split through the clouds, diving down toward them.

A gold dragon. It must have hidden in the overwhelming fire aura gathered overhead, disguising itself even from Eithan.

It had a serpentine body, four clawed limbs, gleaming fangs, and shining eyes. Its scales glittered even in the dim light of the overcast day, and it descended on them like a golden spear.

Yerin's sword leaped into her hand, and her six sword-arms flashed behind her. She gathered up the sword aura, shaping it to her will, focusing the Endless Sword on the tip of her master's white blade.

Saeya stood upright, her emerald wings spread behind her, peacock feathers standing up straight behind one ear. She made a fist, and wind aura snagged the dragon's wings in mid-flight.

The creature shuddered as though stumbling in midair, losing a bit of speed, but broke the Ruler technique after a moment of concentration.

Eithan looked up at the sky, yellow hair streaming behind him and hands in his pockets. Behind him, blue-white stars of Forged madra began to appear.

"Too late," he said.

At the same time, the gold dragon cracked open its jaws. It spewed bright orange liquid flame in a thick stream, like a burning river, down on their ship. Gold dragon's breath. The Path of the Flowing Flame.

Yerin unleashed the Endless Sword which, as expected, only scraped a shallow line across the gold dragon's scales. She hadn't intended it to be a lethal blow, she only wanted to throw off the dragon's aim.

It didn't work. The dragon's head jerked, and the line of Flowing Flame madra scorched the ground to one side of the ship, but only an instant later the sacred beast pulled its head back. Fire madra blasted through the bottom of the ship with a sickening crunch that Yerin could feel through her feet.

The dragon caught itself in the middle of its dive, flapping its wings to hover in midair. Yerin could feel the force of the wind and the pressure of its spirit; it had the power of an Underlord.

Yerin pooled madra in her sword, gathering up the Rippling Sword technique, and slashed at the air. A wave of razor-sharp energy swept at the dragon, but a round plate of bronze emerged from behind the creature, sweeping around and catching the Striker technique. Yerin's madra burst apart on the shield.

The dragon reached out to the aura around it, resonating with its soulfire. It was far too weak to be an attack—Yerin could feel that immediately—but it was still a complex aura manipulation technique that Yerin wasn't sure she could match.

Words, half in her ears and half in her head, soon formed from aura of wind and dreams. "Where is the Blackflame?" the dragon demanded in a feminine voice. A voice Yerin had heard before.

She hadn't heard it in many months, and she had never seen this form before, but a female gold dragon with a grudge against Lindon...there was only one she knew of.

"He's dead," Yerin said to Sopharanatoth. "Choked on his soup."

A spiritual scan passed over the whole cloudship, sending a shiver passing through her soul. Yerin didn't expect the dragon to retreat just because she found out Lindon wasn't around, and besides, Yerin wasn't the same weak Highgold that she had been when she'd first met Sophara. She had no problem challenging an Underlady now.

Yerin slid up to Naru Saeya, keeping her sword out. Voice low, Yerin asked, "Can you get me up there?"

"That would be a bad idea," Saeya responded. Sweat rolled down the sides of her face, and she licked her lips.

Yerin looked to Eithan for confirmation, and he nodded.

He didn't seem as worried as Saeya did, but he hadn't banished the stars gathering in the air behind him either. "Feel for yourself."

Yerin reached out toward the dragon with her perception...and suddenly Sophara loomed a hundred times larger in her vision. Yerin’s spirit quivered like a kicked puppy.

This was not someone she had any chance of defeating. Not on her own.

But she wasn’t on her own.

Sophara showed no intention of attacking. She gave an angry roar, her wings beating the air, and turned to fly away.

A Rippling Sword caught her in the flank the same time as a lance of light from Eithan's star. A fist of green wind madra grabbed at her tail. Yerin's technique actually drew blood, Eithan's crashed onto the bronze shield floating around her, and Saeya's drew her up short.

"I have not allowed you to leave," Naru Saeya declared, rising up on wings of her own.

Yerin felt a burst of pride that all three of them had come to the same conclusion. None of them were a match for Sophara, but she wasn't invincible, and she’d been foolish enough to come here on her own.

This was exactly the time to attack.

The cloudship's crew had leaped over the side at the first sign of Underlords clashing, and the ship itself still listed to one side, having a chunk burned out of it by gold dragon's breath.

Sophara only flinched at the damage from their techniques. Blood rolled down her scales, but she still faced them with slowly flapping wings. "I don't need to waste time with you," her aura-born voice said. "You are already done."

Once again, she turned. Another volley of techniques reached her, but they were either dodged, deflected by the floating shield, or crushed by her own madra.

Yerin and Saeya tried twice more, but Eithan gave up almost immediately, letting his Forged stars dissipate back into aura. He sighed. "This will be inconvenient."

Naru Saeya turned sharply, staring down at the deck beneath her feet. "Is it gone?"

"All but a spoonful."

Yerin extended her own perception down to the cloudship. She couldn't sense the damage to the hull—she could only sense spiritual powers, nothing physical—but that scarcely mattered. It was the network of scripts and constructs running the ship that actually got them places.

Many of them were still intact. She figured the crew could have them in the air again inside a day.

But the containment around the Ninecloud madra was broken. The fuel given to them had mostly faded into useless essence.

She pushed back a spike of fear. "We're not walking there, that's certain. If you had to place a bet, how long would you say it's going to take us?"

"Another month," Naru Saeya said sadly. "At best."

The tournament's opening was in three weeks.

Yerin walked over to the side, looking down to stare at the smoking hole in the ship. "Well...here's hoping they come looking for us before then."

8

The Ninecloud Court looked as though it had been ripped from a dream.

Rather than a city, it looked like a jeweled palace so vast that Lindon couldn't see the end. Shimmering glass bridges connected one ruby tower to another, and shining castles floated on white clouds that sparkled every color. Blue birds with wingspans that looked a mile wide trailed rain from their tails, leaving rainbows falling behind them.

The iridescent structures built on one another, leading up to one tower in particular: a rose-tinted diamond spire encircled by a solid rainbow that reminded Lindon of Samara's Ring back home.

Lindon reached into his pocket, clenching Suriel's marble. Somewhere in that complex—maybe at the top of that tower—was where heaven's messenger had taken him to see Luminous Queen Sha Miara. Years ago, Suriel had assured him that he couldn’t make it with the power he had at the time.

And now here he was.

Without warning, rainbow light shimmered around the cloudship. Lindon began cycling Blackflame, but none of the Akura Lords or Ladies looked concerned. A moment later, a woman's gentle voice poured in from everywhere.

“Good morning, honored guests! I am the Ninecloud Soul, voice of the Court, and we welcome you to the eighteenth Uncrowned King tournament! The first round will begin in two weeks. In the meantime, we will guide you to your rooms.”

He couldn’t see the source of the voice. The rainbow light hovered around their ship, which began to drift toward a nearby amethyst tower.

[It’s interesting how humans decide whether or not to panic by watching others,] Dross noted. [What if all of you are wrong together?]

Charity and Fury are aboard. If they’re wrong about what’s safe, then I guess we’re all going to die.

Other cloudships were being pulled into other neighboring towers at the same time. In fact, the air might have been more crowded than the streets. Maybe the Blackflame Empire team was somewhere among them.

He sent a thread of pure madra into the voice transmission construct he held in his hand.

[That poor construct. Worked to death. You’re a cruel man.]

Yerin’s voice came through in a whisper, and Lindon pressed the device to his ear. But he couldn’t make anything out; her words split and cracked like dry leaves. He poured more pure madra into it, but finally the faceted surface of the construct cracked as well. He felt the binding inside warp, deforming past usefulness.

He lowered it, sighing. It had been wonderful being able to speak with Yerin even every other day, but he had pushed the construct past its original lifespan. It wasn’t meant to last half a year, he was sure.

[There are sects that would have considered that a legendary treasure, handing it down to their descendants to call for help in times of dire need,] Dross said. [I just thought you ought to feel guiltier.]

The Sage can afford it, Lindon responded, but he was disappointed that the construct had finally broken. Now he wouldn’t know when to expect Yerin. Maybe she was finally here. Would he be allowed to see her before the tournament?

As the ship drifted closer to the shimmering jeweled tower, another cloudship joined them, pulled by the same rainbow madra toward a dock next to theirs. This ship was made of pale wood and drifted on a white cloud, but it was much smaller than the Akura clan’s. On the deck were a scattered handful of blue-robed sacred artists.

Their ship had clearly suffered some damage. Scorch marks dotted the hull, and sprays of cloud madra hissed from the bottom.

One woman onboard spotted them and walked over to the edge. Just when Lindon thought she would leap over, she vanished mid-step, appearing on the deck of the Akura cloudship. She dragged a gust of icy air with her.

The new arrival looked young, perhaps midway through her twenties, with sun-browned skin and long, flowing white hair. She wore sky-blue sacred artist’s robes decorated with snowflakes like white flowers. Along the outside of her forearms ran a frozen line of ice down her skin. A straight-bladed sword hung in a blue sheath on her back.

Charity did not appear surprised to see her, instead giving a shallow bow. “Min Shuei. It seems you ran into some trouble on the way.”

Lindon, watching intently, startled when Mercy rushed up behind him and grabbed his arm in excitement.

“That’s the Winter Sage! I haven’t seen her since I was a girl!” She leaned forward, staring at the newcomer. “She’s taller than I remembered.”

The Winter Sage’s expression crumpled as she stared at Charity, as though she were about to cry. “Charity! Where were you?”

“I was not aware you were in trouble,” the Heart Sage said stiffly. “Why did you not contact us? I would have sent my father to your side in a moment.”

“It was Xorrus,” the white-haired woman said, and now her speech was tinged with hatred. “By the time I sensed her strike, she was already flying away. She drew the blood she wanted.”

Akura Charity was still cold as usual. “Your team?”

“She killed one of my boys,” Min Shuei said, full of sorrow. “He was only twenty-six, and so full of talent. His mother hasn’t eaten in weeks. His father swore to mount a dragon’s head on his wall for every year of his son’s life.”

“But only one?” Charity clarified. “You still have two competitors left?”

The tanned woman turned horrified eyes to the Sage of the Silver Heart. “Hundreds died, among them one of the most talented students I’ve ever had. He cannot simply be replaced!”

“And yet he must be,” Charity said. “I am not insensitive to your grief, but this competition is our best chance to strike back. Have you selected a replacement yet?”

The Winter Sage bristled with rage, and icy madra spread to every corner of the ship.

Lindon shivered, his skin prickling as sword-aura stung him in response to this woman’s anger.

Charity did not muster her madra in response, but nor did she seem moved by the other Sage’s hostility. They faced one another in silence as the other Akura members scurried away, evacuating the deck.

Then a door slammed open, breaking the quiet. Akura Fury strode out, his black hair rippling like a flame and his chest bare as always. For the first time that Lindon had seen, his expression was totally serious.

“I smell Xorrus,” the Herald said.

The Winter Sage gestured back to her cloudship, which by that time had settled at the end of a dock sticking out of the emerald tower. The Akura cloudship shuttered as it, too, was drawn into a dock.

Servants in rainbow robes waited for them, bowing, but no one left the ships yet.

Fury drifted up on a cushion of wind aura, using his soulfire to float. He moved as naturally as if he were on a wind Path, effortlessly flying over to the white cloudship, hovering next to the burn-scarred hull.

“Amazing,” Lindon said.

“That’s a Herald for you.” Mercy chewed on one of her black-gloved thumbs for a moment before saying, “…you should know that there’s been a feud between my family and the gold dragons for generations. Uncle Fury especially. He’s considered just behind Northstrider and the Beast King as a great enemy of dragon-kind.”

[Third place isn’t bad,] Dross said.

Fury ran his hand along the scorched wood of the Frozen Blade cloudship. “This can’t have been more than a week ago. She was alone?”

The Sage of the Frozen Blade closed her eyes and took a deep breath, bringing her madra under control. “A wing of lesser dragons burned down an ancestral grove as we traveled. I stopped to deal with them, but they were only bait so that Xorrus could strike against my Underlords.”

Fury’s red eyes burned. “You were lucky not to lose everyone. But now we have greater concerns.” He turned to Charity. “Xorrus is only the Dragon King’s left hand.”

Before he’d even finished speaking, the Heart Sage’s voice echoed throughout the cloudship. “Be on alert. We have two remaining vassal teams that have not yet arrived: the Temple of Rising Earth and the Blackflame Empire. We have every reason to believe that one or both have suffered an attack.”

A shiver passed down Lindon’s spine.

“I will approach the Ninecloud Court for assistance,” she continued. “In the meantime, use any methods available to contact our teams. If we can determine their location, we can send protection.”

Lindon fumbled in his outer robe for the broken communication construct. He poured madra into it, flooding it in an instant and creating a shrill shriek of sound. The binding only dissolved faster, but he flooded it with even more power. Even an instant of connection would reassure him that she was still alive.

Mercy squeezed his arm with one black hand. “Nothing to worry about. We have much better lines of communication with the Empire than with the Frozen Blade school. If something had happened, we would have known.”

That would be reassuring except for the concern in her own voice.

Dross didn’t help.

[That’s right, don’t worry,] he said. [I can see why you might be worried. The Blackflame Empire is closer to the dragons and even weaker than the Frozen Blade school, so you might expect them to be in much greater danger. But you can’t ignore the possibility of good luck!]

The construct in Lindon’s hand exploded, sending fizzing chunks of madra flying in all directions.

Mercy patted him again. “Someone onboard will have a way to communicate with the Naru clan. I’ll find out where they are.”

Lindon tried to thank her, but he was focused on the damaged cloudship. The gold dragons had done that to weaken the Akura clan in the tournament. They were the ones who would get the Blackflame Empire.

He remembered Ekeri, the Truegold who had suspected him of carrying around a treasure from Ghostwater. She had hounded him relentlessly until he had barely managed to kill her.

If the Akura team didn’t perform well enough—if he didn’t—her family would take over the Empire. Including his homeland.

Maybe they had already…

Before his thoughts could make it too far, his spiritual perception screamed at him. He collapsed to his knees as the two Sages and the Heralds dropped their veils at once. They all looked west, across the jeweled city, but through his watering eyes he couldn’t see what had drawn their attention.

Most of the other Akura clan members on the deck had crumpled just like him, but he noticed that the Ninecloud servants on the dock only flinched in their multi-colored robes. They did not shrink back.

The rainbow light returned to surround the cloudship, and the pleasant female voice that had greeted them drifted through the air again. “Welcome, guests. Please enter your rooms.”

“We have reason to worry for the safety of our teams,” Charity said. “Can you confirm that the Rising Earth and Blackflame Empire teams are still en route?”

“The Rising Earth team missed their arrival date last week,” the invisible Ninecloud representative admitted. “Enter your tower, and we will be happy to give you a full accounting of their absence.”

“We will have our own accounting,” the Winter Sage said, her voice furious. Still staring into the west, she drew her sword. Lindon wanted to see what she was watching for, but she raised her weapon into the air.

It looked the same as Yerin’s.

Hers couldn’t be the only white-bladed sword in the world, but Lindon recognized it immediately. He had been with Yerin when she’d pulled it from the Sword Sage’s body. This was exactly the same as the one Yerin carried, from the shape of the hilt to the length of the blade.

He wasn’t sure what to make of that. Had Yerin’s master carried a sword from the Frozen Blade school?

A winged silhouette flew from one of the distant towers to the west, growing larger and larger, clutching something huge in its talons. The shadow resolved into a dragon, golden and serpentine, with a cloud of sand rolling around it like smoke.

Its wings were each big enough to strike their cloudship from the air, and it bared its gleaming fangs. Golden dragon eyes, with their vertically slitted pupils, glared at the ship.

The power of its spirit enveloped the city, driving air traffic away. Cloudships and winged horses fled at the dragon’s approach. This gold dragon’s power rivaled Akura Fury’s.

A Herald.

[Xorrus,] Dross said, [left hand of the Dragon Monarch. She is called Desert-bringer, the Breath of Destruction, the Eternal Sandstorm.]

Lindon could barely breathe, but he tensed further. How do you know?

[Just like your new friend Fury, she was one of the Heralds who formed the original pact of Ghostwater. I found a record of her personally ignoring me.]

From this distance, it was clear that the dragon Herald was carrying a massive chunk of stone. Perhaps the top of a tower or a segment of castle wall.

He strained against the spiritual pressure to keep his eyes clear and open; a fight here could kill him and everyone else on the cloudship. Surely the Sages would know that better than he. They would hold back.

The dragon’s mouth opened, and her mocking laughter shook the ship. Xorrus said, “A gift from my father to the Queen of Shadows.”

She darted upward, deceptively swift, and dangled the stone over their ship. Its shadow covered Lindon entirely.

Then she dropped it.

The masonry was big enough to crush the ship, but Lindon didn't even have time to flinch before Fury caught it. Hovering two dozen feet over the deck, he held up the massive rock with one hand, staring upward. He didn't seem to strain in the slightest.

But from this angle, Lindon could see an emblem carved into the stone, larger than Fury's body: a series of rising stalagmites.

“Oh, you wiped out the Rising Earth sect?” Fury’s tone was light, even conversational. “I see, I see.”

The rainbow light around their ship intensified. Now the voice from the Ninecloud Court sounded nervous. “Honored guests, we humbly ask that you please settle your grievances in the arena. The collateral damage from a clash between you—”

Fury hurled the boulder.

It shot toward Xorrus with such an explosion of force that the wind pushed back everyone on the deck. A deafening roar tore through Lindon's ears, and he could no longer keep his eyes open.

When he opened them again, the gold dragon was laughing. The cloud of sand around her had grown. Had she dissolved the boulder into sand?

Akura Fury laughed with her.

Together, the Heralds laughed and laughed, but every second Lindon grew more nervous. Dross, if they start fighting, how much trouble are we in?

[I wouldn't say we're safe, but it’s nothing to be worried about. Heralds never come to blows. And besides, look how friendly they are!]

Charity had dropped her veil, her spirit unleashed, though she looked as calm as ever. And Min Shuei, the Winter Sage, still bared her sword. Small blades of frost, barely visible, played in the air around her in a constant snowstorm. Her expression twitched and her hand shook as she fought to keep herself under control.

Fury's laughter died down first, and he sighed as he wiped a tear from his eye. “It's funny, isn't it? Life is funny. I brought you a gift too!”

Charity's voice resounded in Lindon's mind. Get down! The mental command was so strong that everyone on the cloudship threw themselves to the deck at once.

Then Akura Fury struck.

A dozen black palms, each bigger than the ship, slammed into the gold dragon at once. The handprints of shadow madra dissolved the cloud of sand, but they didn't crack scales. They seemed to sink into the dragon's spirit. She roared in pain and gathered up golden fire in her mouth.

Cords of multi-colored light looped around both Heralds, locking their bodies and spirits in place. Xorrus' dragon breath dissipated, but she didn’t struggle against her rainbow bonds.

Her pained growls turned into laughter once again. “A cheap price for the Temple of Rising Earth.”

The Ninecloud Court voice echoed over them all, this time sounding stern. “By the power of Luminous Queen Sha Leiala, we have restrained you. You are still our guests, but do not take our Court lightly.”

Sha Leiala? Lindon thought.

[Monarch of the Ninecloud Court,] Dross explained. [Do you not understand how to pick up on context clues?]

What about Sha Miara? Lindon asked. Suriel had taken him to her coronation two years before.

[Never heard of her.]

Xorrus bared her fangs in a smile as the light of the Ninecloud Court dragged her backward. “I hope your sister will give my granddaughter some competition.”

Fury turned back to his ship, letting the light pull him away as well. “I don't think it matters. What do you think, Charity?”

Charity, cool as ever, inclined her head toward Xorrus. “I'm sure she will do your family proud,” the Sage said, “before the tournament ends and I kill her myself.”

Xorrus struggled against the light, snapping her teeth, but she was still pulled inexorably away.

As the dragon vanished, and Fury and the Sages withdrew their spirits, Lindon finally drew a deep breath and stumbled to his feet. He was still digesting everything he'd heard, but there was one encouraging fact among them: Xorrus had never mentioned the Blackflame team.

[That's good news!] Dross said. [Maybe she didn't think they were worth her time to kill! Unless she did kill them and just didn't think it was worth mentioning.]

Mercy returned, propping herself up on the staff of twisted black madra she called Suu. She panted as she spoke. “Sorry! I got stuck under the pressure. Did you hear what they said?”

“Sopharanatoth,” Lindon repeated. “Isn't that...”

Mercy nodded. “Yerin and I fought her after you killed her younger sister in Ghostwater. I couldn't tell for myself, because I was too weak at the time, but rumor says she's supposed to be strong.” She caught her breath for a moment and then added, “She might be favored to win.”

A Herald’s granddaughter had a personal grudge against him, and she was one of the strongest in the tournament.

[I wish I could say I was surprised,] Dross said. [Oh, wait, I could lie.]

We'll have to watch her fights, Lindon thought.

[How will that help us when we're avoiding her and letting someone else beat her?]

We want to beat her early. If he could beat her, he could weaken her influence and make it harder for her to get revenge and keep the Blackflame Empire out of dragon hands.

The rainbow light around Fury faded, and the Ninecloud servants in rainbow robes streamed out from the dock to usher the Akura clan inside. Lindon noticed they did their best to keep even their eyes from landing on Fury.

The Ninecloud voice echoed once more, “Now please have a pleasant stay in the Ninecloud Court. If there is any convenience you wish, allow us to serve you. Enjoy our hospitality within your tower for the next fourteen days, and then the tournament begins!”

9

Yerin’s master had owned several paintings. He didn’t put them up anywhere, he just pulled them out every once in a while to admire them. Passing over the Ninecloud countryside was like flying through one of those paintings.

The trees had pale white bark and the leaves were of every bright color. Thousand-Mile Clouds were born naturally here, so they floated all around, some as big as islands. Vines and bushes spilled over their edges, or clusters of houses, and winged horses and tiny cloudships filled the skies.

The capital city shone in the distance, glittering like a handful of jewels that spread across the entire horizon.

"Ninecloud City," Eithan said, "one of the largest cities in the world. Capital of the Ninecloud country, home to the Ninecloud Court. In the distant past, they were named by the same culture that named the Blackflame Empire. Among their virtues was a certain philosophy: why use many names when you can recycle the same one?"

Their half-repaired cloudship crawled across the sky to the point that Yerin wished she could get out and push. The jeweled city looked as distant as the sun that rose behind it. "Will we be making it by noon?"

"Noon in three days, maybe," Eithan responded. "If we hope to make it to the opening of the first round in a matter of hours, we have no choice but to trust in the mercy of a greater power."

Naru Saeya chewed at her bottom lip. "I could fly ahead. Unlikely I'd make it by noon, but I could perhaps make it to the city borders by nightfall."

"No point to that," Yerin said bitterly. "Might as well keep limping along. The closer we get, the better our odds that some Herald takes mercy on us and scoops us up."

Still, as the sun rose, Yerin stood at the bow of the ship and stared into the distance. She hoped, she wished, she prayed to the heavens, and she kept her perception wide open. They were competitors in the Uncrowned King Tournament, one of the biggest events in the world. Somebody would come for them.

When the sun burned straight overhead, she knew the heavens were deaf.

One of the crew walked up to Naru Saeya, telling her they needed to set down so that their scripts could restore their cloud. Here, it would be dozens of times faster than back home, but that would make no difference. They might as well take a whole day.

Yerin dropped to the deck, leaning her back against the railing, finally letting her spirits sink to the depths. Here she had lost her chance to measure herself against her master, to compete with Lindon, to see how she rated against the best in the world. And it was all because she couldn't get there in time.

She consoled herself with the knowledge that the tournament stretched over months. At least she would be able to watch the matches.

Somehow that made things worse.

She had tucked her head between her knees and shut off her spiritual perception when someone nudged her shoulder. She stretched out a sword-arm and jabbed it at him, sure it was Eithan. But he caught the limb and said her name in a low voice.

"Yerin. I think you ought to look up."

Annoyed, she glanced up. A shape flew toward their ship, a blur of hazy white madra. She stretched out her senses and felt a blend of ice and sword madra. The feeling of a wintersteel blade.

Yerin shot to her feet, brushed herself off, threw her hair back from her face, and nervously adjusted the sword on her belt.

"If I'm not mistaken, that's your friend," Eithan said.

The shape had now resolved itself into the form of a woman with long white hair, flying through the air after them with no cloud to support her, but Yerin didn't need to see to recognize the madra.

"Is that the Sage of the Frozen Blade?" Saeya asked excitedly.

"Cheers and celebration for us." Yerin inhaled deeply, evening out her breathing.

The last time she had seen the Winter Sage, Yerin's master had delayed their engagement indefinitely in order to take Yerin northwest. On a quest to train her and potentially learn to keep her Blood Shadow under control.

Min Shuei had...not taken it well. Yerin didn't think she'd ever met anyone who wore their emotions as openly as the Sage of the Frozen Blade. Yerin had once seen her cry because a rainstorm was too beautiful.

She would have known immediately that the Sword Sage was dead, so Yerin had felt no pressure to carry the news herself. In fact, she had hoped that she wouldn't see the Sage again for as long as possible. From the first moment that the Sword Sage had taken Yerin back to the Frozen Blade sect, the Winter Sage had never approved of her.

Yerin did not expect that to change.

The Winter Sage flew in at blinding speed, using nothing more than the control over aura given to her by her Archlord-level soulfire. She was not a wind artist, so it was a masterful display of control as she swooped in and lightly landed on the deck.

Her skin was tanned, her hair long and white, though she had the appearance of a young woman. A sword identical to Yerin's rested at her hip; it was the sister to the weapon she had gifted Yerin's master, long ago. Two swords, crafted by the Sage herself.

She landed, and Naru Saeya bowed immediately, but Min Shuei's focus fixed on Yerin. Her eyes burned with fury, and her lips quivered, but she said only, "Yerin."

Yerin nodded her head. "Winter Sage."

The Sage's face transformed into a mask of grief, and she sounded as though she were about to cry. "Why didn't you come back home?"

Yerin's stomach tightened, and she was forcibly reminded why she had never gotten along with the Sage. "I stayed with your sect for a whisker more than half a year. That's a long jump away from a home."

"You could have at least told me what happened yourself."

"I'd bet my soul against a rat's tail that you knew as soon as I did," Yerin said. "Didn't get up from your chair to avenge him, did you?"

The Sage staggered as though Yerin had struck her in the heart with an arrow. Yerin's master had always argued that Sages should go out and use their powers for the good of as many people as possible, but it would take an act of the heavens to dislodge the Sage of the Frozen Blade from her sect.

"If you knew..." The Sage’s voice shook. "If I traveled there to avenge him, I would be as vulnerable as he was. Vengeance is a poor reason to allow myself to be killed by ignorant barbarians. And what good would it do? Would slaughtering Jades and Irons bring him back?"

A sudden surge of guilt caught Yerin off-guard. She shouldn't have used vengeance to provoke the Sage. Not only was it not fair, but it wasn't as though Yerin had gone out of her way to get revenge. She could have returned to Sacred Valley and carved through the Heaven's Glory school at any time, but she knew herself that it would accomplish nothing.

But something the Sage said caught her interest. Was it Sacred Valley itself that had opened the Sword Sage to the attacks of mere Jades? Yerin had always assumed it was the poison. But if there was something about the place...

Seeing that Yerin had not responded, the Winter Sage drew in a sharp breath, looking to Eithan and Saeya. "I'm here to bring you back, but the introduction has already begun. If you don't want to be disqualified, we should hurry."

Yerin shook herself as Naru Saeya thanked the sage for her assistance. The Winter Sage's appearance had knocked Yerin off balance, but this wasn't time to get lost in her own head. She had fights to win.

Wind aura, guided by the Sage, swept up both Eithan and Saeya. The Naru clanswoman spread her wings and reveled in the sensation, while Eithan stood, smiling gently as though he stood on solid ground.

Yerin bowed at the waist. "Apologies," she said to the Sage. She sounded too much like Lindon for her taste, but she pushed on. "I pushed too hard. Please bring me along so that I can bring honor to my master's memory."

A single tear ran down the woman's tan cheek. She whispered, "I hope you can."

I hope so too, Yerin thought.

* * *

Information requested: Luminous Queen Sha Miara, Monarch of the Ninecloud Court

Beginning report…

Path: Celestial Radiance. Uses royal madra to disrupt, control, and manipulate the madra of others. Has no effect on vital aura, and therefore no Ruler techniques, so a Celestial Radiance artist’s ability to influence the physical world is largely limited to their ability with soulfire.

Royal madra, the rainbow-colored signature of the Ninecloud Court, is in fact a spiritual mutation of pure madra that occurred long ago in the Sha bloodline. From childhood, they can control the spirits of others, and over the centuries they have refined this power into a set of techniques and polished these techniques to perfection. Using their innately powerful madra, they solidified control over their nation and their continent, naming both after their sigil: a nine-colored cloud.

One of their most closely guarded techniques is known as Heaven’s Wish. Once only, a practitioner can pass on their spirit to another. Far more thorough than the adoption of a Remnant, this technique allows for the near-total transfer of power and skill to an heir, though some knowledge is still lost.

Miara’s mother, Sha Leiala, ruled over the Ninecloud people for two hundred years. Only three years prior to the eighteenth Uncrowned King tournament, she did battle with a host of powerful plague-spirits born beneath a disaster area in her country. Though she was victorious, her lifeline was damaged, and she was forced to pass on her inheritance years earlier than she planned.

Thus did Sha Miara, a girl of only twelve, inherit a Monarch’s power.

The queen’s death was a secret known only to a few, but still that secret leaked to rebellious elements within the Ninecloud Court. They sent a fleet of cloudships to the capital city, intending a coup. When they were struck down by the full might of a Monarch, they determined that Leiala’s death had been nothing more than a false rumor.

The Sha family encouraged that belief, and the illusion of Sha Leiala still makes regular appearances all over the nation. As far as the citizens know, their queen is healthy and strong.

By royal decree, Sha Miara’s name and her true identity as the Luminous Queen are known only to the Sha family, their direct servants, and the other Monarchs. She remains isolated in her palace, surrounded by the same faces every day.

But she is still only fifteen years old, and isolation is boring.

Suggested topic: The destiny of Sha Miara. Continue?

Denied, report complete.

* * *

Lindon's room in the Ninecloud Court gave him the taste of a Monarch’s hospitality. Trays of fruits lined the walls, complex constructs attended to his every need, and the bed hypnotically lulled him to sleep. A flock of birds lived in the rafters, filling his day with their sweet song. There was even a bubbling spring in the center of the room.

He hated it.

For two weeks, he’d been unable to leave. All of his questions about the Blackflame team were answered with “They have not yet arrived.” His room was connected to Mercy's and Pride's, but they knew no more than he did.

When the day of the tournament arrived, a team of servants spent an hour adjusting Lindon's Akura uniform, making sure that the script on the hem glowed bright violet, brushing the black cloth, straightening the high collar. He had never worn clothes so fine in his life.

Only once he and Pride and Mercy were all prepared did the floating constructs of the Ninecloud Court—which looked something like glistening red crabs floating around on rainbow clouds—instruct them to gather behind the door in Mercy's room. They would be picked up shortly.

When the door finally slid open, revealing Charity standing there in sacred arts robes not unlike their own, Lindon spoke first.

“Pardon, but has there been any news of the Blackflame team?”

He had expected to be cut off, or for Charity to brush his concern away. Instead, she let a look of sympathy cross her face.

“I'm sorry,” she said, and his heart froze. “We've heard nothing. They have not yet crossed the border into Ninecloud. The Queen has not yet arrived, so we cannot petition her to find them, but the gold dragons have not claimed responsibility. We must assume that they have been delayed and will not arrive on time.”

Delayed, Lindon thought numbly.

[Delayed isn't bad!] Dross encouraged him. [Delayed could mean anything. Maybe they're lost!]

“Please,” he begged the Sage. “You brought me here. Can’t you find them?”

Charity sighed. “I have limits to my skill and my power. When I set up the gates to the Night Wheel Valley for your Empire, I had my grandmother’s assistance. A Monarch could find them and bring them here easily, and perhaps another Sage. As for me…I have owls out searching. I am sorry.”

Clutching Suu in one hand, Mercy asked a few more questions. She looked as panicked as Lindon was.

But he didn't hear the answers. When Charity walked away down the hall, Pride striding after her, Lindon followed like a puppet.

His Remnant arm began to twitch with the disorder in his spirit. He wanted to do something, to start looking for them. Or to avenge them.

After only a few minutes of walking, Charity ushered them into a plain gray room with tables, benches, shelves, and cabinets lining the walls.

“This is your team preparation room,” Charity said. “It is located inside the grand arena itself. Here you will make yourself ready for each round and leave behind any weapons that are not permitted in the round. No one can access this place except our team or authorized representatives, so they will remain safe.”

Pride pulled a void key from around his neck and began unloading his belongings into a cabinet. Lindon stood there, running over questions in his mind, and Mercy watched him.

Charity met his eyes then reached up with two fingers. Madra of shadow and dreams played around her fingers, and Lindon jerked his head back. Dross, however, said [Oooh, I wonder what this is,] and put up no defense whatsoever.

The Sage's fingers tapped Lindon's temples.

His doubts, fears, and worries washed away as though he'd been cleansed. He took a deep breath, like a weight had been lifted from his chest.

What was he worried about? His worry couldn't make things any better. He had a task to do, and there was no point distracting himself before he had concrete information. Any number of things could have happened to the Blackflame team, so why speculate?

Lindon gave a shallow bow to the Sage. “Gratitude.”

“Don't thank me,” Charity said. “It's only a temporary mental block. No matter what happens, I need you to give this round your full attention. But when the Monarch finds them...I will allow you to react however you need to.”

Lindon nodded. That seemed fair. Following the lead of the others, he took off his void key and his halfsilver badge and placed them into a cabinet. Shame about the void key; it contained enough weapons to make any fight much easier.

Charity turned to Mercy. “There will be no sacred instruments allowed in this round.”

Mercy was still watching Lindon. “Aunt Charity, that can't be...”

“It's necessary. Now prepare yourself.”

Slowly, Mercy leaned Suu against a wall, but Lindon had already moved to stand next to Pride at the end of the room. A scripted section of stone would obviously slide up when their preparations had been completed.

Briefly, he wished he was standing side-by-side with Yerin and Eithan instead of the Akura team. But wishes weren't productive, so he merely acknowledged the desire and refocused.

“If you don't even make it past the first round,” Pride said, “you will answer to me.”

Lindon was relieved. “Really? Thank you. I was afraid I'd have to answer to your mother.”

Pride glared at him.

[Whatever Charity did to you, I'm going to have to learn that trick. I like you much better like this.]

The script on the door shine as Mercy joined them, and Charity took a step back.

“I will be watching your progress on the Akura viewing platform. Do our family proud.”

Pride loudly promised that he would, and Mercy nodded, but Lindon remained focused on the door ahead of him. When each of the runes in the script-circle lit, a rumbling of stone sounded, and the section of wall began to slide open.

Letting in a wave of noise.

Deafening cheers crashed over them as the door slid upward, giving Lindon his first view of the arena. The floor was dark gray and smooth, and it seemed very slick—if it was stone, then it was highly polished.

Mercy left first, followed by Pride, and Lindon behind, as he’d been instructed.

As they left the room, bright light and noise overwhelmed him.

His Underlord body adjusted almost immediately, and he took in his surroundings. They walked onto the floor of a massive arena, so large that it looked like it had been designed to host the clash of armies rather than individuals.

Above them, an illusion of light and dreams projected them into midair at a thousand times the height. A giant projection of Mercy waved to the crowds around her, flawlessly reproduced by madra.

Her name unfurled on a banner behind her, and the Ninecloud Soul's voice spoke from all around them: “Representing the Monarch Akura Malice, the Akura prime team presents Akura Mercy, the favored daughter of the Monarch herself.”

The noise redoubled. All around the arena stood eight towers, each built to illustrate the glory of a Monarch faction. The structure had been explained to Lindon already: the Monarchs would watch from a floating platform above each tower as their families and followers watched from within.

As the Ninecloud Soul announced Pride, Lindon glanced back at the Akura tower. It towered over their waiting room, at least eight stories high, all made of wood such a dark purple that it might as well have been black. Unlike many of the other viewing towers, the stands in each level were hidden, covered by shadow madra. He could see nothing from within, though he could still hear the cheers.

Above the tower floated a shrunken mountain growing from shadowy clouds. Dark-leaved trees dotted the mountain, along with a few luxurious-looking houses, but Lindon couldn't make out the details.

Charity and Fury would watch from up there, as would Malice whenever she arrived. The Akura had certainly embraced the image of looming threat.

“The final member of the Akura prime team is an adopted member of an Arelius branch family and a member of the Blackflame Empire vassal state. By the mercy of the Heart Sage, he was raised up to represent the Akura clan: Wei Shi Lindon Arelius!”

The cheers were no less loud for Lindon than for the other two, but he detected a distinct note of confusion, as though many in the crowd could not figure out why he was there.

[I sympathize,] Dross said.

Lindon and the other two walked across to the center of the arena, kneeling in circles that had already been arranged for them on the ground. They knelt next to twelve other young Underlords and Underladies: the Ninecloud Court teams.

They had been introduced before the Akura clan, so Lindon had missed their introduction. But over the last fourteen days he had asked for information on the other teams, so the announcement wouldn't have included anything he didn't already know.

...or so he had thought before he glanced over to get a look for himself. His gaze froze at the young woman in the front of the wedge, the closest position to the center. The same position that Mercy occupied for the Akura.

She looked to be a few years younger than Lindon, maybe fourteen or fifteen, with pale skin and long, blood-red hair. While the others from her faction all stared curiously at the Akura team, she knelt with her back straight and her eyes closed, hands folded on her knees, as though she didn't care less what happened around her.

Lindon's nerves pushed at the restraints of the madra Charity had placed around him. Dross, what was the name of the Ninecloud team leader?

[Sha Dellian. You think that's him?]

No, I don’t.

Even if Dellian looked more feminine than his description suggested, he had orange hair, not red. Lindon's memories of his time with Suriel were still very clear, and if he added a few years onto Sha Miara, she might look exactly like the Underlady sitting there.

But there was no way Suriel would have shown him a vision of someone stuck at Underlord. She had placed Sha Miara, as a little girl, on the same level as Northstrider or the Eight-Man Empire.

[Maybe this is her sister,] Dross reasoned. [Or a copy of her grown in a vat and compelled to destroy her enemies.]

Lindon resolved to look up her name after the ceremony.

After the prime Akura team, the Ninecloud Soul announced the Akura backup team. Led by Akura Grace, they had been added to fill the gap left by the destroyed Rising Earth team.

Those three sat in the row behind Lindon and Pride, who were themselves seated behind Mercy.

Once again, the cheers took on a strange tone. Lindon thought he heard some jeers mixed in from the other stands. It was considered embarrassing to bring two teams from your primary faction, implying that you weren't confident enough in your vassal factions. It made the Akura clan look weak, like they didn't have enough reliable underlings and had to make up the difference.

Two of the Underlords behind him whispered to one another, but Grace cut them off. When Lindon glanced behind him, she nodded to him.

After them came the Frozen Blade team. Two of them were Underladies older than Lindon, wearing sky-blue robes and with icy blades extending from their forearms. Their black hair was streaked with white, and they carried blue-sheathed swords.

The third was a young Underlord who stumbled after them in a poor imitation of their poise, his own sword cradled in both arms. It was clear which of them was the last-minute replacement.

Then came the moment he was waiting for...and the announcement from the Ninecloud Soul that he'd dreaded.

“The final vassal team of the Akura clan, the Blackflame Empire, has not arrived,” the pleasant female voice said. “Therefore, at this time, the Akura clan is permitted to form a backup team from any remaining qualified individuals.”

This time, the buzz from among the stands was as loud as the cheering had been earlier. Most of the other towers were not shrouded like the Akura clan's, so Lindon could see the stares aimed their way.

His restraint, reinforced as it had been by Charity, continued to crack. What had happened to Yerin? It was difficult to imagine anything surprising Eithan, but he wasn't the biggest fish in the pond anymore. If a Herald had shown up...

The rainbow light turned its focus to the tower next to the Akura's, which was the plainest of all. It looked like a normal wooden tower separated into eight floors, each of them filled with raised tiers of seats and bustling with humanity of all descriptions, as well as dozens of sacred beasts. One figure stood out on each level: a man or woman in gleaming gold armor.

“I present to you the representatives of the Eight-Man Empire and the Ghost-Blade warband, the squires of...one moment. Apologies to the Ghost-Blades, but it seems we have a late arrival.”

When the stone door behind him began to grind open, Lindon spun all the way around.

Yerin led the way, hair streaming behind her like a banner and wind whipping at her black robes. He had heard her voice every other day for the last seven or eight months, but now the sight of her crashed over him like a wave.

She was real.

He wasn't used to seeing her without her scars, but when her eyes met his, she visibly brightened, and a half-smile tugged at one corner of her mouth.

The relief was so sudden and overwhelming that Charity's restrictions on his emotions collapsed. He struggled to sit straight and to keep his breathing ordered.

Eithan strode to catch up with Yerin, holding her back for a moment as Naru Saeya took the lead. No doubt that was supposed to have been their marching order all along.

The Emperor's sister was tall and resplendent, emerald wings spread, and she accepted the cheers at her introduction with visible grace. The crowd was noticeably less enthusiastic about the vassal teams, but she made her walk and settled into her place behind the Frozen Blade team with poise.

Eithan, after her, waved cheerily to everyone. His long golden hair was flawlessly combed, and he wore a dark blue outer robe wrapped in white and black. Lindon was sure the Arelius family symbol would be sewn into the back. In other words, he looked the same as ever, and winked at Lindon as he settled into his own seat.

Lindon exchanged looks with Yerin again, reassuring himself that she was really there. When she caught his gaze, she jerked her head back toward their waiting room.

He craned further, twisting almost all the way around, and saw the door closing on the Winter Sage. She must have been the one to bring them back. Before the stone passed in front of her, he noticed her complicated expression.

Once the Blackflame Empire team had been settled and Lindon's heart had calmed down, he realized the Ninecloud Soul was introducing the Eight-Man Empire teams. Each of their four teams came from a different warband: Ghost-Blade, Flame-Gift, Blood-Chorus, and Nine-Hands. Based on his research at the Akura clan, the names were usually related to the primary Path practiced by each band.

Next to the plain wooden tower stood a structure of steel and glass that shone brightly in the sun. Before reaching Underlord, Lindon wouldn't have been able to stare at it directly without hurting his eyes. The Monarch platform overhead was a huge globe of dark water, suspended in midair, with a half-seen creature circling in its depths.

Northstrider's platform. Lindon repressed a shudder, reminded of Ghostwater.

“The unaffiliated sects and independent sacred artists gather in the name of Northstrider, the great Monarch who lost his life only a short time ago in battle against the Weeping Dragon,” the Ninecloud Soul said. “May we all die with such honor and courage.”

[He's not dead, right?] Dross asked nervously.

We know he isn't. I've seen him since then.

[Are you sure you can trust this Suriel? Maybe she showed you an illusion or a recording! …oh no. That’s it, isn’t it? It was a recording. Oh, he’s dead. He’s definitely dead.]

You’ve seen the memory, Lindon thought. You tell me. And he must have been the one to stop Charity from saving Harmony in Ghostwater. Over the last few months, he had asked some careful questions about what had happened back in Ghostwater and had pieced together his own answers.

[Right, right, of course. This is all part of a plan. A secret plan. Do you think he'll show up?]

Hopefully not, Lindon responded.

[I won't say anything. But think how happy he’d be to see me!]

Only one participant of Northstrider's caught Lindon's eye: a young-looking but haggard man in a tattered gray cloak. His green horns glistened in the sunlight. Ziel.

He's eligible? Lindon asked Dross, surprised. The last time we saw him, he was considered a Truegold.

With the damage to his spirit, it was a surprise that Ziel could use the sacred arts at all. Lindon strongly suspected that he had once been at least an Overlord, maybe an Archlord, but someone had twisted and tormented his spirit until even producing the power of a Gold was a stretch. Maybe he was regaining his former powers.

[I assumed he was about a thousand years old,] Dross said. [He talks like he was born old.]

Lindon tried to get Ziel's attention without moving around too much, but the horned man kept his eyes on the ground. He settled into the middle of the pack, in between the two other members of the Beast King's faction team, and collapsed into his assigned circle as though trying to melt into the floor.

Massive blocks of pale stone held up by fluted columns made up the next viewing tower. The people inside were draped in white and by and large had bright yellow hair, though Lindon noticed there were fewer people in these stands than in any of the others.

Above their tower, a cloud flashed constantly with bright blue lightning. It was an impressive display, but it emitted none of the spiritual pressure that came from the other Monarch platforms. Lindon doubted there was anyone up there.

The Arelius Monarch, after all, had been killed.

As the Ninecloud Soul announced the team from House Arelius, each of whom might have been Eithan's cousin, Lindon noticed that they got even weaker applause than most of the vassal teams. And all three members stared at Eithan before sitting down.

Lindon turned to see Eithan's reaction, but he greeted his relatives with a bright grin and a wave. Was Eithan hiding his real feelings, or was his reaction to seeing his relatives for the first time in years really so uncomplicated?

The next tower was one of the most eye-catching. It looked to be made of copper clockworks with gaps filled in with glowing Remnant parts of every size and description. Dark-skinned people filled the stands, each of them accompanied by at least one puppet construct. They whirred through the air, marched up the stairs, hung on chairs, or dangled from the ceiling.

Instead of a Monarch platform, a tree covered the roof of the tower, so large that it doubled the structure's height. It was made of blue-green light, like a Remnant, but with a layer of density and detail that Lindon had never seen. He could see grooves in the bark, veins in the leaves...and Lindon's soulfire-refined eyes picked out eyes in the center of each leaf.

This was Emriss Silentborn, Queen of the Everwood Continent and Monarch of Titan's Grove. The Remnant Monarch. While most of the other Monarchs exuded an overwhelming spiritual pressure even while veiled, Emriss gave off a soothing, reassuring presence. Almost a familiar one, though Lindon was sure they had never met before.

[Emriss is the most public of the Monarchs,] Dross said, [and it's rare to see her stay in the same place long. It's thanks to her that you humans can all speak to each other; she spends her life traveling around and gifting people with language.] He thought for a moment. [We should try meeting her. I bet she has a real fondness for mind-spirits.]

Directly across from the Akura clan stood a tower made from massive logs like undressed trees. They had no tiered seats like most of the other stands, only big open platforms where dragons—some in human form, some not—jockeyed for position. Those on the lowest platform were almost all in the form of dragons, but the higher tiers had more and more in the guise of humans. Silken veils shrouded the top layer of the tower.

The Monarch platform was by far the smallest. It was only a single covered throne, floating on a cloud of sand over the tower. A boy sat in the chair, wearing nothing but a worn wrap.

Lindon focused on him, catching a glimpse of sandy hair, golden eyes, and pale skin, but very quickly removed his eyes. His spirit screamed danger even from just glancing at the King of Dragons, as though staring for more than a second would draw his wrath.

He only looked like a twelve-year-old boy, Lindon knew. He was a Monarch, and perhaps the oldest of them.

Far beneath him, his descendant led the march out of the waiting room.

As the Ninecloud Soul announced Sopharanatoth, leader of the gold dragon team, her golden eyes focused on Lindon. Her human form was mostly complete, but patches of gold scales dotted the pale skin of her cheeks and the backs of her hands. Her nails resembled claws, and her thin golden tail whipped the air behind her.

Her face was sculpted into a fine image of human beauty, and her clothes were ornate layers of red and purple, but she stared into Lindon with such fury that he could feel it in his spirit. She spared some for Pride, and settled on Mercy as she sank to her knees only a few feet across from the Akura team.

Lindon couldn't see how Mercy responded, but he kept his eyes on Sophara. She radiated hate, glaring at their whole team.

[I don't know about you, but I'm relieved. Someone truly dangerous would keep their emotions in check.]

Lindon hoped that was true. The earlier he could get a lead on the gold dragons, the more he could relax.

He'd thought of the dragon team as the last, but in fact there was one more. A tower that he hadn't paid much attention to until now...but when he did, it sent a spike of alarm through him.

The Monarch platform at the top was a palace that floated unsupported by clouds. It had open sides with no walls, only pillars supporting the roof containing a garden that looked like a paradise. Carefully cultivated trees and bushes spilled from the sides along with a shining waterfall that trickled down to the ground, and Lindon was certain he heard distant music within. That was the most ordinary part.

Beneath it, the tower was divided into four floors...with each floor representing a Dreadgod.

Lindon had done some research into the Dreadgods after the Bleeding Phoenix's attack on the Blackflame Empire, and a little more during his time in the Akura family. Much of the common knowledge about them came from rumor, hearsay, or legend. But he had put together a basic picture.

The top floor of the viewing tower contained blue seats, and was carved by the image of a dragon surrounded by crackling lightning. The Weeping Dragon. Its cult, the Stormcallers, filled the seats. Their Goldsigns—sparking rings of lightning around each arm—lit the inside of the floor.

The next floor down was all white, topped by the image of a crowned tiger and filled with sacred artists with cloths tied around their mouths. The Silent Servants, cult of the Silent King.

Lindon was already too familiar with the inhabitants of the red floor, who called themselves Redmoon Hall. Other than wearing red and black, they had very little in common—some were followed openly by their Blood Shadows, but others did not keep theirs visible. Their floor was covered by a carving of the Bleeding Phoenix, a crimson bird with wings spread.

The leader of their team caught his eye: Yan Shoumei, the girl he’d met in Ghostwater. Her hair hung over her eyes like a hood, and her Blood Shadow slithered formlessly around her.

He hoped she didn’t remember him.

Finally, on the ground floor, the members of Abyssal Palace wore hoods and stone masks. Their seats were black, and they gathered beneath the image of the Wandering Titan, a turtle-shelled armored warrior.

No Monarch controlled the Dreadgods. No Monarch could, as far as Lindon understood the world. But someone had gathered the four separate cults together under one banner, and by process of elimination, Lindon could guess who it was even before the Ninecloud Soul named him: Reigan Shen, Emperor of Lions and Monarch of the Rosegold continent.

Lindon watched the Dreadgod teams emerge from the waiting room with disgust, and he wasn't the only one. No one cheered for them, not even their own tower. The Stormcallers and Redmoon Hall emerged to uneasy silence.

Even Sophara the gold dragon stopped glaring at the Akura team to spare some hostility for the Dreadgods. The Ninecloud Soul's voice had the slightest hint of a condescending tone to it as she announced each cult, though of course she did not openly disparage anyone. The Ninecloud Court would not offend Reigan Shen.

When Abyssal Palace took their seats, the focus shifted back to the eight wedges of twelve sacred artists seated in the center of the arena.

Music swelled, celebrating the completion of the announcement. Nine-colored fireworks burst overhead, and the Ninecloud Soul began a speech about the power of the sacred arts and the glory of the upcoming competition.

Finally, as the fireworks and the music reached a crescendo, the illusion in the center of the arena turned to a column of rainbow light.

“Sacred artists,” the Ninecloud Soul announced, “glorious Monarchs, the time has come! Let the first round of the eighteenth Uncrowned King tournament finally...begin!”

Between each tower, a list appeared written in the air, each bearing ninety-six names: all the fighters, ready to be ranked. Applause and cheers shook the ground, and Lindon tensed his body and spirit.

“The contents of this first round are a mystery to the participants,” the voice continued. “We will give each young person a chance to demonstrate the full range of their skills and specialties, and their performance will be judged by a panel of independent judges gathered from all throughout the world.”

Rainbow light indicated another hovering platform, much more humble than the rest, enclosed so that Lindon could not see anyone inside.

“The Monarchs have agreed to abide by the judgment of these experts, so the results of this tournament should never—”

“Hold.”

A deep voice echoed throughout the arena, and everyone stopped. A wisp of Mercy’s hair, which had been blowing in the wind, froze in place. The wind itself stopped blowing, and some of the fireworks froze mid-explosion. Lindon’s breath locked in his chest. Even his thoughts seemed to slow.

A ragged, blue-edged hole opened in midair, and Northstrider stepped out.

10

Suriel had shown Lindon a vision of Northstrider, and he had seen an image of the Monarch projected by a construct in Ghostwater. Seeing him in person was a guttural shock, like catching a glimpse of a mythical beast.

Northstrider was tall and powerfully built, with broad shoulders and defined muscles. His long, wild hair and unshaven face suggested he’d been wandering in the wild, and his skin was browned by long exposure to the sun. His eyes were golden and vertically slitted, like those of the gold dragons, and black scales covered his hands up to his elbows.

He wore rough, shapeless, dirty clothes that looked as if he'd scavenged them from different places and replaced each piece as it wore out. His shoes didn't match, an armored leather sleeve had replaced one leg of his pants, his belt was a thick rope, and his “shirt” was a series of cloths wrapped over and around his chest. He looked like he’d dressed himself by robbing beggars.

But his will held the entire arena in thrall, and even with his spirit veiled, the sense of his power was overwhelming. His gaze carried behind it the weight of an emperor.

Northstrider looked up to the flying paradise with its crystalline waterfall spilling over the edge.

A second later, another figure stepped out of nowhere. He was shorter than Northstrider, but just as broad, with chiseled and handsome features that looked as though they belonged on the statue of an ancient king.

Lindon had heard that the Monarch of the House of Shen was a sacred lion, and indeed this man’s gold-tinged white hair and beard blended into one majestic white-gold mane. He was dressed like the Arelius family in a white linen skirt that fell to his feet and a white wrap across his chest.

In contrast to Northstrider, the newcomer’s simple clothing looked like intentional fashion. The cloth was pristine, his belt was made of shimmering goldsteel links, and jeweled rings glinted on every finger. He held a golden goblet in one hand, and he gestured with it toward the column of rainbow light, which had frozen along with everything else in the world.

The light streamed down once again, and Lindon heard the Ninecloud Soul draw in a breath. However, she never lost her professional tone as she announced, “Guests from all over the world, history has been overturned! We are joined by the legendary Monarch Northstrider himself! We ourselves believed he fell in battle years ago, but no rumors can constrain him!”

Deathly silence met her. Everyone else was still frozen. Lindon was starting to suffer for the lack of air.

“Wise Monarch of the Hungry Deep,” the voice said gently, “would you release your hold on the audience so that they may celebrate your presence?”

Northstrider still faced his opposite, and made no reaction that Lindon could see, but his restriction released. The wind blew, the fireworks drifted down from the sky, and Lindon heaved in a breath as the crowd took in a collective gasp.

The other man, who Lindon assumed to be the Monarch Reigan Shen, clicked his tongue impatiently.

Rainbow light flowed around him as the voice of the Ninecloud Court spoke. “It is our honor to present the Emperor of the Rosegold continent, who needs no introduction! Sacred artists, prostrate yourselves in humility before the greatest of lions, the creator of the Path of the King’s Key, Monarch Reigan Shen!”

Thunderous applause. Lindon and most of the other competitors joined in; no one wanted to have their breath stopped again.

The Arelius teams, he noticed, did not clap. They stared at the Monarch as though daring him to strike them down.

Reigan Shen spoke without quieting the audience, but his languid voice filled the arena nonetheless. “Northstrider! We are pleased to see you here. We knew you would never have fallen to a mere serpent.”

Shen might as well have been talking about the weather for all Northstrider reacted.

“I judge this tournament now,” Northstrider announced to the entire arena, and his tone left no room for debate. “The contestants will fight under my protection and according to my will.”

Reigan Shen shook with silent laughter, waving his goblet through the air. “That hardly seems fair, does it?” he asked, voice amused. “Who is to stop you from declaring your own team the victor? Or exiling our team to the void? Not that we would accuse you of such...petty conduct.”

He sipped from his goblet, watching Northstrider over the rim.

Lindon didn't know what he expected to see. Northstrider's face might as well have been carved from stone.

Finally, Shen waved a hand in irritation. “Fine. If none of our peers has an objection, then we have none. You are certainly...overly qualified to supervise the squabbling of children.”

If Shen was attempting to get a visible reaction out of Northstrider, he failed. The Monarch of the Hungry Deep walked away, and the Ninecloud Soul sounded shocked as she made her declaration.

“On behalf of the Ninecloud Court and in the name of Monarch Sha Leiala, I announce a…sudden…alteration to the rules,” the voice said. “Rather than our distinguished panel of judges and experts from all across the world, the competition will now be judged by a Monarch directly! This is an unprecedented honor to the contestants, and a mark of glory for what will surely be the greatest tournament ever held!”

The audience gave some confused cheers after that, though Lindon stayed focused on Northstrider.

The Monarch paid no attention to the lesser sacred artists around him. His eyes moved from one Monarch platform to the next, as though watching for something that Lindon couldn't see.

He was looking for the reactions of his equals…or perhaps challenging them.

Reigan Shen stepped into nothing and disappeared, and no other Monarchs objected. When he had finished turning to each of the other seven towers, Northstrider folded his arms and closed his eyes, waiting for the Ninecloud Soul to continue her speech.

Obviously, in his mind, the matter was settled.

[He’s going to watch us directly!] Dross said breathlessly. […what if he doesn’t like how I look? What if he thinks I have too many arms? Or not enough?]

As if Lindon didn’t have enough to worry about, this brought a new source of panic. Now Northstrider would be watching their fights closely…and if he looked closely enough at Lindon, he would find Dross.

Would he consider Lindon a thief?

When the Ninecloud Soul paused in her speech, Northstrider spoke again without opening his eyes, and his voice reverberated throughout the arena. “As all participants are under my protection, they should fight freely. None may die unless I allow it, and they will be restored to perfect condition when necessary. So it shall be.”

The pillar of rainbow light shone brighter. “The Ninecloud Court thanks the Monarch for his support! Now, with all surprises settled and no further changes, we come to the beginning of the opening round! Monarch, we begin at your will.”

Lindon drew himself inward, breathing steadily, cycling his madra. He could feel Dross doing something similar, focusing his attention.

“Begin,” Northstrider said.

In a flash of blue light, everyone vanished.

* * *

When Lindon found himself in a dark cave, he immediately extended his spiritual perception and realized he was alone. There were powerful constructs buried beneath the ground and many scripts in operation, but no other living souls.

Why divide us into teams just to separate us? he wondered.

[False hope,] Dross said confidently. [Lift up your spirits and then just smash them to pieces.]

Lindon stood in a cavern of dark, jagged rock a few dozen feet wide and the same distance high. Lights speckled the ceiling like tiny stars. The cavern was much longer than it was wide, perhaps three hundred yards distant, and he could see no entrance or exit.

Before he could adjust to his new surroundings, the ground shook. A white dome split the rock beneath his feet, rising under him. He tried to leap off, but an invisible barrier prevented him, keeping him standing on the dome.

Dross screamed. [The earth is attacking! Kill it! Kill it!]

The dome rose up to the height of a house, giving him a look to the far end of the cavern. Against the distant wall, a black dome rose in exact parallel to the white dome on which he stood.

In front of his white dome, soldiers made of matching white rose up from the stone. The size and rough shape of men, the soldiers rose in three rows, each with about two dozen figures standing shoulder-to-shoulder. The edges of their line scraped the walls.

The ones in front carried shields and spears, the second row carried bows, and the final row were all individual sacred artists with their own Paths. Some of those had claws, some conjured flame, and some had haloes of light around their head.

The army of black figures looked exactly the same. It was like a game board, each side precisely matching the other.

In the air before Lindon, characters appeared in golden flame: “Defeat the Army.”

Then the front ranks of the armies rushed at each other.

The invisible wall containing Lindon vanished, but he didn't move away from the dome. When the golden words had appeared, a scroll had also fallen out of nowhere into his hand. He unraveled the scroll and read it.

The armies, it said, were perfectly matched. He could see as much just from observing the way the white and black soldiers would pierce each other at the same time. They replaced themselves endlessly—Lindon watched that happen too. After a pair of front-line soldiers fell, two more rose from the stone in the back, then hustled to return to the front.

However, the situation would not remain in a stalemate forever. The black soldiers would replace themselves faster and faster until eventually the white side was overwhelmed.

Lindon's objective was to lead the white army to victory by either eliminating all the black soldiers or destroying the dome representing the black base. Competitors would be ranked based on how thoroughly and how quickly they completed their tasks.

This was only the first of fifteen trials making up the first round of the competition. After that, the scroll contained no new information.

[Easy enough,] Dross said. [Just fire at the base. Give it a quick lick of dragon's breath, and we'll be on our way.]

Lindon doubted that would work, and he was too far away to hit the black dome anyway, but he needed more information.

He hopped down from the dome, dashing forward without using an Enforcer technique.

I'd like to avoid showing too much, Lindon said silently to Dross. The audience is watching us, and we want to give our opponents as little information as possible.

[Ah, I get it. A stealth mission. That's what I was born for: stealth. I'm so sneaky I hardly exist.]

Lindon ran through the back line of white soldiers—they parted to let him pass, but there was no empty space to the side for him to skirt around. He could feel now that each of these constructs had the power of an Underlord. He didn't know if they were created by powerful experts or ancient artifacts, but they would not be simple to defeat.

The battle raged around him, crushing his spiritual sense and shaking his body. Shield-bearing warriors slammed against each other, rattling Lindon's teeth, as Striker techniques scorched the air above him.

Black stone soldiers loomed over him, and though he was still a little far for his dragon's breath to be effective, he tried shooting a bar of black-and-red madra at the enemy dome.

As he'd expected, a globe of water rose from the sacred artists in the back row, swallowing up his technique. They would counter any attack he made on the enemy base.

Lindon retreated, sharing a quick discussion with Dross.

[They're using the same techniques and tactics over and over, so I could probably build a model of any one. But it'll take a little longer to hold the whole battlefield. I think the simplest solution is to eliminate one or to tilt things in our favor.]

Lindon agreed, but he'd have to show off his Blackflame Path to do so. He was feeling the pressure of time—as far as he knew, the other Underlords had all completed their task by now—but he suspected the hazards of rushing were greater than taking his time.

The purpose of the first round is to give everyone a chance to display their full power, even if they won't make it any further in the competition, Lindon said. Real victory will be if we can pass without showing all the cards in our hand.

[Oh, that’s a good plan! As long as you don’t fail. You don’t think you’ll fail, do you? That would be embarrassing, round one. Right out of the gate.]

Lindon backed up toward his dome. Two white soldiers climbed out of the stone, nodded to him, and then hurried to the battle. The gray stone of the plain healed as soon as they left.

He knelt and pressed his left hand to the rock, extending his spiritual perception. How does this work? he asked Dross.

[Hmmm...there are three different bindings down here making the soldiers, and then there are scripts that contain and control all the little fiddly pieces that make everything work.]

Could we disrupt it?

[Yes, but actually no. You feel that shield around the bindings? Right there, feel that? The second you try and send any madra down there, that’s going to get in the way. It would take you longer to blast your way down there and destroy the bindings than it would to just kill some soldiers. Which is the plan I would recommend, by the way.]

Lindon flexed the fingers of his right hand. But the shield is a madra construct? Not a script?

[Oh, I see where you’re heading with this. Yeah, that might work. It's all made of Lord-level madra, not like it was made by a Sage or a Monarch, so it's possible. Give it a try. The only thing to lose is the entire competition.]

Pressing his white Remnant arm to the ground, Lindon activated the binding. Hunger madra reached out, sticky threads of greed running down the stone toward the construct that produced the soldiers. The shield sprung to life, a spiritual dome surrounding the constructs, but the tendrils of hunger madra latched on. And began to feed.

Gray madra flooded into Lindon's arm, and he had to break off contact to vent it into the air in an explosive spray of force. Two more tries, and he'd drained the shield completely. The script surrounding it was dark and un-powered, the construct vulnerable.

Lindon stood, shaking out his aching right hand. All right, now the trick will be getting through the soldiers to the other two constructs.

[Eh, well, you don't want to show all your cards. You still have to show a few.]

Lindon ignited the Soul Cloak.

* * *

From the comfort of her mansion on the Akura floating mountain, Charity looked down onto the arena through a viewing-mirror.

The audience down below watched a handful of images at a time, each projected in crisp detail by light and dream madra into the center of the arena. The Ninecloud Court tournament staff would select the most interesting visions and share them with the audience.

The gold-scaled Sopharanatoth burned a hole straight through the black soldiers, running through the gap for their base in seconds. She tore through all attempts to slow her down.

Her image transformed into Yerin, whose sword-aura radiated out, blasting chunks from every black soldier at once. Her Path was perfect for annihilating large ranks of weaker enemies, and only a minute or two passed before she had reduced her opponents to gravel. Though the black soldiers would re-form faster than the white, it wouldn’t be enough to overcome such a disadvantage.

One of the Weeping Dragon's acolytes in the Stormcallers was up next, calling living blue lightning from clear skies to destroy his opponents. Then the image became a boy from the Wastelands in a gray cloak, running on green circles of force over the opposing lines and smashing the enemy base with a fist enhanced by Forged script. One after the other, shocking and impressive scenes played themselves before the audience.

But Charity was not shackled to that presentation. Though she wasn't in the same room as her grandmother, all of the private Monarch platforms had access to their own viewing constructs.

Charity reached out to a script-circle at the side, etched into a diamond tablet the size of her two hands put together. It was a treasure worth cities, but the Ninecloud Court had provided several to each Monarch.

With a flicker of spirit, Charity watched her niece and nephew. The tablet grew clear, and in its depths she could watch whichever trial she wished without alteration.

Mercy fired Forged arrow after arrow, and even though she didn’t have a bow, her Striker techniques were powerful enough to destroy or seal the enemy sacred artists in the back row. She wiped the most dangerous foes from the battlefield, and as soon as they regenerated from their constructs, a hail of shadowy arrows met them again. It wasn't long before the white army overwhelmed the black.

Mercy passed in six minutes, twenty-seven seconds. That put her in fourth place...for this first trial of the round. There were fourteen trials to go.

Not a bad start. The top sixty-four by the end of the round would pass; there was little chance that either of Malice’s children would come close to failing.

Pride fought alongside his soldiers, tearing a spear from his enemy and putting it through the head of another. When he'd torn a gap in the front line, he was released into the archers. A wolf among sheep. Each of his fists shattered stone, and his movements were a blur compared to the Forged soldiers.

The sacred artists had to band together to lock him in place, but that drew their attention away from the rest of the line, creating weaknesses. Soon after Mercy's, his soldiers mopped up the enemies.

Eight minutes, eight seconds. Twelfth place. A respectable beginning.

Then she turned her attention to the third member of her team.

At two minutes, Lindon had returned to his dome and pressed his hand against the ground. She could sense a little of the spirit involved, enough to know he was manipulating the madra of his hunger arm, but not specifically to see what he was doing with it. She thought he may have been drawing on the constructs for power until he vented the force madra into the air.

Another minute passed. Then he activated his pure madra Enforcer technique, madra rippling around him in a blue-white flame, and dashed into the soldiers.

His movements were quick and fluid, though not as quick or as coordinated as she knew he was capable of. That was good—he at least recognized the value of holding back.

When he finally broke through the third line of sacred artists, she expected him to attack the dome. So did the soldiers; three of the sacred artists in black used barrier techniques, surrounding their base in protection as archers fired on the intruder.

Lindon fell to his knees, sliding past the arrows, and dug his right hand into the ground. Hunger madra activated again.

He was attacking the constructs that produced more soldiers. Charity resisted the urge to put her head in her hands. He thought he was being clever, but it wasn't as though the soldiers would leave him unharmed.

As expected, they didn't. He had to break off his technique when a sacred artist swept a line of sword-madra at him, but he fell back down and continued draining the shield.

An archer fired an arrow at him, and he slipped under it, letting the projectile pass over his shoulder. Then he vented a bolt of stolen force madra into the chest of an approaching soldier, forcing him back.

And returned to devouring the construct.

Finally, as one of the destroyed archers rose from the stone behind him, he succeeded. The archer crumbled to dust half-formed, the construct creating it destroyed, and Lindon ran from his pursuers.

That was twelve minutes. Two minutes later, at fourteen minutes, forty-two seconds, his soldiers cleaned up the enemy.

Down in the arena, each of the shining lists displayed his current rank. Sixty-sixth. More than just speed was taken into account, and Lindon's victory had been messy. If he had cleanly destroyed the enemy base, he would have placed perhaps fiftieth.

Charity sat, tapping her fingers together, thinking. He had used only three techniques—his hunger arm, his dragon's breath, and the Soul Cloak. It would not be clear to many what exactly he'd done with his arm, and he had used neither of the other techniques to their full capacity.

He was keeping his weapons concealed. That could be an advantage. So far, he hadn't stood out; the display in the arena hadn't shown him once. Any opponent who did not do their thorough research would overlook him.

But if he wanted to win, he'd have to stand out eventually.

* * *

The second trial found Lindon in a much smaller room, about the size of the meeting rooms the Skysworn used back in Starsweep Tower. There was one table, two chairs on either side, and a metal box the size of his hand sitting on the surface.

“Open the Box,” the glowing golden letters said.

A man made of Forged gray madra sat in the seat opposite Lindon. He was much more detailed than the soldiers had been, with stone clothes and a fully developed face that registered boredom. He looked ordinary, like a shopkeeper tired of dealing with customers all day.

Once again, a scroll fell into Lindon's hand.

In the second trial, the box must be opened. As before, participants would be graded on both speed and skill. The man in the chair had the key to the box in his soulspace, and they could treat him as they would a living human being.

The box itself could be opened without the key, but only if the puzzle locking it was solved.

That was the end of the scroll.

Lindon put it down and looked to the man. “Apologies for my rudeness, but would you mind giving me the key to this box?”

The man snorted, looking away from Lindon.

[I wonder if you could bribe him,] Dross said, but Lindon had already picked up the box. There were sliding panels all over the box, and it looked as though if he slid them apart in the right sequence, the box would open. But every panel he moved affected all the others in an intricate, interlocking cascade.

Dross, make a model, Lindon said, holding up the box.

[Keep your perception on it, please. Hm, yes, yes, I see. Turn it slowly. Slower. Faster than that. All right. Slide some of the panels aside. Just play with it for a minute. Hm, interesting, interesting.]

What are you doing? Lindon finally asked.

[Oh, nothing, I was just thinking about what a nice vessel this would be for a memory construct. I've got the model.]

And the solution?

[I think so. Fiddle with it a little bit.]

“You'll never figure it out,” the statue of the man said with a sneer, “but I could take pity on you and give you a hint. What has three legs—”

The box snapped open.

* * *

Yerin landed in the next room. Words appeared in front of her, but she couldn't read them. She didn't waste her time glancing at the scroll.

“Rules?” she asked impatiently. When she hadn't read the text in the first trial, the voice from the Ninecloud court had explained things to her.

“Open the box,” the disembodied woman explained. “The man in the chair has the key in his soulspace, or you can solve the puzzle keeping the box shut. You will be graded on speed and skill, but you may use any methods you like.”

Instantly, Yerin drove her hand—surrounded by sword madra—at the man's Forged gray throat.

He slipped aside, as fast as she was, and his eyes shone with a bright platinum light. “Thief!” he roared. A pair of axes appeared in his hands, and he revealed his spirit: Underlord.

He swung his weapons at her, but that was his mistake. The sword-aura around them rang like a bell, and sparks flew as the Endless Sword blocked both blows. His weapons flew to either side, and Yerin drove her hand through his chest.

He broke apart immediately, but the key didn't just fall to the ground, as she had hoped. A fake Remnant rose from his body, a towering shrimp-like creature with claws poised.

Yerin leaped into the air.

* * *

The instant the words “Open the Box” appeared, Sha Miara gave a delicate laugh. She placed her fingertips on the box, filling its every nook with her royal madra, the power that commanded all.

The puzzle solved itself.

As it popped open, she let a ripple of rainbow madra flow from her into the Forged man in the chair.

“Congratulate me,” she commanded, and he fell to press his forehead against the stone.

* * *

Sophara held the box in her hand, drowning it in Flowing Flame madra. Golden power surged around it, heating it, breaking it down.

“That box is protected by the power of an Overlord,” the man said, holding his chin in one hand.

The Underlady slipped some soulfire into her technique, pouring forth more madra. The box rose into the air at the center of a golden globe, blazing bright.

After less than a minute, molten metal poured out.

* * *

Eithan tapped the edge of the table with the scroll. “You look bored.”

“I have to look after you,” the construct-man answered, rolling his eyes.

“Ah, but that is your good fortune! For I am the most delightful conversationalist the world has ever seen.”

“...I'm not going to tell you how to open the box.”

Eithan folded his hands into his elaborately ornamented sleeves and leaned forward, smiling eagerly.

“I'm sure, I'm sure, but I need to wait a good minute or two before I leave. So tell me, as we pass the time, what's it like being you? Are you being controlled by an outside force, are you a copy of the one who created you, or do you only have your own rudimentary awareness?”

11

Lindon passed the third and fourth trials without using any new techniques. He was afraid that he might be exposing a few too many of Dross’ capabilities, but who could tell what was going on inside Lindon’s head?

[Northstrider,] Dross answered, as the darkness faded away to reveal the fifth trial. [Northstrider could. He’s smart enough on his own, and who knows what version of me he’s cooked up since Ghostwater? Maybe he’ll pull me out of your brain without hurting you!]

Lindon resolved to use Dross as little as possible, but the fifth trial tested his determination immediately.

In a cramped room with a high ceiling, a nightmarish creature loomed over him. It was a giant shaped like a man, and its leathery gray skin bulged with muscle.

It hunched over him, dressed in ragged scraps of hide, its arms hanging so low that his knuckles scraped against the floor. It wore a hideous bone mask that grew over its face, a long red tongue lolling out of its mouth, and it carried a rough metal cleaver the size of Lindon's body.

At a glance, he suspected there was exactly enough room for the creature to swing the weapon.

Golden, fiery letters appeared in front of him: “Kill the Enemy.”

There was no scroll this time. Instead, a monstrous gray hand swept a jagged blade at him.

With a hasty Soul Cloak and the reaction speed that Dross provided, Lindon slipped aside...but the impact of the cleaver against the ground shook the room, ruining his footing.

Lindon dashed forward, pushing through the creature's powerful stench. Another palm rushed at him, and Lindon had no choice but to catch the attack in his own hands.

He caught the strike, but the giant's strength shoved his body backward against the ground.

[I bet you wish you had a weapon,] Dross observed.

Remind me to get one, Lindon responded, calling Blackflame into his palms. The giant roared and lashed backward, and Lindon conjured dragon's breath.

* * *

Charity watched Lindon on the display in the arena for the first time. He shoved the giant's hand aside, drilled a hole in its arm with black dragon's breath as it tried to swing the cleaver at him, and then burned through its skull.

A round of cheering sounded in the crowd—mostly from the Akura section—but nothing particularly enthusiastic. The view soon returned to more exciting fights. Many of the failures were more interesting than Lindon. Some of them got cut in half by the giant, only to re-form seconds later and start the fight from the beginning while still trembling in fear.

She watched the closest ranking board as Lindon's name moved up to thirty-first.

He began the sixth trial only a few minutes behind the top competitors.

* * *

In the eighth trial, Lindon had to run through a hazy yellow fog that burned his lungs with every breath. Biting snakes and stinging flies lunged at him from within the fog, and the entire place was filthy with venom aura.

He managed to dodge the snakes, but there was no avoiding the flies. They and the fog filled his veins with poison.

Which his Bloodforged Iron body broke down almost immediately.

Lindon jogged forward without obstruction. His madra had been restored at the end of each test, so he fueled his Iron body without worry.

[You're probably falling behind,] Dross said. [You don't want to be in first, but you don't want to be in last either. Why don't you make up some time here?]

After giving it some more thought, Lindon activated the Soul Cloak and ran all-out.

* * *

On the board, Lindon's name ticked up to twentieth.

* * *

“Stay on the Bridge,” the fiery letters told Lindon.

A bridge stretched out before him over an endless chasm. As he watched, it split into five bridges, each stretching in a different direction. The bridges began to undulate like swimming snakes, and then each bridge splintered into five more.

[Illusions, blech,] Dross said.

And Lindon saw one bridge stretching in front of him, perfectly straight. Ghostly illusions moved to either side, but they no longer fooled him.

Just like in the previous test, he ran steadily forward. The bridge was broken in places, but nothing he couldn't jump.

When he reached the end, he was a little disappointed. Is that all?

[Stay on your guard,] Dross said grimly. [Next is test number ten. The fifth trial was a mandatory fight, so if I'm right...]

The world darkened and brightened again, revealing a wide arena-like room filled with blowing wild grass. Another creature waited for him, a bone mask growing from its face, but its resemblance to the fifth-trial guardian ended there.

It was small, flat, and hunched, with grass growing from its back like fur. It clutched a staff topped with a human skull, and pale light pouring upward from the skull's eye sockets. The monster’s forked black tongue flickered out of its mask, tasting the air.

“Kill the Enemy.”

As soon as the letters faded, the creature raised its staff...and split into three. Its duplicates raised their staves, and all three faded away until they were halfway transparent. They ran around him, trailing green fog that drifted closer to him.

[Uh, they were supposed to turn invisible there. Pretend you can't see them.]

It was painfully obvious which of the three was real. The others looked like flat drawings, and he was the only one with depth. The two illusions ran around, rustling grass and pretending to release clouds of green fog, while the real one actually generated poisonous gas and crouched, motionless and supposedly invisible, amidst the grass.

Poison and illusions.

At the center of the poison gas, Lindon sighed. Then he speared the creature through the mask with a lance of dragon's breath.

Dross coughed. [Well, that one was free.]

* * *

Charity watched Lindon finish the tenth test in eighteen seconds.

He was first in the trial by a wide margin. This enemy toyed with the competitors using venom and dreams, immobilizing and entrancing them into wasting time. Even Sopharanatoth, first place overall, was trapped for six minutes in the fight before she managed to shake loose.

Lindon's place flipped up to tenth.

Now he had finally gathered attention. Behind Charity, some of the other members of her family highly ranked enough to join her on the Monarch’s platform began to mutter, and she caught Lindon's name from more than one voice.

The Ninecloud Soul brought up Lindon's image five times. She had even speculated for the entire arena to hear about how Lindon had done so well in trial ten; did he have eyes that could pierce illusions? A spiritual sense developed far behind his peers? Perhaps he had brought a Divine Treasure that could reveal the truth to him?

That was the closest to the truth, Charity knew. His mind-spirit must have held off the illusion for long enough that Lindon could destroy the real body.

Anyone with enough knowledge could make a similar guess, so that made four things he had now revealed. His Soul Cloak, his dragon's breath, his hunger binding, and his mind-spirit.

In her estimation, her niece and nephew were performing much better.

Mercy mixed her techniques together into her arrows, so they were hard to analyze, and had yet to reveal her Dream of Darkness technique or her bloodline armor. The Akura armor was common knowledge, but her command of it would not be. Their enemies would have to test her limits for themselves. The only ability Mercy had fully revealed was her proficiency with Striker techniques, which couldn't be helped.

Currently, she was placed seventh. Very respectable; her mother was likely proud. Malice was watching now, Charity knew; the Monarch had slipped in just as Northstrider arrived and now observed from the top of her floating mountain, though Charity had not been invited to join her.

Pride had used part of his armor but had revealed only two of his four Enforcer techniques. As a result, he’d taken a little too long and fallen to twenty-second place, but someone who specialized only in Enforcer techniques would have problems with such flexible scenarios as these. He would redeem himself in the duels.

Sophara was the real problem.

The champion of the gold dragons maintained a strong lead. If Charity hadn't known better, she would have suspected the woman had actually reached Overlord. Her madra was so dense and powerful that, combined with her strong dragon's body, she simply tore through most tests.

She held onto first place with an iron grip, which was inconvenient for Charity. If she actually won the tournament, Sophara’s name would become commonplace all around the world, which would make it difficult to assassinate her.

In second place was Sha Miara. She publicly claimed to be an Underlady from a distant branch of the royal family, but Charity doubted that. Based on her level of command over royal madra, she suspected the girl might be the Monarch's daughter.

The only other one Charity spent time contemplating was Yerin Arelius from the Blackflame Empire team. The real House Arelius had caused a stir when Yerin and Lindon were revealed as adopted members of their clan, and she was sure they were watching intently.

No fewer than three members of their Blackflame branch were participating in the tournament. Even if two were only adopted disciples, the Arelius clan wasn’t in a position to turn down any potential source of strength.

Yerin had cut her way to eleventh, coincidentally only one place behind Lindon. She flagged on the tests that required flexibility but excelled in anything that could be solved with combat. That boded well for future rounds.

In all, Charity was pleased with her faction competitors. The Frozen Blade students were ranked in the thirties, except for their one replacement, who was struggling to maintain eightieth place. He wouldn't make it into the second round.

Their second Akura team was, on average, doing well enough. Grace held on to thirty-second place while her teammates were fifty-third and fifty-eighth. For a team Charity had arranged at the last minute, they were doing her proud.

All in all, she was satisfied.

If only the dragons hadn't been performing so well.

Only two of the twelve total dragon competitors were even in danger of elimination. The gold dragons were all in the top sixteen, and led by Sophara...they would be a deadly force in the second round.

That would be the real test. The first time when her humans would come to face their enemies.

She ran her eyes down the list, looking at the last person who was currently in a position to pass. Eithan Arelius.

Charity had thought his potential would be much greater than this. His command over his bloodline ability alone should have gotten him a higher position, but he was staying in sixty-fourth. He had been sixty-fourth in the ninth trial as well. And in the eighth...

Raising an eyebrow, Charity looked back over the results. In the eighth test, he’d been sixty-second. Seventh…sixty-third.

Eithan had bounced between sixty-fourth and sixtieth since the beginning of the round.

* * *

In the fifteenth and final trial, Lindon was forced to use the Void Dragon's Dance.

He fought five of the masked giants this time, in a wide-open arena that shot bursts of flames randomly from the ground. The air was full of fire aura, so it was easy to use his Ruler technique, but he had been determined not to.

After failing to clear all five enemies the first time and being painlessly sliced in half—a disorienting experience—he had decided he couldn't waste any more time. As far as he knew, he was ranked near the bottom, and he had a clear method of winning. He only had to reveal one more of his abilities.

Reluctantly, Lindon gathered up the fire and destruction aura in the air, calling down a swirling vortex of flame. It consumed three of the giants, scorching the other two, leaving Lindon to slice them in half with dragon's breath.

As soon as they fell, a pair of golden characters appeared in the air.

“The End,” they said.

Then the gold fire grew. It swallowed everything in an instant, erasing the world.

Lindon emerged, blinking, into the sunlight of the arena. He was seated on his knees, just where he had begun.

Less than a dozen people sat around him.

[Huh. I guess we didn't manage to avoid attention, did we?]

Lindon's heart fluttered with nerves. He had stood out. Now they were going to look him up. He'd have a harder time from here on out because he had misjudged his timing.

But then again...he had proven himself. Even if he failed in the next round, he had shown that he could compete with some of the best in the world.

It was a rush of emotion that Lindon had never felt before.

The crowd erupted into cheers, and the Ninecloud Soul shouted his name, but he was looking around at his competitors.

Sophara, the gold dragon, fixed him with the eyes of a serpent. She looked ready to blast him apart from there.

The red-haired girl from the Ninecloud section ignored him, cycling on the ground, but once again he had missed the announcement of her name. He turned to look at the list, to see the names of the people who had ranked ahead of him.

Then he heard a familiar shout from behind him, and he turned in place. From her knees, Yerin slapped her palm into the ground. “Bleed me! I was stone-certain I'd beaten you. How long have you been here?”

The arena rang with the sound of Yerin's name, and Lindon swelled with pride, but he answered modestly. “Only a few seconds. We practically finished together.”

As Lindon looked to one of the glowing golden lists hanging in the air and saw his name in tenth place and Yerin's in eleventh, he had to remind himself that this was only the first round. It was meant to test their flexibility and to weed out those who were fundamentally unfit for the rest of the tournament. It didn't necessarily reflect those who would win the fights later.

[And look who beat you!] Dross said.

Lindon's eyes crawled up to eighth place, where Mercy's name rested. It was still bizarre to think that she was more capable than he was, as he had mostly known her as a Lowgold, but she was a Monarch's daughter. That was to be expected.

Seated in a cycling position on the ground, Mercy leaned over to exchange excited whispers with Yerin.

Lindon didn't see Pride's name, which made the day seem even brighter.

[I wasn't talking about Mercy,] Dross said, just as Lindon looked up to check the top of the list.

Sopharanatoth, gold dragon team, the board said. First position.

He looked down, and Sophara once again had her red-hot gaze on him.

Lindon's mood sunk, but not too far. His earlier reasoning came back to him: this was only the first round. Just because she’d ranked higher didn't mean that there was an impossible gap between them.

The thought comforted him until he noticed the second name.

Sha Miara, Ninecloud Court team.

He felt as though he'd been speared through the chest. He had already seen the red-haired girl seated calmly nearby, ignoring those around her, but he hadn't given her another thought yet.

His eyes moved involuntarily to the Ninecloud Court viewing tower, a crystalline structure of Forged madra and delicate stained glass. Their Monarch platform was a jeweled palace resting on top of a rainbow-colored cloud.

There was no way they could sneak their Monarch into this competition. It wasn't possible. The other Monarchs wouldn't be deceived, and surely she would gain nothing from pretending to be an Underlady.

[That's not even the worst part!] Dross said cheerfully. [She's only in second place.]

Lindon calmed himself. He hadn't even known what a Monarch was when Suriel first showed him Sha Miara. He had obviously misunderstood the situation.

He had to be wrong.

* * *

Back in the amethyst spire where the entire Akura faction stayed, Yerin and Lindon visited a tablet library. The second round wouldn't start for another week, and participants were encouraged to examine the records of their competition. The entire first round had been recorded, and they found dream tablet recordings of many opponents from before the tournament started.

Together, Yerin and Lindon sat on a couch and watched as a sculpture of light showed them Sophara's performance. They watched all the way through the first round in silence, and when the illusion finally faded, they both remained quiet.

Finally, Dross spun out of Lindon's spirit and sat on his shoulder. [Good news! I can build a decent model of Sophara now. The bad news is that it will absolutely destroy you.]

Lindon wasn't surprised. If he hadn't sensed Sophara's spirit for himself, he would have assumed she was an Overlord.

She was physically stronger than Yerin, her dragon's breath came out faster than his, her techniques were smooth and precise, and she reacted so quickly that he wondered if her senses were as sharp as Eithan's. Watching her in the first round was almost hypnotic; she seemed to dance through each trial as though she'd known its contents in advance.

“At least you can train against a model,” Yerin said bitterly. “Let's see how I stack up.”

Lindon had explained Dross' models to Yerin months ago through the sound transmission construct. She'd been understandably jealous.

Yerin removed the dream tablet and replaced it in the projection construct with another they'd retrieved before: Yerin's own record of the first round.

Her weaknesses became apparent almost immediately.

“As long as it's not a fight, I'm as useless as feathers on a fish.”

She'd torn through every combat, but had struggled to deal with anything else.

“Good thing the rest of the competition is a series of fights,” Lindon said.

[As far as we know.]

Yerin sent out a sliver of madra and froze the image as a wave of sword aura devastated a line of Forged soldiers. “I wouldn't say no to a heavier weapon. I'm good enough against a batch of servants, but it'll take me a year and a day to cut through decent armor.”

The illusion skipped ahead to her battle against one of the large gray-skinned warriors, and she had to dance around it until she eventually brought it down with enough cuts.

Lindon scribbled down some thoughts on a scroll that he'd brought for just this purpose. “I need something to defend myself.” He blew on the ink. “Dross and I have been working on this. I brought the armor from the Skysworn and from the Seishen Kingdom, but armor is against the rules of the tournament.”

[Also, the Akura Soulsmith library is virtually empty of any relevant information,] Dross said. [Each of them has their own suit of armor built in.]

“That too,” Lindon admitted.

Yerin leaned forward to inspect Dross' round purple body. “You think you could run me through one of those models?”

[Maybe with some more of the Sage's madra. How about you ask her for more, Lindon?]

“She's already suspicious.” Lindon had asked for as many scales from Charity as he dared, but it had eventually become clear that she thought he was spending the scales. She was sure that his mind-spirit couldn't be processing the power so fast.

Yerin brushed hair away from her face. “I've got some things I want to try. I know my Path is worth more than this; my master placed fifth in the first round.”

She didn't sound too bothered, but Lindon could feel her disappointment. She'd let herself down in her own eyes.

His brush stopped, and he looked up at her. “If it was about where you started, I would never have caught up to you. The only thing that matters is where you end up.” He returned to the scroll. “And our paths don't end with this tournament.”

She didn't respond for so long that he stopped worrying about his notes and started worrying that he'd said something wrong. By the time he checked her expression, she’d sat down on the couch beside him again. Her hair hung down so that he couldn't see her face, but she sat closer to him than before.

[I think you've offended her,] Dross whispered into Lindon's mind. [Quick, throw yourself on the floor and beg forgiveness.]

Lindon swallowed. I don't think so, he responded, but before he could say anything to Yerin, rainbow light filled the room.

Both of them stood abruptly, staring into the ceiling from which the light streamed.

“Number ten, Wei Shi Lindon Arelius,” the Ninecloud Soul said, her voice warm. “I have come to deliver your prize for the first round and information about the second round. Yerin Arelius, would you please leave the room for a moment?”

The viewing-rooms were essentially private booths, so it would be easy for her to step outside, but Lindon bowed to the Ninecloud Soul. “Pardon, but if it isn't too much trouble, would you allow her to stay?”

“No trouble at all. I needed to speak to her next, so this only saves me time.” The rainbow light coalesced into an image floating in midair: a castle of blocks and mortar floating on a cloud. “As your reward for successfully passing the first round, our team of artisan Soulsmiths and architects will design for you a floating fortress according to your preferences.”

The castle shifted into a more luxurious housing compound surrounding a courtyard, filled with trees and a shining pool.

“We can tailor the facilities to your style and needs, and even your Path.” Now the house became a network of rocky hills and caves, with vents in the ground spewing jets of fire into the sky.

Lindon could practically feel the aura of fire and destruction even from the illusion.

He and Dross stared speechlessly at the image. Lindon felt a pang of regret that Orthos wasn't here to see this.

“Will we be able to use this prize in our next round?” Lindon asked when he had recovered himself. Dross was still staring, his mouth hanging slack.

“Regrettably, no. It will not be ready until the completion of the tournament, while the next round is in one week.”

They had already been told that the second round would take place in a week; the rest of the city was in a non-stop festival until the end of the Uncrowned King tournament, but the participants were expected to spend their time training and preparing—which was what Lindon would have chosen to do anyway.

“And the nature of the next round?”

“A team elimination match between all teams at once,” the Soul said serenely. “Those teams who survived the first round with all three of their members will therefore have an advantage.”

“That's a lot less than a map,” Yerin said. “Where are we fighting?”

“I cannot give you any more details until the day of the competition. However, I am permitted to say that you will be allowed to fill your soulspace, but can carry no other weapons or void keys. Any constructs you bring will be inspected to ensure that they fall within appropriate power parameters, which are contained within the tournament rules and can be reviewed at any time.”

Lindon stored that away. He couldn’t fit anything too powerful into his soulspace, but he and Dross should be able to make some preparations. “Gratitude. Now, the fortress...is that allowed weapons?”

“The fortress naturally includes a battery of defensive scripts and constructs, as it is intended to be a secure retreat. For the same reason, however, our intent is not to design you a weapon of war, but a safe place to live or travel.”

Lindon asked further questions about the power source, guidance system, requirements for piloting, and maintenance. Most of them were standard systems, and the one consistent restriction on the fortress was size. The size of the Thousand-Mile Cloud construct remained constant for all participants. Dross fed a few questions through Lindon, rather than addressing the Ninecloud Soul directly, and Yerin piped up with a few as well.

“What do you plan to do with yours?” Lindon asked her. “Maybe they could complement—” He held out a hand, interrupting himself as an idea sparked in his mind. He spoke before he thought. “Wait! If you'll forgive another question, honored...Soul...could we combine our prizes? Would you allow us to have one fortress that's twice the size?”

“If number eleven agrees to it,” the rainbow light said.

Yerin frowned at him. “Don't you think we'd be better off with two?”

“We're always traveling together anyway. We can make ours better than anyone else's.”

She stared at him quietly for a long moment, which gave him enough time to realize what he’d said. He had essentially asked her if she wanted to build a home with him.

Heat rushed to his face, and she noticed, because her own cheeks flushed red and she hurriedly looked away. He almost apologized to the Ninecloud Soul and took back his words. He really hadn’t been thinking. This could ruin his whole relationship with Yerin.

Mercy’s voice echoed clearly in his mind. “And you’re okay with that?”

Then his own: “I don’t know.”

[Look at that!] Dross said proudly. [I can play memories back for you! It’s just like you’re hearing it for the first time, isn’t it?]

Lindon’s heart pounded, and he looked back at the rainbow light so he didn’t have to see Yerin’s expression, but he didn’t say anything. His proposal stayed on the table.

After the longest handful of seconds in Lindon’s life, Yerin made a quiet noise that he thought might be approval.

But she hadn't said anything. Maybe she felt like he was pushing her into it. Suddenly his self-consciousness spilled over and out of his mouth. “Or not,” he added, “if you don't feel comfortable with it. We can wait to decide.”

The Ninecloud Soul twinkled. “Number eleven, no one can determine the nature of your prize but you. If you are afraid of reprisal outside the competition, you are entitled to the protection and enforcement of the Ninecloud Court.”

Yerin coughed. “Who's telling you I'm afraid of anything? I agreed, I agree, I'm agreeing now.”

“If you would perhaps let number ten leave, so that I can hear it from you without the possibility of coercion...”

“Did I say there was a need for that? Get it done.”

Yerin looked away from Lindon, and the back of her neck was scarlet. He knew his face had to be even brighter than hers.

12

Eithan tapped his fingers together as the Ninecloud Soul produced another floating model of his flying fortress.

“Is this more of what you had in mind, number sixty-four?” The feminine voice from the cloud of rainbow madra was beginning to sound impatient. He couldn’t blame the spirit. This was his eighty-first revision, and even artificially created spiritual networks could get testy.

“Perfection!” Eithan declared. His “fortress” was a broad square, stretched to the maximum dimensions, and filled with a series of gardens. It looked more like a plot of farmland.

“Now, are there any plants in particular that we can provide for you?” The Ninecloud Soul’s exhaustion was beginning to strain its polite words. “Keep in mind, you are only permitted a limited total value.”

“Nimblethorn root,” Eithan said immediately.

The rainbow shimmered, confused, but one corner of the floating garden converted to a patch of thorny bushes. “Are you a refiner, number sixty-four?”

The Nimblethorn root was typically used as a medicinal herb to separate types of madra before spiritual surgery. It wasn’t common, but it wasn’t incredibly valuable either.

“Not much of one, I’m afraid. Now, how about some ancestral men’hla trees?”

Rumor said that Emriss Silentborn had been a men’hla tree before her ascension, and as such they were considered sacred in certain circles on the Everwood continent. It had a handful of uses for refiners, but it was especially valuable to Soulsmiths, as each of its leaves actually produced a separate Remnant. For many projects, one men’hla tree could be an endless source of dead matter.

The red in the Ninecloud Soul grew brighter. “I am afraid we can provide only one century-old men’hla tree.”

Eithan affected disappointment, but the joke was on the Ninecloud Court. He didn’t actually need this tree at all, he just wanted to extract the maximum value from his prize.

Of course, since they were willing to give him one, he would use it.

“Hammershell fruit,” he recited. A prime source of force aura. “A hive of ivory bees. Cloudbell bush. A spring of Whispering Water. Starlotus pond.”

His list contained nothing that the Ninecloud Court would balk at or flag as unusual. Some were more useful to Soulsmiths, others to refiners, and he mixed in some decoys with the ones he really needed.

When he stretched the process of designing his first-round prize to over two hours, the Ninecloud Soul said, “Allow me to remind you, number sixty-four, that there is no rush. You cannot bring this prize into the second round, so you can take your time planning.”

Eithan smiled into the rainbow light. “I assure you, I have taken my time. And not for the second round.”

* * *

“Seize the crown!” the Ninecloud Soul's pleasant voice rang throughout the arena, and instantly a forty-foot image was projected in the center of the air.

It showed a sacred artist with a blank face approaching a golden crown, which hung suspended in a column of yellow light.

“There are thirty-two crowns scattered across a beautiful tropical island,” the voice continued. “The crowns can be easily identified, as they send up a beacon of golden light. When you place a crown on your head...”

The illusory image reached out, snatching the crown and placing it on his head. The beacon intensified, turning white.

“...then you must keep it on your head for a full minute! If you succeed, you will be instantly returned back here, qualified for the third round!”

The crowned sacred artist winked, then disappeared.

Take notes, Lindon ordered Dross.

[...all right, but are you really not going to remember this without my help?]

“Be certain you’re ready when you put it on, because once you place the crown on your head, there’s no going back! The crown is only removed if you are killed while wearing it!”

A weapon speared the sacred artist through the chest—no blood sprayed, but he fell over like a doll—and the crown rolled from his head. It glowed gold again.

“Not to worry; you are still under the infallible protection of a Monarch! If you die, you will be held for one hour, after which you will be returned to the island!”

The sacred artist appeared again, good as new.

Lindon could already see that the odds of moving on to the next round as a full team were low. They would have to gather three crowns before anyone wore one, and then channel them one at a time—but it would be obvious to everyone on the island what they were doing.

“In just a moment, the competitors will be transported to the island along with their teams! For those of you who lost your teammates in the first round, don't be discouraged: if you're alone, you only have to hold one crown!”

Though they would also have to defend themselves from all the other teams who would be out for their blood. Dying in the competition might not mean dying for real, but a one-hour delay for a lone sacred artist would virtually guarantee losing the round.

“Thirty-two crowns mean thirty-two spots for round three!” the Ninecloud Soul called. “Competitors, ready yourselves for glory! Prepare your plans, firm your resolve, and let your spirits—”

“Begin,” Northstrider commanded.

The world faded away, and the rainbow light vanished.

* * *

Lindon found himself standing in the sand, a salty breeze ruffling his outer robe. Waves lapped behind him, reminding him of Ghostwater, and he hurriedly scanned up and down the coast.

Nothing but ocean, sand, and the thick trees of the island in front of him.

An instant later, Mercy popped into existence on his left, taking a deep breath and shaking out her hair. “I hate being launched through space without warning,” she said. “It messes with my head.”

Pride appeared on his right in a combat crouch. He clenched his fists, spinning around, looking for something to fight.

“Just as we planned.” Lindon had hoped to bring his void key along, but that was against the rules. Any sacred instruments they brought had to be carried in a soulspace, which severely limited his room. But he could afford to carry around a handful of weak, small constructs.

He pulled a simple circular construct from among those in his soulspace. It was essentially a cluster of Remnant eyes, and he threw it straight up into the air, linking his spiritual perception to it.

The crude construct brought him far too much information, but Dross helped him sort it so that he could get a general glimpse of his surroundings. The island was vast and largely flat, with a few small hills, all covered in thick trees. He could see almost nothing of the ground beneath. He caught a glimpse of the ocean on the far side before the construct started to fall, but no other competitors.

...until a red diamond blasted from the trees, spearing through the construct.

His perception cut off, and he watched with his own eyes as a wave of Forged knives tore the cluster apart.

Chunks of madra dissolved all around him as he reported his findings to Mercy and Pride. “No crowns yet, but we're not alone.”

Pride didn't respond, marching up to the trees. “Come on, Mercy. Let's go hunting.”

Lindon pushed down his irritation. They had a plan: to stay put and call the other Akura faction teams to them. He was confident that the other factions would be trying to join forces as well; it was the obvious strategy.

“We don't know where the crowns will be placed,” Lindon said without moving. “We should follow the plan.”

Pride continued trudging through the sand. “They'll be put deep into the island, to encourage us moving toward one another. Try using your brain before you open your mouth.”

One hour. If Lindon put a dragon's breath through Pride's back, he wouldn't have to deal with him for an entire hour.

Mercy let out a breath and jogged backward toward Pride, addressing Lindon as she did. “I know how he can be, but if we let him go alone, he's going to get torn in half by a Striker technique before the crowns show up at all. We should cover for him.”

“I need you to cover for me,” Pride said as he entered the trees. “Maybe we could use him for bait.”

[His mother is definitely watching us,] Dross noted. [We'll have to be very sneaky when we stab him in the back.]

Lindon pulled out another simple construct, like a throbbing pink heart, and activated it. It began to flash brightly, each flash sending out a unique spiritual pulse. It wouldn’t do anything, but the Frozen Blade and Akura backup teams had corresponding constructs that should be able to detect its signature from anywhere on the island.

He hadn’t given the Blackflame team anything of the sort. Eithan and Naru Saeya would be able to find him regardless.

He was supposed to find a safe place and stay there while everyone in the Akura faction gathered together, but now they were walking into the jungle. Which increased the odds of enemies detecting them and made it harder for their allies to find them.

[I’m no strategy construct, but I wouldn’t call this the best plan.]

The trees were thickly pressed together, the life aura almost choking in its strength. Without warning, a massive yellow-furred monkey came shrieking down from a tree, carrying wooden spears in both hands and emitting the spiritual pressure of an Underlord.

Mercy hurled arrows of black madra without hesitation, but the monkey slapped them aside, his weapons a blur. He was going to land straight on Pride, his feet extended like hands. He didn't have time to move, and Lindon held his technique. He wanted to see what Pride could do.

At the last instant, the short Underlord leaped and drove a punch into the monkey’s gut.

Black and gray madra flashed from the point of impact, accompanied by a sound like a great flag snapping in the breeze. The monkey blasted backward, crashing into a tree hard enough that he left a crater that sent splinters flying.

By the time Pride landed, Lindon finally decided to release his Striker technique. Black-and-red madra struck the creature…

Several people locked their perception onto Lindon, and his spirit shivered. Their location construct was difficult to detect except by someone with the corresponding detection construct…but his dragon’s breath was not so subtle.

“We have to move,” he said, and even Pride didn’t argue. The three of them darted into the underbrush.

* * *

The crocodile-creature had some hardy skin. It withstood Yerin's first strike.

Just not the next seven.

She left it in bloody pieces on the jungle floor. Naru Saeya lowered herself from the treetops, cradling a wounded left arm; she hadn't even cleared the trees, trying to get a look around, before a monkey had sliced her arm with a sharpened branch.

It hadn't penetrated the flesh far, but it was enough that the Emperor's sister had to use some healing salve. She winced as her flesh knitted together.

“Got to assume everything's out to kill you,” Yerin said casually, wiping the crocodile's blood on the surrounding leaves. At least these monsters didn't leave Remnants, which meant they weren't sacred beasts. Not real ones, anyway. Maybe they were dreadbeasts.

Saeya ground her teeth against the pain as she flexed her arm. “My fault. I was careless.”

Yerin had been expecting a nice verbal fight. Not getting one left her wrong-footed; it was like trying to insult Lindon and having him apologize. “...could happen to anyone. Just keep an eye up.”

Saeya only nodded, taking no offense, extending her spiritual perception out into the distance.

“Liked her better when she had a temper,” Yerin muttered. Saeya had a warrior’s soul, and she had been placed in the sixties after the first round. Now, she was all business, determined to distinguish herself in the second round.

Eithan dropped from the branch where he had been hiding during the fight. Not a single speck of dirt or blood tarnished his fine white-and-gold robes. “She only has a temper to her enemies! To her allies, she is the gentlest—”

The tip of Saeya’s rainbow sword found its way between his teeth.

Saeya wasn't even looking at him. The peacock-feather fan over her ear caught the air as she turned from one direction to the other, scanning the distance still holding her weapon in Eithan's mouth.

“Someone's using water madra nearby,” she said. “I think the Tidewalker sect is in a battle. We have to pass through to make it to Lindon, so I say we pick off the winner on our way.”

Saeya looked to Yerin, and the two traded nods. Saeya pulled her sword away from Eithan's lips and set off with Yerin.

Behind them, Eithan made a spitting noise. “Disgusting. It tastes like dust and flower petals.”

They crept through the trees, getting closer until even Yerin could feel the water madra. Two water artists stood apart from three that used sword madra and...something else. Something strange. Dreams, she guessed, or shadow. Perhaps both.

She ducked and started to crawl forward, but two hands caught her by the sword-arms, holding her back.

Eithan looked uncharacteristically serious, which sobered her up in an instant. Saeya matched him, her eyes flicking into the distance as though she watched something Yerin couldn't see.

“Something's wrong,” Saeya whispered. “They're not fighting. They're—”

She ducked in an emerald blur, and a serpentine dragon of water punched through the leaves behind her. A pulse of pure madra from Eithan dispersed the Ruler technique, leaving natural water to spray onto the ground.

In an instant, all three of them dropped veils and cycled their madra.

“It seems they were waiting,” Eithan said at normal volume.

Through the jungle, the pair of water artists flanked them. From the glimpses Yerin caught, they had leathery blue-gray skin, gills working at the sides of their necks, and shark teeth; sacred beasts advanced enough to take on human form. Some kind of fish. If that wasn’t the Tidewalker Sect, she’d eat her shoes.

The three others, two men and a woman, were the strange sword artists she'd already sensed. They wore gray robes and painted their faces with streaks of black. Each of them wore a crude one-handed saber strapped to their back and a greenish spirit that floated around their head. Their Goldsign.

“Tidewalkers and Ghost-Blades,” Naru Saeya observed, hefting her colored glass sword. She showed no uncertainty, only determination and a little anger. Yerin liked her more with every passing second. “You're not even from the same corner of the world. What are you doing together?”

One of the fish-men hissed out a laugh. “Sink to the depths with your questions unanswered, little bird.”

Eithan held a hand to his temple as though receiving a voice transmission. “They were…bribed to work against us. My mysterious, mystical senses tell me that…the gold dragons were responsible.”

A ghostly sword bigger than a horse sheared through the trees around him. The Forger technique turned from gray to green as it passed through the plants, and each of them withered and died at its touch.

Naru Saeya dodged high, Yerin went low, and Eithan stood still. The technique moved over Yerin's head, below Saeya's feet, and shattered on the layer of pure madra coating Eithan's skin.

Eithan gave them all a friendly smile. “I'm afraid I've struck a nerve.”

All five enemies attacked at once.

* * *

A brown-skinned man with short-cropped hair faced Lindon, holding an intricate orb that looked like it had been forged from copper. Brass, copper, and steel piping wrapped his chest, connecting to a metal tank on his back. It whistled loudly and gave off spiritual pressure like he had an entire Underlord Remnant trapped inside.

Lindon and Pride stood shoulder-to-shoulder, neither moving. Mercy was above and behind them somewhere, covering them, but they were not anxious to start a fight. Not only had none of the crowns appeared yet, but there were far more enemies than this one close by. A fight would draw them like flies.

[He's from Dreadnought City,] Dross said, for some reason whispering as though his mental voice might be enough to break the stalemate. [Everwood continent, fighting for Emriss Silentborn. They do strange things with Remnants over there.]

The man said something with an accent so heavy Lindon couldn't understand it. Though perhaps it was another language—he had heard of other languages, he had just never heard one spoken.

His brown eyes glanced from one of them to the other. Sweat ran down his face—he was as nervous as they were. When he saw no comprehension in their faces, he tried again, speaking slowly.

“Do not fight,” he said in words Lindon could understand, just above a whisper. “Back away.”

Lindon nodded, and together he and the man from Dreadnought City took slow steps back.

Pride darted forward.

The stranger's reactions befit an Underlord. A bright blue flame erupted from the tank on his back, and a hand bigger than his body reached out and caught Pride's approach. A Remnant hand.

There really was a Remnant in there.

The force of Pride's attack tore the hand apart, and Lindon felt the man's power shake, but then the orb in his hands flared to life. A bolt of blue light lanced from the center, spearing toward Pride's chest.

A gray light covered Pride, and the Striker technique glanced off, slicing branches from the canopy as it cut into the sky. His fist caught the Dreadnought citizen in the forehead, and with a black flash, the man's skull crunched.

Before he collapsed, the stranger dissolved to white light and vanished to wherever the dead waited for an hour.

He hadn't fully disappeared before a roar sounded from behind them.

[And there's his partner,] Dross said with a sigh.

A young woman with the same brown skin, eyes, and hair as the first Dreadnought City artist barreled through the jungle behind them. A silver Remnant's limbs surrounded her own; claws of madra covered her hands, paws her feet, and a snarling silver tiger head sat over hers. Both she and the spirit covering her had a look of fury in their eyes.

Lindon had no choice. The Soul Cloak sprung up around him, and he readied his Empty Palm.

The three of them took her on together.

Mercy fired an arrow at the woman’s feet, and while she altered her stride to avoid the Striker techniques, Pride sent a devastating punch into her side. She twisted to catch the blow on her Remnant’s arm, but Lindon was already driving an Empty Palm into her stomach. The blue-white madra covered her torso with a Forged handprint, and the energy cut through her madra channels and severed her connection to the tank on her back.

The Remnant popped like a bubble and she tumbled to the ground, rolling through the grass. She shouted and slashed at Lindon, but no claws followed the motion.

An arrow split her heart a moment later, and she vanished.

Pride stood triumphantly over the spot where her body had disappeared, pointing at the empty space. “He was driving us back into an ambush!”

Lindon stepped close enough that he loomed over Pride, emphasizing the fact that Pride's head only came up to his collarbone. He was so furious he felt like he was channeling Blackflame.

“Did you not know she was there? I saw her on the way in!” Well, Dross had, but that was the same thing. “How is it an ambush when we're together and they're split up? They just wanted to meet up without attracting attention!”

Spirits vanished all around them as beasts and sacred artists alike veiled themselves to approach.

Pride's eyes were hard as purple stones. “You almost pushed us into a trap. I saved us.”

“You turned us into bait! How are our teams supposed to get to us now?” They were already surrounded by enemies.

Mercy landed to the side, grabbing them both. “Let’s have this conversation while running for our lives, what do you think?”

They ran together, Pride and Lindon keeping their speed down for Mercy, who couldn't fly without her bow.

Lindon swept his perception behind him, and his breath caught at what he felt. There were at least seven, maybe eight or nine enemies behind them. Their veils kept him from identifying their exact position, their Paths, or whether they were sacred artists or beasts. If some of them had veiled themselves more thoroughly than others, there could even be more.

The worst of it was, they weren't fighting amongst themselves. They were chasing the Akura team as though they'd been put on a scent.

[That's what we get for standing out!] Dross said in a panic. [They think you're extraordinary! Quick, let me talk to them and I’ll let them know the truth.]

At that moment, Lindon’s spiritual sense lit up as he felt a column of light descend from the sky. He jumped up as he ran, grabbing a branch and pulling himself high so he could push through the leathery leaves overhead and take a quick look.

Only a hundred yards in front of him, a column of golden radiance descended from the clouds. A dot in the center had to be the crown. And it wasn’t alone; to its left and right, two more beams of light shone as a pair of crowns floated down.

Three crowns. Enough for a full team to advance to the next round.

Everyone would be headed for them, and he was caught between the prize and his pursuers. Trapped.

* * *

Yerin had fought against greater numbers more than once, but these weren’t a handful of back-country sect disciples who’d managed to finally advance to Truegold. These were five of the deadliest Underlords of their generation.

When the fight started, it was brutal.

The three Ghost-Blades slashed out, Forging spectral swords the size of cattle as they swung, and clearly they had trained together. Their attacks came at subtly different angles only a whisper apart, so there would be no avoiding all three.

As they struck, Yerin felt the walking fish of the Tidewalker sect conjuring bubbles of dark liquid madra. They held back, waiting to react as she did.

Last year, Yerin would have dealt with the Ghost-Blades’ attack and fallen for the Tidewalker follow-up. Maybe she could have survived the first volley, with the help of her Blood Shadow, but she would’ve lost in time. These opponents were too coordinated, too well-trained and too used to working together.

But she had a team of her own.

Yerin ignored the attacks and activated the Endless Sword. The three swords of the Ghost-Blades rang like bells, aura erupting from them like a storm and shredding their clothes and skin, drawing light wounds and knocking them around like hurricane winds. Even the Tidewalkers caught the edge of it, staggering back from the sting.

She attacked. Eithan defended.

He was in front of her before she saw him move, blowing the Forged madra apart with Striker techniques of his own. And from above, Naru Saeya launched a burst of green wind madra as the Ghost-Blades still reeled from Yerin’s attack. From experience, Yerin knew it would snare them and drag them off-balance—easy prey for a blade.

The three of them had reacted together, months of training crystallizing in action for the first time.

But the enemy had training of their own, and greater numbers.

A defensive construct on one of the Ghost-Blades activated a yellow shield that blocked Saeya’s Striker technique, so he stood strong as she dove in. The Tidewalkers refocused on her, Yerin whipped a horizontal Striker blade of her own at them to pull their attention back, and Eithan had to deal with further attacks from the other two Ghost-Blades.

They traded exchange after exchange in a quick second, Forger techniques blowing apart, Striker techniques tearing the leaves from trees, blades of aura grinding up earth. Stroke and counterstroke, attack and defense, from eight Underlords with no wasted time.

The air shook with continuous thunder. Yerin’s spiritual sense strained to keep up, and her channels burned as she quickly switched from technique to technique. A chain of explosions blasted the forest around them in one long roar, and in seconds the jungle around them was a clearing of debris and churned soil.

Yerin moved as quickly as she ever had in her life, blasting away a Striker technique aimed at Saeya, ducking aside so Eithan could get a shot at an enemy behind her, driving her blade at one enemy and slashing her sword-blades behind her at another.

Even so, they were outnumbered.

Naru Saeya was the first to slip, a little too slow to block as she raised her sword with a wounded arm. She winced, instantly taking a Forged blade to the chest. A quick flood of green madra blocked it, but it sent her flying into a tree and then to the ground.

Yerin covered her with a surge of the Endless Sword, but therefore she couldn’t cover Eithan, who had to focus on his own defense at redirecting a stream of water madra. Their formation collapsed, and then they were three individuals struggling to defend themselves.

Only a breath later, golden light streamed down from the sky. It poured through the leaves overhead; she couldn’t see well enough to see how distant it was, but it couldn’t be far.

Eithan reacted as though he’d known the crowns were coming, taking advantage of the momentary flicker in his enemies’ attention to let out a detonation of pure madra. His power swept over everyone, dense enough that it must have been reinforced with soulfire, and wiped away every active technique. Water madra fell apart, Forged blades vanished, Striker techniques died in midair, and Enforced punches fell limp on their targets.

The only one not affected was Eithan, who rushed toward one of the Tidewalkers to stab her with a sharpened stick, but the loss of madra had only disrupted her for an instant. She was already Enforced again, slapping him aside and stepping away so she and her partner could focus on them together.

Yerin could do nothing; it was all she could do to keep the Ghost-Blades from closing in on the wounded Saeya. The Naru helped as best she could, grabbing at them with her Ruler technique, but their enemies’ soulfire-aided aura control was enough to keep them safe.

Yerin was on the verge of bringing out her Blood Shadow—an ability she hadn’t yet revealed—when her spirit warned her, and she realized why Eithan had wasted so much madra on a split-second interruption.

It hadn’t been an attack.

It was a signal.

Black dragon’s breath lanced out from the trees. One of the Tidewalkers reacted in time to defend with a wide bubble of water madra, but the distraction allowed Eithan to land a blow on him. The fish-man’s eyes bulged, and he flew back, tumbling through the bushes. His partner ran after him a moment later, and the two of them lost no time before scampering away.

Eithan let them run, turning to the Ghost-Blades. A hail of black arrows pulled them away from Yerin, and an instant later, a short man with shining purple eyes dashed among them.

They slashed at him, but crystalline amethyst armor materialized only for the instant it took him to block their blows. He slid through, a whirlwind, catching one enemy with his fist and another with a foot. They defended themselves, but the impact of flesh on flesh sounded like thunderclaps.

Instead of fighting his way through to the Akura team, Eithan had called the Akura team to them.

Yerin speared the closest enemy through the back as Lindon arrived, shoving dragon’s breath point-blank into another Ghost-Blade’s chest.

The two of them dematerialized at the same time, but the third—the farthest one from her—had managed to make his escape.

Panting heavily, Yerin slapped Lindon on his shoulder. Despite knowing that death couldn’t touch them here, surviving still left her drunk with elation.

“Aren’t you a welcome sight!” Yerin said, but Lindon never stopped moving. He grabbed her wrist and pulled her with him. Mercy and Eithan were seeing to Naru Saeya, who had made it back into the air, and Akura Pride had already run ahead. He wrecked his way through the undergrowth like a bull.

“Talk later!” Lindon shouted as he tugged her along, and she cast her perception behind her.

When she felt the now-unveiled presences hunting them, she sped up until she was dragging him.

13

It was a bloody fight around the crown. So to speak.

There was much less actual blood than in most of the fights Lindon had ever seen, as a lethal attack caused the victim to dissolve into light and rush away. Only lesser wounds left blood behind.

But it was chaos. They had reached the central crown, which had attracted the most competitors. And the presence of sacred artists had drawn beasts, so at any moment there could be sacred artists conjuring massive ghostly swords against monkeys, silver crocodiles snapping jaws down on flashing cages of lightning, or flocks of razor-taloned birds clashing against Forged techniques of crimson light.

Lindon and the others skirted the bounds of the fight. The first of their pursuers crashed through the woods behind them—one a half-human red dragon, another a female figure in a brown hood and a stone mask.

They couldn't ignore the battle and keep pursuing the Akura teams. Unfortunately, Lindon couldn't avoid it either. He evaded an emerald lance and a conjured spirit that raked claws in his direction, narrowly missing his chin.

Dross, Lindon thought, how many people are here?

[Seventeen, counting you. You can count yourself, can’t you? Of course you can. Sixteen. No, wait, that’s confusing. Seventeen. Wait, do I count?]

A quarter of the people who had started out on the island were left. The rest were either waiting their hour to return, going for one of the other two crowns, or waiting to see how the fight shook out.

Lindon stopped behind a tree, waiting for the others to push through the stray attacks as well. We're the largest group here, and we can’t keep waiting for our other teams to join us. We should regroup and push for the crown. Let them know.

Dross relayed the message, and in a few seconds they had all gathered. Mercy hung from the top of a tree, watching the fight with excitement in her eyes. Yerin stood closer to the battle than anyone, white sword in her hand and hair blowing in the breeze, occasionally deflecting a Striker technique headed their way.

Naru Saeya crouched behind a tree, the peacock feathers in her hair somewhat wilted, tending to her wounds. Eithan ran a comb through his long, blond hair as though he were in his own home. He snatched a flying knife from the air and used it as a mirror.

“Where's Pride?” Lindon asked.

[I told him!] Dross said. [You can't blame me!]

Mercy sighed and pointed.

Lindon found him between a richly dressed woman with flying swords hovering around her head and a young man in blue robes with rings of lightning crackling around his arms. The three of them exchanged attacks in a rapid sequence of blows that would have been hard for him to follow before he advanced to Underlord.

[Stormcaller,] Dross said, indicating the man in blue. [Cult of the Weeping Dragon. The woman is probably from Moonwater, the nation next door to Ninecloud.]

The Stormcaller shot a blast of blue-and-yellow lightning madra at the woman, who caught it on a globe of green madra in her left hand as she used her right to direct the swords against Pride. Pride leaped over one sword, back-fisted a Striker technique from an unrelated fight and kicked another sword aside. He had closed the distance with the lightning artist, but a floating metal shield appeared from the lightning artist's soulspace and deflected Pride’s punch.

“Sword girl,” Mercy shouted, and everyone attacked her at once.

Dragon's breath, the Rippling Sword, an arrow of shadow, a green pulse of wind, and a mundane knife flew at the woman at the same time. She defended herself well, taking only a cut to her leg from the knife, but their second volley finished her.

Which left Pride to pour madra and soulfire into one huge blow against the Stormcaller. The lightning artist managed to get his shield in front of him in time, so the strike launched him into the jungle. At which point he must have fled, because he didn’t show up again.

Pride did not acknowledge them. He dove deeper into the fight.

“He has the right idea.” Naru Saeya pushed up to her feet. “Eliminate as many as we can.”

As she said it, a further light streaked down from heaven. Now that the battle had destroyed many of the trees in the area, the sky was clear, and Lindon could see the golden column stretching between the sky and the earth. It wasn't close; it seemed to be falling at a distant end of the island.

Dross, how long has it been since the first crowns appeared?

[Six minutes exactly,] Dross said. [Well, not exactly. As closely as I can estimate. Is the error in the timing of the crowns, or in my calculations, or in your fleshy human brain?]

“Well, that's a wonderful chance,” Eithan noted.

Now that there was another crown, the competitors who were interested in an easier battle had started to slink away. Even those who wouldn't have a chance to reach this distant crown would leave, because now it was clear that more crowns would appear every few minutes. Only those close to actually seizing this prize stayed behind.

The fight closest to the crown was a three-way battle between two blood artists in black leather and misty red veils that looked like Goldsigns and a woman who was clearly a member of the main House Arelius. Her long, yellow hair was tied back into a braid, her blue eyes were bright, and she wore tailored green pants, a ruffled pink shirt, and a short green jacket. The Arelius crest was sewn in white on the back of her jacket.

Bright sparks crackled on each of her knuckles, and Lindon thought they must be the beginnings of a two-handed Striker technique until they never went away. Her Goldsigns, then.

[House Arelius, though even you could tell that. The others are disciples of Blood-Chorus; he's one of the warlords controlled by the Eight-Man Empire.]

A Forged red wolf leaped from one of the blood artists. The Arelius woman pierced it with a lance of crackling light, but a gust of bloody rain landed against her and started to burn through her skin. She screamed, stumbling back, but still put up a shield to defend herself.

When she saw Eithan, she brightened and shouted something. Once again, Lindon felt as though he almost understood, unsure whether it was another language or a thick accent.

[She wants him to help,] Dross explained.

That had been obvious, but Lindon was still curious. Can you understand what she says?

[Of course I can. I was originally the guide construct to an international facility.]

Can you translate?

[Sure, yeah, no problem. Ahem: she says something along the lines of, ‘I want you to help.’]

Lindon's hopes were dashed.

Pride landed among the Blood-Chorus artists before Eithan reacted. He landed a black-rippling punch on one and shrugged off an attack from the other with the gray haze of his defensive Enforcer technique. One of the blood artists made a grasping motion, and Lindon could feel the power of blood aura spike as Pride staggered. A Ruler technique.

Before Pride could counter it, silver sword madra crashed into one enemy and black arrows ravaged the other.

Eithan helped the Arelius woman to her feet. She asked him a question and he responded in the same language.

While the rest of the team cleaned up the two from Blood-Chorus, the Arelius woman said her farewells to Eithan, cast a last regretful glance at the gold column of light, and then ran off into the trees.

“Pardon if you don't want to answer,” Lindon said, “but what did you say to her?”

Eithan waved a hand as though to say it was nothing. “Oh, certainly. She asked me if I would help her seize the crown, because the further House Arelius makes it, the better chance we have to rebuild. I said something about me being a core descendant of House Arelius who fled after the death of our Monarch, and she said that she understood and would leave this crown to me. Then she ran off to wait for the rest of her team to return.”

Eithan's smile was unshakeable, and Lindon couldn't read anything in it. The rest of the team had eliminated the Blood-Chorus pair and was defending the crown's beam of light.

Lindon stared at Eithan, waiting for him to elaborate.

[...I think he's telling the truth,] Dross said.

“Do you ever intend to tell us where you came from?” Lindon asked, a little irritation leaking into his voice.

Eithan's eyebrows rose. “Did you want to know? You've never asked me.”

Lindon stopped. Surely that couldn't be true.

“I have certainly withheld other information from you, but you've never once asked me where I came from.”

“Oh. Apologies. So...where did you come from?”

Yerin shouted as Pride's hand closed around the crown, and both Eithan and Lindon turned.

Yerin had a hand on the hilt of her sword, and Pride's body swirled with Enforcer techniques as he kept his eye on her and held the crown in one hand. Gold light still streamed from the ground into the sky, passing through his arm.

“I'll be dead and buried before I let you wear that,” Yerin said.

Pride stood about two inches shorter even than Yerin, but he still looked down his nose at her. “You have quite an attitude for a servant.”

Her Goldsigns flexed, silver madra gathering on their points, and Eithan stepped out with his hands raised.

“Hold on, everyone, hold on! It's times like these that we should remember that we are on opposing teams and should therefore fight to the death.”

Saeya held her sword defensively between her and Mercy. Mercy looked frustrated, but still conjured an arrow to defend herself.

Lindon felt as though they were all rushing to conclusions. “Pride,” he called, “who should get the crown?”

Pride continued his staring match with Yerin for a long moment before he looked over to Lindon. “The one who has the best chance of making it to the end of the competition. My sister.”

Yerin and Mercy looked equally surprised.

“Agreed,” Lindon said. “But there are supposed to be twenty-eight more crowns. We should carry this one with us until we have at least two more.”

“So that your team can use them all?” Eithan squinted suspiciously. He raised his fist to the sky. “The Akura family keeps their boot-heel on the common man once again! Down with the oppressors!”

[Ah, there's...one more thing you should perhaps consider,] Dross said, but Lindon continued the conversation.

“Apologies, five more,” Lindon corrected, keeping his frustration under control. “If they keep to the pattern, another one will appear in six minutes. Ten an hour, at which point the first round of people eliminated will return. If we're the largest group here, that's plenty of time for us to get enough for everyone and wear them all at the same time.”

Dross tugged at his attention. [That's a great plan, I really admire that plan, but there's some information you might not have.]

Yerin and Pride nodded to one another, withdrawing their spirits. Saeya sheathed her sword, and Mercy had already happily banished her technique.

Eithan held up a finger. “Ah, but what if more crowns stop appearing after a certain number are held in place? Also…” He lowered his finger to point off to the east.

[Oh, now you pay attention! I grab your brain, and nothing, but as soon as he twitches a finger...]

Two golden lights, clustered together, were moving closer.

A trio of dragons flew over the trees, their screams echoing through the jungle. Lindon extended his perception.

“How many are there?” he asked Eithan.

“Seven. Three golds, two reds, a green, and a black. It’s nice that they’re colored for easy recognition.”

“Change of plans,” Lindon said to Pride, but the Akura was already ahead of him.

He tossed the crown beneath some of the intact trees, the golden beam of light following it. The crown itself couldn’t be seen from the air through the thick canopy, only the beam of light. Then he veiled himself, slipping behind a bush.

“Back to the plan,” Yerin said.

Lindon’s intention had been to gather up all the remaining Akura faction competitors and ambush Sophara together. While she would certainly have gathered allies of her own, he was confident that with at least ten people, they could overwhelm her and retreat.

It almost didn’t matter if some of them were lost. The farther back they could push Sophara, the better their chances of eliminating her.

Lindon switched to his pure core, tightly restraining his madra into a veil. He crept closer to the dragons, tucking himself beneath a thick leaf so he could still see a hint of golden light in the distance. Naru Saeya and Yerin moved nearby, with Mercy and Pride behind the crown. He had lost track of Eithan almost immediately.

The dragons would be suspicious if they saw the crown and no fight around it, but they would have to get close enough to see it. They could burn through the trees and descend from the air, but they probably wouldn’t; flying so high toward one of the gold beams of light would make them easy targets for Striker techniques.

And if any did dive straight for the crown, Mercy and Pride were there to hit them as they landed. Everyone else was arranged to attack if they approached on the ground.

It wasn't anything like a perfect plan, but it was a quick strategy that would serve them better than a stand-up fight. Not only did the dragons have seven to their six, but Sophara frightened Lindon. Based on his practice against Dross' model of her, he wouldn't be surprised if she could eliminate him and Yerin together.

Unless Dross could get some more first-hand observation of her and build a combat solution against her. Or if Yerin's Blood Shadow ended up being more of a factor than he hoped. He hadn't seen the gold Underlady fight against any real sacred artists yet—only trials and projections.

He crouched in the damp soil and the humid heat, occasionally flicking away insects the size of his thumb. Veiling himself restricted his spiritual perception, making him feel blind, as though the dragons could be sneaking up behind him at any second.

He would’ve felt much better with Blackflame running through him—not only would the madra itself give him some much-needed emotional support, but then he'd have a Striker technique ready. But veiling pure madra was much more effective than veiling the Path of Black Flame.

His tension reached its peak when two streaks of golden light loomed closer, moving through the jungle. Bushes rustled, as though something large were pushing its way through the leaves, and then trees began to crack.

Two trunks split in either direction as huge, bestial red dragons shoved their way through. Sparks flew from their nostrils, smoke from their crimson scales, and burning ember eyes flared as they twisted serpentine necks from side to side. They scanned the jungle, their perceptions passing over him...without reacting.

Lindon let go of some tension. Shadow madra and pure madra were difficult to detect when veiled, but that only accounted for four members of the group. Yerin and Naru Saeya would have a harder time veiling themselves, but obviously it had worked.

He could almost see the fire aura around the red dragons even without opening his Copper sight, and just their presence ignited some of the sticks and dry leaves beneath their feet. Flames licked their claws, smoke drifting up into the sky.

The others followed next.

The green dragon was a young man who appeared mostly human. His human skin was a brown almost as dark as the pair from Dreadnought City, and green scales ran down his ears and the sides of his neck.

A pair of wooden horns twisted up from his forehead. He wore emerald robes and carried a twisted driftwood staff that matched his horns. His hair flowed like moss down his back.

Two gold dragons came next, and like him, they looked more human than dragon. From their heads hung strings of scales that imitated hair, and the scales that ran down their throats only accented their pale skin. One was a man, the other a woman, but not Sophara.

They carried themselves with no weapons and visible arrogance, thin tails whipping at the underbrush as they walked. They were dressed in rich robes and jewelry, as though to cover themselves in gold to compensate for the scales they'd lost.

The columns of light from their two crowns hung back.

There were five people here. Eithan had said seven. Sophara and her black dragon must’ve hung back, holding on to their two crowns, sending the rest of the team forward to pick up the third.

Lindon tensed. He had no way to signal the others. The first person to move would commit them all to an attack. Should he wait? He was almost as afraid of the black dragon as he was of Sophara—he would be able to withstand Blackflame far more easily than Lindon could, which meant that Lindon had virtually no way to hurt him.

He hadn’t been able to do much research into the black dragon team; there were too many contestants remaining, and some of them were less well-known than others. One of their contestants was listed as ‘Black Dragon Prisoner,’ so he wondered if the black dragons might be forced to fight by the gold dragons. That might be a weakness they could exploit…but it might not. He would still prefer not to fight a black dragon.

Attacking now meant they could weaken the enemy party while the two most frightening members were gone, but Sophara would only have to flee for an hour. Then she could have her revenge on anyone left.

While Lindon debated, the gold dragons passed him, and the choice was taken out of his hands.

A green blast of wind madra caught one of the reds in the body at the same time as a wave of silver sword-madra. Pride was there so quickly it looked like Yerin's Striker technique had carried him, and he slammed a foot down onto the other red's skull.

Neither dragon died. They roared, sending fire madra flooding around them, but a wave of pure madra almost instantly wiped it away.

The attack had taken only an instant, but the other dragons weren’t waiting around. Golden streams of Flowing Flame madra spewed into the woods, washing over the human attackers, just as the green dragon released a pulse of life madra. It felt more like a perception technique than an attack; he was looking to pinpoint them amidst the jungle.

So he was the one who shouted and turned when he felt Lindon behind them.

With the speed and grace of the Soul Cloak, Lindon had dashed behind the two gold dragons. Focused on their Striker techniques, neither reacted quickly enough to stop him.

He used an Empty Palm in each hand. Just for good measure, he added a wisp of soulfire to both techniques.

His hands struck them both in the lower back, and huge blue-white handprints flared at the hit. Pure madra flooded them, disrupting their madra channels, and they staggered forward. The woman whipped her tail at him, but without madra Enforcing it, it didn't have enough force behind it.

She was still an Underlady and a dragon, so she hit like a kicking horse. But Lindon had the Soul Cloak moving through him, and he snatched the tail from the air with his right hand. He hauled on it, pulling her off her feet.

In the meantime, both red dragons flowed away in pulses of white light.

For a few seconds, Lindon was engaged in hand-to-hand combat with both gold dragons. Without his training at the Akura family, he would have had to disengage and run. This time, he held his own, matching their blows without giving ground.

Even without Enforcer techniques, they were almost as strong and fast as he was. But the Soul Cloak made the difference, so he was able to move around them, keeping them in each other's way, preventing them from using their number to their advantage.

Lindon had been most concerned about the green dragon interfering, but he was filled with black arrows. His scales glowed emerald as he focused his life madra on himself, trying to purge himself of Mercy's shadow-venom.

It did no good when Naru Saeya's rainbow sword slashed through his neck.

Eithan strolled up to Lindon's fight, casually slapping the Underlady in the face as he tripped the Underlord. They rolled to the ground, and Mercy had them bound in Strings of Shadow before they could react.

Even so, they began to tear through the madra. Their spirits were coming back under their control...slowly but surely, they would regain their powers from the effect of the Empty Palm.

But Lindon was no longer concerned about them. He stared through the trees at the two retreating pillars of golden light. Sophara was running.

And something else was barreling through the trees at them.

The black dragon obliterated the two trees that the reds had knocked over. Lindon couldn't tell if it was a male or a female; it had a long, snake-like black body, with two huge wings and a pair of massive claws in front. Its eyes were like Orthos'—solid darkness with two fiery rings where its irises should be.

It blew dragon's breath down the forest.

Rather than black-and-red, like Lindon's, this was a solid bar of darkness with a few red sparks here and there. It radiated the power of destruction so strongly that the smaller pieces of debris nearby crumbled to dust and burned away in its passing.

Eithan, of course, reacted first. He held both hands out, and pure madra spun around him, catching the Striker technique as though in a whirlpool. It twisted, spinning back at the dragon.

But the black serpent took his own attack on his scales, ignoring it, and swept its breath from side to side.

This time, it was Lindon's turn.

He dropped his pure core and drew on Blackflame, his eyes heating up as they matched the black dragon's own. The Burning Cloak ignited around him and he leaped forward, driving his white fingertips into dark scales.

His hunger arm began to feed.

Before reinforcing his arm with the Archstone, it had been difficult to draw madra into his cores. The Ancestor's Spear had used scripts to guide madra in that way, and though the binding was capable of the same thing, it had to be carefully controlled.

Since then, Lindon had grown much more familiar with the technique, and it had grown stronger. But he rarely encountered madra that he wanted in his core.

This time, he feasted.

The dragon's madra flowed through his arm and into his channels, surging into his Blackflame core. The energy was wilder than his Path of Black Flame, more primitive and savage, with a heavier emphasis on destruction. It was as though his human madra had diluted it, and this was the primal source. But it was compatible, so he drew as much as he could.

In only a second, the dragon noticed what was happening. It cut off its breath, convulsing wildly, trying to shake Lindon off. Lindon held on with the strength of the burning cloak and the power of his Remnant hand. The hunger madra even helped, latched on to the serpent like a leech.

Finally, the dragon twisted around and breathed a Striker technique into Lindon's face. Lindon raised his left hand and met the dragon's breath with the same technique.

From inches away, Blackflame met Blackflame.

Dark fire exploded, incinerating leaves and consuming the edges of Lindon's Akura sacred artist's robes. He stumbled back, the force of the dragon's spirit pushing him away, losing his contact with its scales.

For a moment, they glared at each other with identical eyes, neither backing down.

Then the dragon was riddled with Striker techniques.

The rest of Lindon's team tore it to shreds, and the sacred beast shrieked and twisted. He was astonished that it didn't die immediately.

It tried to get off another dragon's breath, but finally it dissolved into white light.

Lindon caught his breath, trying to still the fiery storm in his core. His channels ached, and he would need Little Blue's help when he returned, but they were victorious. Their ambush had worked flawlessly.

An enraged scream shook the forest ahead of them.

“BLACKFLAME!” Sophara's voice echoed.

And the two crowns moved back toward them.

Lindon hurried over to Eithan. “We have to stick together. There are six of us. We can hold her off.”

Eithan looked into the distance. “Can we?”

Lindon thought he understood the implication and cast out his perception. They had not been quiet, and Eithan must have sensed enemies closing in.

But Lindon didn't feel any. Even the few native creatures of the island he sensed were fleeing, as though they had been frightened off. It was only Sophara.

Pride stood at the front of the group, black lines on his skin whirling, chin tilted up. Shadow madra shrouded his arms.

Mercy crouched in a tree, arrow held in each hand. Eithan stood off to one side, and his smile looked more like a grimace of anticipated pain.

Saeya cradled one arm and spread her wings, forcing her sword up. Yerin stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Pride, blade clutched in both hands.

Lindon's spirit and body ached, but whatever burst through the underbrush, they could handle it. He coaxed some soulfire out of his spirit and fed it into a dragon's breath.

[We certainly look prepared,] Dross said. [I have a good feeling about this.]

As the two columns of light from the crowns approached, Lindon and his allies all unleashed Striker techniques. Even Pride hurled a stick like a spear.

Flames of liquid gold crashed through them like a tidal wave. Lindon couldn't imagine releasing such a large technique so quickly; one second, there was nothing, and the next second the trees had been swallowed by gold dragon's fire.

His bar of Blackflame punched through, as did Eithan's pure madra, but before he could sense if they'd done anything, Sophara was among them.

Eithan and Pride reacted first as the dragon-girl landed, tail lashing, golden scales falling around her face like hair. Pride's strike was like a crack of black lightning, and Eithan came down on her with a spear of blue-white light.

A golden disc, etched with script, was Forged in the air above her head. It intercepted Eithan's attack, and she ignored him, instead wrapping her tail around Pride's wrist and wrenching his attack off-course.

But she didn't follow up with an attack. Instead, she rushed forward, fueling her jump with a soulfire-assisted Enforcer technique. She was dashing to the back...where Mercy, Saeya, and Lindon waited.

Dross, Lindon demanded. He had already called up the Burning Cloak, and black-and-red light played around him. The explosive strength of Blackflame filled him.

[I can give you an edge, but the rest is up to you,] Dross said. The world didn't stop, like it had against Harmony or Seishen Kiro, but Lindon could suddenly follow Sophara's movements much easier than before. She was going for Saeya.

He kicked ahead of her, drawing dragon's breath into his hand. Thanks to Dross, he knew where she would go. He could see his Striker technique burning through her.

So he and Dross were equally astonished when her golden eyes flashed with a pale light and she slipped to the side. Black dragon's breath drilled a hole in the ground. A silver wave passed over her; she had somehow managed to avoid Yerin's Striker technique at the same time.

[That's...ghostwater,] Dross said.

There was a sound like a splitting melon, Saeya's voice coughed, and Lindon turned to the side to see her dissolve into white light.

You didn't know?

[My records are incomplete! Incomplete! How many more times do I have to—]

The golden disc floating over Sophara shifted position to catch three black arrows, but she was already whipping her tail into Lindon. He blocked with his left hand, Enforced by the Burning Cloak, while gathering more dragon's fire in his right.

The bones in his forearm cracked.

He flew back, tumbling, losing his grip on the Burning Cloak. Thanks to Dross and the grace of his Underlord body, Lindon managed to control himself enough to land on his feet.

His arm hung limp and useless, the pain virtually paralyzing him. It wasn't only broken; her tail had torn skin and muscle, ripping him open from elbow to wrist. The others had engaged Sophara in combat, which was the only thing that had stopped her from finishing him off in midair.

Backup plan, Lindon said to Dross.

[Fifteen feet behind you and to your left,] Dross responded.

If they failed to eliminate Sophara in an ambush, then odds were good they wouldn't be able to prevent her from passing the second round. The next-best thing would be to keep her away from the crowns, but she was much more of a monster than anyone could have expected.

So if they couldn't prevent her from reaching the third round, they had to at least stop her from eliminating them all.

Lindon followed Dross' directions, reaching down with his Remnant arm.

From beneath a bush, he grabbed the crown.

14

The disc floating around Sophara made her all but immune to Striker techniques, she was physically stronger than any of them but Yerin, and the ghostwater meant that even Eithan couldn't keep up with her. She kept dashing and running, engaging them one at a time, and every exchange ended with one of the Akura faction injured.

By the time her movement slowed, indicating that her single drop of ghostwater had run out, she was still in better condition than the rest of them. Either they would outlast her madra...or she would destroy them all.

Guided by Dross, Lindon pushed his Soul Cloak to the limit. Sophara hammered at Yerin's sword, tearing the blade apart with her claws, then dashed to the side to avoid the counter-attack. She was too fast and precise to be caught, and when she saw Lindon standing in her way clutching a crown, she didn't avoid him. She dove right into him, eyes blazing.

As she did, Lindon placed the crown on her head.

Heat stabbed through Lindon's ribs as Flowing Flame madra drove through his chest. His spiritual defenses fought against it, but his own madra weakened as breathing became much harder.

His vision fuzzed. He was an inch from death.

But the light around Sophara turned white.

She faltered as she realized what had happened, and then her fury redoubled. Once again, her spirit surged to the skies, and she unleashed a tide of golden flame.

There was no stopping it. Lindon braced himself behind his white arm, straining the hunger binding to its limits, weakening the attack as much as he could.

No matter how much he siphoned its power, he was still swallowed by fire.

He gritted his teeth instead of screaming as fire madra covered him from head to toe. It was like trying to clutch a live coal in his bare fist.

But as quickly as it had begun, it was over, and he hurriedly vented burning madra from his arm. Smoke rose from his charred robes, and he was sure he was missing some hair, but all told he had emerged unscathed.

Yerin had ended up far away, but she was still alive. Mercy had hidden in her tree. Pride was on one knee, bracing himself with a hand, but he had weathered the tide of fire. Eithan...

Eithan was dissolving into white light.

He faded away before Lindon could catch a glimpse of him, but Lindon was shocked. Eithan was the most suited to survive a massive Striker technique. Had he let himself be burned away? Why?

The aura of ghostwater had faded from Sophara, but she still did not waste time. Her golden eyes touched on Lindon, but then they moved to the weakest enemy remaining. The one crouched and panting on the ground.

Pride.

[Shame,] Dross said. [I was hoping he could eat more attacks for us.]

It wasn't the end for someone “killed” in this round, Lindon knew. They would be re-formed in an hour, unharmed. But the competition would get fiercer as the round progressed as fewer crowns appeared.

If Pride was eliminated now, he wouldn't make it.

Lindon leaped forward, gathering pure madra into his Remnant hand. It didn't conduct the Empty Palm as well as his flesh hand, but it was good enough. The newly enhanced version of the technique didn't have to hit Sophara's core dead-on. If he could only slow her down, he and Pride could both survive...

[This is why I should be in charge of your body,] Dross said.

Lindon landed between Sophara and Pride, driving his Empty Palm at her midsection.

She didn't even slow down as her claws tore off Lindon’s head.

* * *

Ziel sat against a tree and waited, hood shading his eyes and hammer leaning against him. He had brought it in his soulspace, but keeping any item inside his fractured spirit was agony, so he let it sit by him.

He knew the Stormcallers were here, and the champion of the Dawnwing Sect would have hunted them down one by one with righteous fury in his heart. It wouldn't matter if he made it to the next round or not, so long as none of them did.

But Ziel wasn't that man any longer. The memory of the Weeping Dragon taking up the sky, its living lightning decimating his students and friends, had played in his mind so many times that it had scraped him raw. Dreadgods couldn't be blamed for the destruction they caused; he might as well shout at a hurricane for daring to flood his house.

It was the Dreadgod cultists that had stoked his rage, as they looted and pillaged in their master's wake.

They had chased down the fleeing Dawnwing sect as rain and thunder poured from the sky. Ziel had stayed behind to hold them off as his junior disciples and students escaped.

It hadn't worked. As it turned out, one of the Weeping Dragon's lightning strikes had caused a landslide that wiped them all out.

So Ziel's duel with the Sage of Calling Storms had been for nothing.

He had lost, of course. Even at the height of his power, he was no Sage. And instead of killing him, the leader of the Stormcaller cult had mutilated him. Cutting apart his spirit and stitching it together...wrong.

Afterward, he had been allowed to live. Forced to live, almost. He was no threat to the Storm Sage, no threat to the Stormcallers without a sect behind him, and certainly no threat to the Weeping Dragon.

He had drifted along like a dead leaf on the wind, formerly one of the proud geniuses of the Iceflower continent. He had fought as a champion of the Eight-Man Empire as an Underlord in the last Uncrowned King tournament. Then, as now, he'd made it to the second round.

This year, he was exactly thirty-five. That was a cruel twist of fate. A few months older, and he wouldn't have been allowed to participate.

He felt twice his age.

Ziel let the first two hours of the round pass him by, his emerald horns resting against the bark of the tree behind him. Crowns fell and moved, some turned white, and no doubt many battles were won and lost.

He watched through half-lidded eyes, staring through the leaves at the sky.

Northstrider had heard of him through the Beast King and had come for him. One of the youngest Archlords ever, an elite among elites, fortuitously reduced to the level of a mere Underlord. The Monarch had declared that Ziel would certainly be allowed to enter.

One of the other factions was bending the rules in a similar fashion, it seemed, and it wasn't as though Ziel could exert any more power than a real Underlord. Far from it. Ziel could pass most spiritual power detectors as a Truegold.

The poison that ravaged his body had undone most of the enhancement soulfire had given him, and holding anything—even soulfire—in his soulspace was like trying to hold a mouthful of needles. He might as well not be an Underlord.

Years of treatment at the hands of the Beast King had countered much of the poison, but he could still only barely be considered an Underlord. If not for his skill and experience, he would never have passed the first round.

Without Northstrider's personal request, he wouldn’t have participated in the tournament. Not even when the Monarch revealed that the Ninecloud Court had methods of restoring his soul. Their royal madra could do miraculous things to spirits. He only had to make it far enough in the tournament to earn a prize from them...and, not coincidentally, to improve Northstrider's reputation.

Ziel still hadn't wanted to do it. What if the Court could restore him to his former power? He had no sect left. There was nothing to fight for. Revenge did not return the dead.

Another golden light descended from the sky over the island. This would be the twenty-fourth, give or take. And it was fairly close.

Ziel groaned like an old man as he pushed himself up on his hammer. He had the body of an eighteen-year-old, but he didn't feel like it.

Slowly, he dragged his weapon through the jungle toward the crown. He had come this far, and it wasn't every day that you received a personal request from a Monarch. He had to at least give it a token effort.

Though he was the only one of the Wastelands team who had made it past the first round. If Northstrider really expected a victory out of them, he should have trained up some better candidates.

The beasts of the jungle moved through the trees around him, but he ignored them, marching onward. He wasn't afraid of them, and even if they somehow did make it past his hammer and tear out his throat, he didn't care.

Evidently they could sense total apathy, because they let him pass.

Ahead of him, the column turned white. He couldn't see much through the thick trees, only the light filtering through the leaves, but he sensed a battle fading away.

He pushed his way past a leaf bigger than his head to see who was wearing the crown. If there were too many people, he would turn around and leave. There were still at least eight crowns left. He hoped he had waited out the most intense fighting, and maybe he could scoop one up unclaimed.

The boy wearing the shining white crown wore a pair of blue armbands Forged from vivid yellow-and-blue lightning.

Stormcaller madra.

Ziel and the boy stared at each other for a long moment. Ziel saw the shining dragon that flew on unnatural stormclouds of madra. Bolts like the ones wrapped around this man’s arms had slithered through doors, hunting victims. Lightning from the Sage's fingertips had wrapped around him, searing his spirit...

Ziel shook himself as something stirred in the ashes of his heart. This didn't matter. The fight wasn't worth it. If he won, this one Stormcaller wouldn't really die. Even if his death was permanent, what of it? It would change nothing.

Ziel turned, his gray cloak fluttering behind him. He could find another crown.

“Dawnwing!” the Stormcaller exclaimed.

The man recognized the symbol of Ziel’s sect. He had been there that night.

He should have kept his mouth shut.

The next thing Ziel knew, his hammer was covered in blood that slowly dissolved into light.

* * *

It felt like no time at all when Lindon reappeared on the beach. The first thing he saw was a panting, bleeding Pride crouched on the sand next to him.

Golden light streamed into the sky behind him.

Lindon's head jerked up, scanning the treeline. He knew an hour had passed, but the thrill of battle and the shock of death still flowed through him. “Where's Sophara?” he asked.

“Passed,” Pride said, struggling to his feet. He was broken, battered, and almost two feet shorter than Lindon, but he still held his head high. “It worked.”

He held a crown, and Lindon looked to it. “What happened to the other crown?” Sophara had been carrying two.

“My sister took one, and Yerin Arelius the other,” Pride said. “She actually refused to take it. Mercy had to force it onto her head just like you did to Sophara.”

“What about that one?” Lindon asked.

Pride held it out. “This is for you.” He glanced to one side. “I suggest you take it quickly. It hasn't been long since I won it.”

Lindon stood still, watching him.

[It's an imposter!] Dross said.

“Gratitude, but why would you...”

Pride made an irritated noise and shoved the crown onto Lindon's head. Instantly, Lindon was bathed in a pillar of white light.

“I owe you nothing,” he said, turning his back to Lindon and limping toward the trees. “Defend it on your own.”

[That was nice,] Dross said. [I still don't like him.]

* * *

Naru Saeya flew low, dodging branches, as she circled a tower of gold light in the distance. She couldn't know what had happened since she was killed, so she had to assume that she was the last remaining member of her team.

Her victory wasn't important. It was the team that mattered.

As she kept her spiritual sense extended, hunting for danger, she felt something behind her and slowed down. After making sure there was no one else close to her, she flew backward.

Eithan had emerged at the edge of the jungle, just where they had arrived at the beginning. He brushed his robes off, giving an annoyed huff when he found a spot of mud around his knee.

“You didn't last any longer than I did,” she said, and in truth it soothed her pride. She had thought that if anyone survived, it would be Eithan.

He gave her a beaming grin. “I thought you could use the company. No telling how many crowns are left, but we should be able to grab a pair.”

“On one condition,” Saeya said. “You take the first.”

He paused. “I have to admit, I was expecting a different condition.”

She folded her wings and began walking, perception extended. “I'm not a fool. I know you didn’t have to take that hit.”

Eithan glanced up at the sky, perhaps looking to the invisible constructs that allowed the participants to watch them. “What? How dare you. Perish the thought.”

“I don’t want my name to spread, but the name of the Blackflame Empire. I need you to make that happen.”

It hadn’t been an easy journey for her, but Saeya had eventually admitted the truth: she wasn’t cut out for this. The more she trained against Yerin, the more she saw the girl’s unlimited potential. Potential Saeya didn’t have.

Besides, her true passion wasn’t advancement. She just wanted her home to prosper.

Eithan stretched one arm, then the other, the thread-of-gold on his ornamented robes flashing in the sun. “Bargain struck,” he said. “Let’s go give them a reason to remember us.”

* * *

The second round worked as intended, dividing the number of participants in half, but it also split the Akura faction.

Only one of the Frozen Blade competitors made it out, and none of the Akura backup team. Akura Grace told them how the team of dragons found them before they made it to Lindon, and she had been eliminated. When she returned, she hadn't been able to claim a crown in time.

He was greatly relieved when he saw that Eithan and Yerin had both passed, though neither Pride nor Naru Saeya had managed to secure a crown before time ran out. He had mixed feelings. True, the fighters most likely to win had passed, but Pride and Saeya had given up their personal chances for the team. That only increased the weight on him.

When they returned to their rooms, Mercy and Lindon were gathered together and visited by the Ninecloud Soul.

“Congratulations on passing the second round!” The warm voice said from within the rainbow light. “In the morning, you will be led to the Archlord prize vaults, from which you will select one sacred instrument of your choosing. In future rounds, you will be permitted to use weaponry up to Archlord in your matches...although allow me to caution you that an Underlord weapon suited for you will produce far better results than an unsuitable Archlord weapon.”

“Understood!” Mercy said brightly.

Lindon's imagination was already running away from him.

The Archlord vaults of the Ninecloud Court? What would they be like? Why did he have to wait all that time until morning?

“One week after you claim your prizes, you will fight in the third round. These will be one-on-one matches to the death, although of course the protection of the honored Northstrider is still in effect. However, unlike later rounds, you are not competing as an individual, but as a team. Only when the last member of your opposing team loses will you be considered victorious.”

Mercy stepped closer to the rainbow, hands clasped behind her back. “Question! Can the same person fight each time?”

“Full rules will be provided to you tomorrow, but yes, of course. As long as you win. Someone who loses this fight is eliminated from this round...but not from the competition. Either your whole team will survive, or none of you will.”

[Ah, so last round was intended to reduce half the remaining individuals, and this is designed get rid of half of the remaining teams. It's like some kind of human-eliminating system.]

“Who is our opponent?” Lindon asked.

The light flashed, acknowledging him, and the image of a human bound in chains appeared in its center. Lindon had noticed the man around the tournament, but hadn't spent any time investigating him. He looked older than thirty-five, haggard and worn and no more than skin and bones, but maybe captivity could do that to someone.

“You face the one remaining member of the black dragon team. He was registered in the tournament as the Black Dragon Prisoner.”

[You know, I saw his name on the lists, and I assumed I was reading it wrong. Or there was something wrong with your eyes.]

“During the second round, he was unchained and left to his own devices,” the Ninecloud Soul went on. “He ran around the island eliminating everyone and everything he encountered. Our records do not make it clear whether he sought out the crown or whether he accidentally ended up with it after killing everyone else.”

The image of the man started wildly thrashing, tearing at his restraints, snapping his teeth and lashing a long black tail behind him.

“Now that the rest of his team has been eliminated, we have decided to list him under his real name: Naian Blackflame.”

Dross gasped. Mercy covered her mouth with a hand and looked to Lindon.

Lindon watched the broken man strain against his chains.

For almost two years, Lindon had heard about how the Path of Black Flame would erode the mind, body, and soul. He had seen Orthos' transformation after the damage was reversed by the wells of Ghostwater.

But he had never seen what happened to a human.

After a few more pleasantries, the Ninecloud Soul vanished, leaving Lindon in a quiet room with Mercy. Birds chirped from the rafters, and clear water babbled as it ran in a creek throughout the room.

When Mercy finally spoke, her voice dragged out as though each word pained her. “I'm sorry to do this to you, but it gets worse.”

[Doesn't seem too bad so far!] Dross said to both of them. [It's all of us against a mad, injured prisoner. I feel like we can handle it.]

Mercy searched Lindon's eyes as though checking to see if he was ready for bad news before she continued. “We didn't do well enough last round.”

That was no surprise, though it hurt to hear.

“Monarch Shen's Dreadgod teams still have eight people left,” Lindon said. He'd seen the lists. “Sophara is still ranked first, and most of the other top ten ranks are taken by the Ninecloud Court. We do not have the strongest individual, nor the most participants, nor the best team.”

As he spoke, his feelings firmed: he was still confident.

“And what does it matter?” he went on. “The only thing anyone will remember is who is still standing at the end.”

Mercy's look was full of compassion, but she and Lindon were drawn to the door at the same time as they sensed a powerful presence approaching.

“Not the only thing,” Mercy said.

Fury burst through the door a moment later, hair scraping the doorframe and chest bare from within his outer robe. Knocking must have been a courtesy he left behind in his advancement.

Lindon bowed over a salute, but Fury waved that aside. “Monarch meeting is finally over,” he announced, throwing himself down on the couch. “We're losing.”

“What was on the table?” Mercy asked quietly.

Her uncle—who, now that Lindon thought about it, was technically her older brother—raised his head to peek over a cushion. “You should come to these things, you know. If you keep it up with your advancement, you'll lead the family someday.” He let his head drop back down. “And then I wouldn't have to go.”

“I know the Dragon King must be gaining influence...” she prodded him.

“Yeah, his little snake is making the rest of us look bad. Charity thinks the dragon girl might end up a Sage, and if she makes it to the top eight, I won't be able to deal with her myself.” He let out the longest, most drawn-out sigh that Lindon had ever heard. “The cat and the snake are speaking with one voice, and thanks to little Sophara and those cults, the rest of them are listening.”

[I can guess what he means,] Dross said, [but I'm a little afraid he is actually talking about cats and snakes.]

Reigan Shen and the Dragon King are working together, Lindon explained, though in truth he didn't understand much of the situation.

Mercy looked like she did, from the way she frowned and chewed on her lip. “So it is about the Dreadgods?”

“Of course it is. You saw the teams that Shen brought, and did the other Monarchs band together and kick him out? Didn't say a word. Any more than we did when the Nineclouds put Miara as their team captain. Maybe I should slap on a wig and a veil and push around some Underlords.”

Lindon wanted to ask more questions about that, but Fury didn't slow down. “More Monarchs have died trying to kill the Dreadgods than any other way, but Reigan has the others convinced that he’s found a way.”

“How?” Lindon asked. The question came out of him so quickly that he forgot to be polite.

Fury pointed to him from the couch. “The cat has a key to crack open the western labyrinth. He claims he’ll use it as bait, drag the Dreadgods in, and the security measures on the maze will weaken them enough for us to kill them and craft their corpses into the most powerful Divine Treasures the world has ever seen. The cults, of course, think he’s just waking them up.”

The Herald sat straight up. The wind stirred, gathering him until he sat on air and drifted to face Lindon and Mercy. “Problem is, the first thing the Dreadgods will do is run straight through Akura territory to get what they're after. We take on all the risk.”

The western labyrinth.

Lindon's throat tightened. He knew where that was. His right hand curled into a fist.

It wasn't the Akura clan who would be taking on the risk, but the people in their territory. The people of Sacred Valley.

“Mother won't let them,” Mercy said confidently.

“No, she never has. But half the Monarchs feel like cities and towns are only holding us back, and most of the other half are listening because there's nothing at stake for them. If it weren't for Northstrider, we'd have been run over already.”

Lindon's spirit shivered as a massive spiritual scan passed through the whole building.

Fury tilted his face up. “Yeah, I'm talking about you. No need to show off.”

The scan passed.

“How can we help?” Mercy asked.

“Don't just win. Send a message.” He held out a fist, and red eyes blazed. “Crush Naian in two seconds, Mercy, and show them why they should be afraid of us.”

Lindon thought of the man straining against the restraints, a prisoner of the dragons and a victim of Blackflame madra. He could spend the week looking up records of Naian's techniques from the second round and training against Dross' model, but Naian Blackflame wasn't the goal. He would spend more time training against Sophara.

“Pardon,” he said, “but I have a suggestion.”

Both Akura turned to him. Mercy looked surprised, and Fury curious.

“We have two people against his one,” Lindon said. “Everyone expects us to win. And they expect Mercy to be stronger than he is. I think, with your permission, that we can send a stronger message.” For effect, Lindon let the Path of Black Flame bleed into his eyes. “Let me defeat him, Blackflame to Blackflame. We can show them that even when we play by their rules, using their Paths, we are still stronger.”

Fury's eyebrows raised, and he turned to Mercy. “Can he do it?”

Mercy responded with instant confidence. “Yes.”

The Herald shrugged. “All right, Lindon. What do you need?”

“Your guidance in picking a weapon tomorrow,” he said. “And, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble, I’d like access to a Soulsmith foundry. I have a plan.”

* * *

Information requested: Reigan Shen, Monarch of the House Shen

Beginning report…

Path: King’s Key. Reigan Shen is its creator and sole practitioner. A force Path touched by the authority of space. As a Jade cub, he was lucky enough to bond with a Sage’s Remnant that had some command over space. His Path involves control over an extra-spatial vault in which he stores weapons, techniques, and even enemies.

Reigan Shen is a creature of ambition.

He was born to a pride of regal white lions on the western plains of the Rosegold continent, a prince of this line of sacred beasts. His diplomatic victories were matched only by his impressive record in combat, and before he turned twenty years old, he had united the plains under his family name and reached Underlord on a Path of his own design. If he had been allowed to continue his life uninterrupted, he would have led his tribe to unprecedented prosperity and ushered in a new treaty between the local human cities and sacred beasts.

The Dread War disrupted his fate. When the twelve Monarchs attacked the Wandering Titan in an attempt to destroy the Dreadgods once and for all, Reigan Shen distantly sensed the battle. And when the other three Dreadgods woke to defend their brother, beginning the greatest slaughter of Monarchs since the creation of Cradle, he saw the start of that fight as well.

It was his first glimpse of true power, as such things are measured in his Iteration, and it filled him with awe. The conflict broke most of his home plains, and many of his pride lost their lives, but he led an expedition to a nearby human city. His goal: to find out the identity of these godlike beings whose battle had broken the earth and spread across the sky.

That same year he began his search, the Dread War concluded. The two surviving Monarchs convened the handful of Heralds and great families remaining in the world. Together, they organized the Uncrowned King tournament in an effort to pool their resources and raise up a new generation of Monarchs.

Reigan Shen reached these families just as they had begun their search for powerful Underlords. He was the victor of the first Uncrowned King tournament, and that fortune became the foundation for decades of conquest.

Now, the Monarch of the King’s Key Path has a reputation as a conqueror and a glory-seeker, an imperialist and a daring innovator. He is known to be generous to his people, but ruthless and cruel to all others. He is always looking for the next legendary deed that will spread his own myth.

So when he approached the four Dreadgod cults, promising them each that he intended to awaken their masters for good, they had no reason to doubt him.

Suggested topic: The life and death of Gaien Arelius. Continue?

Denied, report complete.

15

The competitors were kept in a waiting room before the main event. It was a small, gray room with only a pair of benches against the wall, a low table, and a cabinet.

Mercy engaged in a series of stretches on the opposite side of the room, but Lindon sat on the bench, cupping Little Blue in his hands.

The spirit stared up at him, her chimes full of confidence.

“It's okay if you're scared,” Lindon told her. “This will be dangerous. I'm not sure it's worth the risk.”

Little Blue stuck two fists in the air and whistled.

Dross didn't manifest because of all the foreign gazes around—Northstrider could probably see them from the other side of the world if he wanted to, so there was no guarantee he wouldn't glance into the waiting room with his spiritual perception.

But Dross still spoke into the Riverseed's mind. [We’re attached to a big human Underlord, aren’t we? Let him do all the fighting. That’s his job!]

Blue gave out a burbling sigh.

[What! I'll have you know that I have as much courage as any dozen memory constructs! Which is...hm, that would be none. Twelve times zero is zero. Well, I have more than that!]

Lindon leaned closer, looking into the Sylvan's ocean-blue eyes. “If you're scared, we can call this off. There are things I can try on my own.”

She gave him an unusually serious look and a single, resolved nod.

Without further hesitation, Lindon drew Little Blue into his soulspace. He could feel her revolving there, between his cores, curled up as though asleep.

[I am being serious now, though: don’t let her get hurt, okay? Or me, if that were to come up for some reason.]

Lindon snatched up his shield and slipped it over his left hand. He’d created it himself, with Dross’ help, from scrap materials and dead matter that the Ninecloud Soulsmiths had allowed him to use. It was made primarily from force madra, with an Underlord-level defensive binding and a few protective scripts here and there. It wasn’t compatible with his Blackflame madra or his hunger madra, so he couldn’t use it on his right hand, but he still found himself attached to it.

He had taken the bulk of the shield from a turtle-Remnant. It was a broad, stone-gray shell.

Orthos would have been proud.

The madra felt a little unstable, but it shouldn't cause any problems for him. If the shield was destroyed in this fight, but he managed to save Naian, it would be worthwhile.

At the touch of his madra, a sword hovered above him and behind his shoulder. It was a real sacred instrument, a masterfully crafted weapon covered in elegant script.

The double-edged blade was wide and tinged with just a hint of blue, its runes stylized to look like crashing waves. The hilt and guard were a pale green that reminded him of wind aura and carved with the image of powerful gusts.

Wavedancer was the weapon’s name, and it was a masterpiece. Its Archlord spirit was as graceful as its physical form, and it had no binding, so he could use it even as an Underlord. According to the description from its creator, it was meant to “Bend the swiftness and power of an ocean storm to the protection of its owner.”

It was a comforting presence behind him, using his madra as fuel to hover, but he didn’t feel the same connection to it that he did to the shield. Maybe it was because of its aspects of water and wind, or maybe it was that he’d made the shield himself. Regardless, he needed an Archlord weapon, and this had been the most suitable for him.

Dross took over controlling it immediately, so he didn't have to waste his concentration.

“Apologies,” Lindon said aloud, “but I can’t control what happens to Little Blue. I think it’s worth the risk. So does she.”

Dross grumbled. [Is this Blackflame your long-lost brother and you just never told me? Wait, now that I’ve thought of it, I actually do want to know the answer. He’s not. I know he’s not. Is he?]

In the ravaged twenty-five-year-old Blackflame, Lindon saw Orthos. Between what Orthos had been before meeting Little Blue and what he had become after Ghostwater, there was a world of difference.

Orthos had gotten his life back. Maybe Naian Blackflame could too.

Mercy pulled her hair back, tying it into a tail with a string of sticky black madra. Suu rested against her shoulder, her new lens hanging on her forehead over her left eye. The lens was her Archlord prize from the last round: a circle of scripted purple glass that enhanced her vision in half a dozen different ways. She wore a newly tailored version of the Akura team uniform, the high collar framing her face in bright violet and the cape sweeping out behind her.

He wore the same, his outfit broader and bulkier than hers. His halfsilver badge hung over his chest, though he'd been forced to leave his void key behind again. With the turtle shield on his left hand, Wavedancer hovering over his right shoulder, and Dross and Little Blue in his spirit...he was ready.

Lindon stepped forward into a script. Colors swirled in the runes for a while, scanning his weapons and soulspace for anything beyond his station, until it finally flashed white. He was approved.

He stepped aside while Mercy walked into the scanning circle, her purple eyes concerned.

“I can still fight him, if you'd prefer,” she offered.

He took a deep breath, working the fingers on his Remnant hand. “Gratitude, but I need to try. Besides, it's better if we have you in reserve in case I mess up.”

She laughed, but he hadn't been joking.

Once the script lit up for her, she moved past to join him. Distantly, he could hear the noise of the crowd and the voice of the Ninecloud Soul as she introduced the two factions.

He could do nothing else to prepare. He was as ready as he would ever be.

After a minute of silence, the heavy stone wall began to grind upward.

Instantly, a gust of wind and a rush of noise blew in. The dry air smelled of ash, and Lindon wondered why. The arena hadn't smelled like that the last time he'd been there.

When the wall finished opening, he saw what had changed: the arena was covered in dead trees.

The sandy stone that had been the arena floor before was now covered in a thick layer of white-and-gray ash. Dozens of brown, leafless trees rose from the ashes, dry and ready to burn.

The Ninecloud Court had prepared a battlefield suitable for two Blackflames.

“...led by the daughter of Monarch Malice herself, the Akura family!” the Soul announced, and the crowd roared in response. The colorful Monarch towers around the arena were once again packed with people, though the Akura crowd closest to him was muted. The shadowy veil around their tower deadened even sound.

Lindon and Mercy strode out in their plum-and-violet uniforms, with Lindon one respectful step behind the Akura heiress.

The rainbow light of the Ninecloud Soul spoke from above the arena, flashing with every word. Northstrider still stood in the middle, black-scaled muscular arms folded across his chest. His eyes were closed as he waited.

Only a few seconds after Lindon stepped out on the ash, another section of wall on the opposite side of the arena began to rise.

“Naian Blackflame, fighting for the black dragons!”

The skeletal young Underlord rushed out, flecks of spittle flying from his unrestrained snarl. His eyes blazed with hunger, and he rushed through the layer of ashes on bare feet. Lindon was somehow disconcerted to see that Naian didn’t share the Blackflame eyes that he and Orthos did. The Goldsign of the main Path of Black Flame was their tail.

Compared to the visions Lindon had seen in the dream tablets, Naian looked even worse. His tail whipped behind him in a frenzy, dirt and grime smeared his matted, unshaven face, and wild, stringy hair hung from his head.

Worse, he was still shackled; a scripted collar around his neck shone red, and Lindon could tell that he was attempting to force madra through it. His hands were tied behind his back with a series of scripted chains.

There was no reason in him. He rushed at Northstrider like a mad dog unleashed.

And slammed into an invisible wall only inches from the Monarch. He fell backward, howling with pain, twisting and writhing to get back to his feet with his hands tied behind him.

A few scattered laughs sounded from the audience, but Lindon saw nothing funny.

Northstrider finally opened his golden eyes, looking first to the Akura team, ignoring the Blackflame artist who was trying to break an invisible wall with his teeth.

“Which of you fights first?” he asked.

Lindon stepped forward. “This one will, if it pleases the Monarch.”

“It does.”

Lindon turned at the sound of stone grating on stone. A booth had risen from the arena floor, surrounded by scripts.

“Akura Mercy. You will watch from inside this room unless and until your turn comes. The battle will not touch you.”

Mercy bowed and returned, patting Lindon on his arm before she left.

Leaving Lindon to face his opponent with Northstrider standing between them.

Overhead, the rainbow voice played up the match. “A fighter from the Blackflame Empire versus the last descendant of their original royal family!”

Aside from wondering if Naian really was the last descendant, Lindon gave her words no thought. He focused on the man lashing his tail at the transparent barrier in front of him. He could hear the passage of the tail through the air—that was not a weak blow, but against the will of the Monarch, it might as well have been breeze from a sparrow's wing.

“He will be unbound, won't he?” Lindon asked quietly.

“As much as he can be,” Northstrider answered. The Monarch's attention turned to Lindon, and Lindon's spirit shook. He felt a spike of worry for Dross, but the mind-spirit was stunned into a sort of awed silence by the Monarch’s sheer presence.

“Do not let compassion disarm you,” Northstrider said. “He is no less deadly for his condition.”

Fireworks sounded overhead, and Naian snarled at the sky.

Northstrider unfolded his arms, and Lindon cycled the Path of the Black Flame. Naian noticed, turning to glare at Lindon with dark human eyes. Lindon met them with the eyes of a dragon.

With a hiss, the metal collar around his neck split apart. It fell to the ash, and the belts around his arms whipped through the air as they unraveled. He looked down at himself with surprise, stretching his arms, staring at his own fingers.

Then a Burning Cloak sprang up around him, thicker and wilder than Lindon's, like an unrestrained forest fire. He howled.

“Begin!” Northstrider commanded. He, and all barriers restricting the fighters, vanished.

Lindon used a Burning Cloak of his own, closing the distance between him and Naian. He knew from the dream tablets that reason would not work on the Blackflame. Certainly not while black dragon madra still poisoned his mind. Lindon needed to weaken the man first.

He kicked up ash with every step, landing beside Naian, reaching out with his hunger arm. The more Blackflame madra he could drain away, the more lucid his opponent would become.

Naian didn't react the way Lindon had expected he would. For the first instant, he didn't react at all. He stood, staring at his own hands, a furious Burning Cloak blazing around him.

As though it had a mind of its own, his tail struck with blinding speed.

It slapped Lindon's Remnant arm so hard that a crack appeared on the back of the white hand, and a lance of pain shot through Lindon's spirit. In the same instant, it struck again, stabbing at Lindon's face.

He got his shield up in time, taking the blow on the metallic surface, but it hit like a hammer. Lindon was thrown backward, skidding to a halt in the ash.

He twisted his shield in an instant, readying dragon's breath, but Naian was gone.

Lindon felt burning heat in his spirit from behind and threw himself aside as a bar of dragon's breath slashed from left to right at neck height. Naian followed it up, using the red-and-black madra like a furious sword.

An actual sword would be faster; every stroke of dragon's breath took a little time to gather. But the Blackflame made sure that Lindon had no time to recover, dashing at him with the Burning Cloak in between Striker techniques. He fought like a furious beast, mixing the Cloak and the dragon's breath into an unrelenting assault. Only by blocking with his shield and his flying sword could Lindon keep up.

Dross! Lindon called desperately.

[Done,] the spirit replied, and suddenly Lindon could see a ghost of his opponent overlapping his actual movement. A ghostly echo that preceded his action instead of coming after.

Dross moved the flying Wavedancer to block a punch while Lindon sheltered from the Striker technique behind his shield. He pushed the dragon's breath back, stepping forward. And now, in the prescient shadow of Naian's movements, he could see an opening.

In a burst of the Burning Cloak, he leapt forward. His right hand landed on the Blackflame's thigh, and he triggered his hunger binding.

It felt chaotic but powerful, far denser and more potent than his own. The main Path of the Black Flame used a Jade cycling technique that focused on power, not on expanding the core like his Heaven and Earth Purification Wheel did.

This original Blackflame madra reminded him more of the black dragon's power, but more tempered and controlled. No less potent or explosive. The original Blackflame madra mixed into his core, blending into his spirit just as the dragon's had.

Naian didn't like having his soul drained.

He lashed out with a kick that Lindon anticipated, breaking off the hunger technique after only a second. The shadow that Dross provided rushed at Lindon, who raised a shield to block the attack...which didn't come.

Instead, Naian used a technique that Lindon had never seen before.

He gripped his right arm in his left hand, the fingers on his right hand forming a claw and trembling as though under a great weight. Madra pooled there, and aura gathered, as though he was focusing his Burning Cloak into a single punch while also using a localized Void Dragon's Dance.

[We should stop that,] Dross suggested, and Lindon could only agree.

His flying sword swept in, striking at Naian from the right, and the Blackflame heir fought it off with lightning-quick flicks of his tail. At the same time, Lindon swept in a dragon's breath from the left, and Naian dashed away.

Each step was a burst of speed, powered by the full-body Enforcer technique, but there was a moment in between each leap where he had to come to a stop. Lindon aimed for those moments, following him with both a sword and a beam of madra.

That exchange only continued for a few seconds, and Naian never dropped his technique. Finally, Forged claws of red-and-black grew from the fingers on his right hand, encrusting from his fingers to his wrist in dark, fiery crystals.

The aura around it stormed with fire and destruction, flashing red and black, and with enough madra condensed into the technique to melt through a castle wall. Soulfire rushed through it as well, increasing the pressure until Lindon felt as though he could barely breathe, making the Forged claws vivid and distinct.

He Forged Blackflame so easily, Lindon sent to Dross, pulling his flying sword back and raising his shield.

[Most Paths can be Forged. Some sacred artists just have more talent than others.]

Naian roared, mad fury in his eyes, and jumped at Lindon.

Prepared, he lowered Wavedancer in front of him, holding out his shield behind that. Naian didn't bother knocking the Archlord weapon out of the way; instead, he slammed his claws into the flat of its blade.

The technique sent Blackflame madra and waves of flame—conjured by aura—blasting out in a sheet. It engulfed the sword in a cloud of deadly black, red, and orange, and Lindon hurriedly triggered the binding in his shield. The pulse of force pushed some of the fire away, but he was still consumed.

He drained some of the madra from the air with his right arm, pulling it into his Blackflame core, while at the same time contesting the Path of Black Flame with his own spirit.

Even so, he was burned.

The force of the attack shoved him back, and he had to squeeze his eyes shut against the heat, which beat at him like a furnace. While drawing on his fire Path, he had a higher tolerance for heat, but streaks of fire still seared him where the attack pushed through his spiritual protection. His robes caught fire in a dozen places, scorching his skin. Several of the trees around him burst into flame, crackling as they exploded.

Gritting his teeth and cycling Blackflame, Lindon endured. When the cloud of flame from the technique washed away, he was ready to react immediately, though his madra channels already ached. He pushed both hands out in a two-handed blast of dragon's breath.

Naian held up his left hand as though he held a sword...and then he did; a sacred instrument manifested itself from his soulspace. A squat, wide orange blade that glowed at its core like a sunset. It had no problem enduring Lindon's dragon's breath.

[Above!] Dross called, dragging his attention higher, but Lindon had already noticed. He opened his Copper sight to see clouds of fire and destruction aura gathering over him in a slowly spinning vortex.

Naian was using the Void Dragon's Dance.

Lindon cut off his dragon's breath immediately, focusing his spirit on controlling the aura released from the burning trees. The rotation of the aura clouds stuttered, turning slower then faster, as he and Naian Blackflame wrestled for control of the technique.

Naian gripped his sword in a trembling hand, snarling at Lindon through gritted teeth, pouring his wild and focused soul into the Ruler technique. He could have attacked, but he couldn't afford the slightest loss in attention. An instant of distraction would yield the Void Dragon's Dance to Lindon.

It was the same for Lindon, but he had joined the technique too late. Naian had control over most of it, and though Lindon poured all of his will into the aura, his grip was slipping. If he took a second to attack, a tornado of fire and destruction would strip the flesh from his bones in an instant.

He couldn't spare the attention...but Dross could.

His flying sword darted over to Naian, slashing at him with wide, elegant sweeping motions. It targeted the side of his neck, forcing the Blackflame to slide away, batting at the weapon with his tail.

Which allowed Lindon to get a firm grip on the Void Dragon's Dance.

Through whatever damage years of captivity and the rigors of his Path had done to him, Naian recognized what was happening. Rather than give into his opponent, he tore at his own technique, trying to disperse it. Lindon firmed his soul, pushing madra out, trying to stabilize the vortex under his control.

Neither got their wish.

Torn between two spirits on the Path of Black Flame, the Ruler technique detonated. In a blinding flash, all the natural fire in the area exploded outward, consuming anything in its path with the speed of destruction aura.

Lindon focused his spirit on defense, which meant that instead of burning through him like a fire through dry tinder, the flame hit an unfocused barrier of Blackflame madra. It slammed into his chest and cracked his ribs, sending him tumbling back.

His eyes and his spiritual senses were stunned, and he lost his breath. He clawed his way back to his feet before he could even feel the world around him again, trying to force his lungs to move. He felt as though he'd been pelted with rocks all over.

Naian had fared no better, a few patches on his skin blackened and cracked, and one of his knees twisted around the wrong way. He limped up, bracing on his tail, and snarled as he drew up dragon's breath.

Lindon wouldn't win a contest of Blackflame. But this had always been about wasting his opponent's madra.

The weaker the Path of Black Flame was in Naian's spirit, the more control his mind would have.

Lindon’s channels screamed with pain as pure madra ran through them, but he felt powerful again. Even his Bloodforged Iron body ran better on pure madra, healing his wounds more quickly, fighting the destruction of his flesh that Blackflame caused.

The Soul Cloak sprang up, and he ducked dragon's breath as he ran in, smacking the blade aside with his shield. Naian fought with blinding speed and bestial aggression, but between Dross' anticipation and the control of the Soul Cloak, Lindon reacted better. His shield and his flying sword protected him as they fought at arm's reach.

Fear pestered him—an unwelcome distraction. His shield was breaking under Naian's blade, and his own flying sword was just enough to defend him from the Blackflame's whipping tail. If he took a hit from this close, the fight could be over. He had only his Iron body to rely on.

But he had to create an opening.

Dross, he asked, can you numb my pain?

[I see what you're thinking, and if you weren't being protected from death by a Monarch, it would be unspeakably stupid. But you are, so go crazy.]

Lindon moved aside, and instead of crashing onto Lindon’s shield, Naian's orange sword skewered him through the stomach.

The audience erupted into wild cheers, lights flashing from the audience in the dragon tower.

Either Dross really had done something to numb his pain or Northstrider's protection helped, because Lindon's mind should have been erased by agony. Instead, though the three feet of metal scraped his ribs as they pierced him through, he was still able to function.

At least enough to pull Little Blue from his soulspace.

His concentration was shaky. As she emerged, he focused on his blood spraying all over his white arm, leaking through his Akura clothes. Those were expensive...

[Focus!] Dross said, and then Lindon could.

The Sylvan had screamed upon seeing him, scrambling to help, but Lindon pushed her toward Naian. The Blackflame was trying to pull his weapon free, but Lindon's left hand had his arm in a death-grip. At the same time, Dross controlled the flying sword to attack the man's back, engaging his tail.

Little Blue had an opening. And, with a sorrowful note, she took it. Ocean-blue hands landed on Naian Blackflame's wrist.

Cold sparks of her madra passed into his channels, and every muscle in the man's body went stiff. Even his tail froze, and he showed no reaction as a sword plunged into his back.

Despite Dross' stimulation, Lindon's mind was fading. With the last threads of madra he could control, he reached out his right arm and used the hunger binding.

Blackflame madra flowed into him. The less madra Naian had, the better, though it was hard for Lindon to remember why. Some of Little Blue's madra came back to him too, but the spirit was pumping more in, so most of it stayed in Naian's spirit.

The Blackflame swayed on his feet, and Lindon felt the same way. Little Blue was growing pale.

[Pull her back!] Dross called. [Lindon! If you die before she's in your spirit, she'll stay out here! Pull her back!]

It was harder than it should have been, but he managed to follow instructions, drawing Little Blue back through his hand and into the center of his soul. She gave him a sad look as she disappeared, and he wondered if he even saw a tear.

Naian looked stunned, paralyzed, staring into the distance as though watching a horrifying battle. He stayed locked in place, gazing through Lindon.

Lindon tried to ask how he was, but only blood sprayed from his lips.

A harsh, disused voice grated from Naian's throat. “You...pulled me...out. How...”

But Lindon couldn't stay awake anymore. He sensed his spirit one more time, where Little Blue was curled up between his cores. Safe.

He could relax.

Dross called something to him as though from a great distance, and he passed out.

* * *

When Lindon came back to himself, he was sitting on a polished stone bench inside a booth that seemed to have grown out of the arena floor. It felt like only an instant had passed.

His body was whole and healthy, his cores full, and his madra channels felt brand-new. Wavedancer sat neatly next to him, sheathed in a thin layer of Forged madra, and his gray turtle shield rested on his knees.

Rather than waking slowly from a deep sleep, he was wide awake. How long was I gone? Lindon asked Dross.

[AAAHHH! Where are we? What happened? How long was I gone?]

I hoped you would tell me.

[We're still sharing senses. If you felt absolute nothingness for a moment and now feel like you just skipped ahead a few minutes in time, then we’ve had the same experience.]

Someone was fighting outside the booth, across a field of ash, but a moment of fear drew his attention inward. He cast his perception through his spirit, finding Little Blue still curled up behind his cores.

She poured into his left hand, waking immediately. When she saw him uninjured, she gave a happy chime, leaping into his chest and trying to throw her arms around him. Soothing madra spread into him, though his spirit was fine. She was whole and healthy, her strength even restored from her efforts healing Naian.

And her actions had worked. Out among the leafless trees, Naian Blackflame was fighting Mercy.

This time, he fought with far more skill than he had shown against Lindon. His sword flashed in complex patterns, striking arrows from the air as he used his free hand to launch dragon's breath that severed a tree in the middle and forced Mercy to jump down.

His expression was serious, his aura restrained. Lindon recognized immediately that he was holding back, trying to avoid overtaxing his spirit and pushing himself over the brink again.

He wasn't healed, just as Orthos had only briefly returned to himself after Little Blue's treatment and the nourishment of Lindon's pure madra. He would need years of rest, and something like the restoration Orthos had received in Ghostwater.

But it was possible now, and that was enough. He had enough control over himself to get help.

[There's every possibility the dragons will seal him again,] Dross warned. [They're not just tying him up for their safety; they're using him as a weapon.]

I'll get to him, Lindon said. He had proven that Naian could be helped. He would find a way to make the rest work out.

Unfortunately for the black dragon team, Naian could not both hold back and fight against Akura Mercy. With Suu in hand and the purple lens over her left eye, Mercy unleashed arrow after arrow at her opponent.

He never managed to close, even with the Burning Cloak; she dodged his every move, tangled him up with Strings of Shadow, and continued shooting. Her arrows seemed to have minds of their own, swerving to hit at the last second, leaving veins of black madra that he had to burn from his spirit.

Finally, he struck her head-on with a bar of dragon's breath...but Mercy strode through it in full amethyst armor, unharmed, walking until his Striker technique ran out. When it did, she already had an arrow nocked and her bow drawn.

She didn't fire it. She waited, the missile seething with shadow madra.

Lindon wasn't the only one who could sense the war inside the Blackflame. He trembled, his head twitching and his tail lashing behind him. His Burning Cloak flickered on and off.

After gathering himself for a long moment, he growled, “I surrender.”

Disappointed jeers rose from the crowd as the Ninecloud Soul announced the result. Some of the unruly spectators within the Eight-Man Empire’s tower threw food or garbage into the arena, but constructs instantly incinerated it all.

Mercy's armor dissolved, and her bow shifted back into a staff. She wiped sweat from her brow with black-clad fingers and bowed to her opponent.

More elegantly than Lindon would have guessed, Naian returned the bow, pressing fists together in a salute. Then he turned to Lindon's booth and bowed a second time.

Naian did not make eye contact with Lindon, clearly still wrestling with himself. Nonetheless, Lindon nodded in return.

Most of what Lindon did in his pursuit of the sacred arts, he did for his own sake. He hadn't done much that he could be truly proud of.

And he still hadn't, he reminded himself. Not yet. Not until Naian was taken from the gold dragons and restored to control of his own body and spirit.

Northstrider appeared in the center of the arena, and his commanding voice announced the Akura team as the victor. The crowd's cheers drowned out all other sound.

Mercy bowed to Northstrider then hurried back through the ash, beaming at Lindon. Behind her, Naian said something to the Monarch. Northstrider's golden eyes surveyed him, and he responded with one word.

Lindon wished he had been close enough to overhear.

Naian glanced back to the Akura booth one more time and then walked away, picking up his own restraints on the way back to his waiting room.

The back wall of the booth slid up, leading back to the Akura waiting room, and Mercy dashed through the front of the booth only a moment later. “It worked!” she cried. “I knew it was going to work and it did!”

Little Blue jumped up and down on Lindon's hand, chattering away, and Mercy exclaimed, “You were so brave! Were you scared?”

They walked back into the waiting room as the Sylvan began to tell the story with half-understood impressions and hand gestures. Dross interjected here and there, asking a question or clarifying a fact.

As the walls continued to slowly fall, Lindon cast one last look behind him.

Across the ashen arena, Naian Blackflame walked into his waiting room, where Sophara was waiting for him.

The gold dragon did not seem furious, as Lindon had expected. Her arms, with their layers of jeweled bracelets and smattering of gold scales, were folded. She tapped her foot impatiently, staring across the arena herself.

Her eyes locked on Lindon's.

Naian bared his teeth, waving his chains as he shouted something at her.

[I don't have a good feeling about this,] Dross said, and Lindon felt the same way. He looked to Northstrider, who still stood impassively as images from the fight were projected over his head.

As the stone wall lowered past Sophara's face, her golden claws flashed once.

Blood splattered out onto the arena, and Naian's body fell.

Lindon shouted and ran forward, but an invisible force kept him from pushing past the descending door. He was no longer permitted in the arena.

The Ninecloud Soul was already talking about the next fight, the Five Sisters of the Iceflower Continent against the Ironheart Legion of Rosegold. Lindon could see the last Blackflame Prince's body sprawled on the ground, his throat torn out, staring across with blank eyes.

The door closed over Sophara's bloody claws.

“Will he come back to life?” Lindon asked, voice trembling. He already knew the answer, and Dross confirmed it.

[There’s never been a delay before,] the spirit said softly. [If he was going to come back, his body would have disappeared.]

When the wall crashed down, cutting off the sound from the arena. He heard only Mercy and Little Blue excitedly talking to one another, but Mercy trailed off.

“Lindon? What happened?”

He had driven his fist into the stone, leaving a crater. His right hand left no blood behind, though the white madra cracked slightly.

“...just to spite us.” He bit off the words, his voice low. Tears stung his eyes, though he couldn't understand why. He hadn't known Naian Blackflame at all.

“What?” Mercy hurried around so she could look into his face. “Did the dragons say something?”

The air flickered, and a massive bulk of a man stepped out, ragged hair falling behind him. His unshaven face showed a hint of anger.

“They always do,” Northstrider said. He had appeared in the center of the waiting room as easily as walking out of a door.

The two Underlords both bowed, though Lindon had to force his body to move like a puppet.

“Dragons are beings of destruction,” the Monarch went on. “They would rather see a field reduced to ash than see someone else have a bite to eat.”

“I’ll take care of her,” Lindon said. He didn't have a way yet, but he and Dross would figure it out. Blackflame burned through his spirit, and he took deep breaths, cycling the fury throughout his body.

Northstrider's golden eyes flicked between them before settling on Lindon. “Your opponent asked for his last words to be delivered to you.”

Lindon felt a pang in his heart. Last words. So Naian had expected what happened to him.

“He said, ‘The dragon advances.’”

16

In the brightly tiled and decorated hallways leading to their waiting room, Yerin and Eithan ran into the House Arelius team.

If that was a coincidence, Yerin would eat her sword.

Veris Arelius, the remaining Underlady, was the House Arelius woman they had met during the second round. She was tall and long-limbed, with blue eyes that shone like a sharpened blade and yellow hair tied into a braid.

Yerin had never seen Veris’ partner in the flesh before, but she'd looked up dream tablets on House Arelius since the last round. Altavian Arelius was in his early thirties, and his blond hair was almost white. He stood as tall as Lindon but not as broad, with legs built for running and arms for reach.

The sword on his back was twice the length of Yerin’s, and his Goldsigns were his razor-sharp nails. He was a sword artist who specialized in Enforcer techniques; in her dream tablet, she'd seen him cut through three individual opponents in a row during the second round.

Altavian's blue eyes were as peaceful as a lake on a windless day, and he looked as calm as though he walked around in a meditative trance. He bowed when he saw her, but otherwise said nothing.

Eithan swept up to them both, beaming. “It's a shame that we must meet each other in competition, but at least we will have a chance to learn from the main House.”

“If you've made it this far, you don't need any pointers from us,” Veris said. Now that she was speaking words Yerin could understand, her accent was clearly similar to Eithan's. The Arelius woman regarded them both with satisfaction. “Five people with the name Arelius passing the second round. I hope that burns him to the bone.”

“I doubt Reigan Shen is burned at all by our tenacity,” Eithan said, and Veris paled. Altavian's eyes widened in shock, and both members of the House Arelius team took a healthy step away.

Eithan flicked a lock of hair behind him. “We're not going to say anything he doesn't already know. I doubt he thinks we have a positive opinion of him after he killed our Monarch and shattered our home.”

He may as well have been speaking about ancient history, but Yerin's attention was hooked. She'd gathered that the Arelius homeland had been destroyed, and that Eithan had been there, but now it sounded like a battle between Monarchs.

“I wouldn't hate hearing that story,” Yerin said pointedly to Eithan.

“Not here,” Veris said through her teeth.

Eithan lifted his eyebrows. “You think speaking more quietly is going to prevent a Monarch from hearing us?”

“I think a little caution is better than none.” She stared him down for a moment before Eithan cleared his throat and dipped his head to her.

“You are quite right. I apologize, I forgot who I was dealing with.”

Veris' eyes flicked to the ceiling, but she seemed to relax somewhat. “The point remains that this is a good omen. No matter which of us wins, the Arelius name will echo across the world.”

“Mmmm,” Eithan said.

That might have been agreement.

The other two bowed and began to leave, but Eithan stopped them with a gesture. He gathered his thoughts before he spoke, which snagged Yerin's curiosity. Since when did he think before speaking?

“The Blackflame portal to the homeland opens in about two years. I would very much like to meet you there when it does. I believe we may be able to help each other.”

Veris looked surprised, and exchanged a quick volley of words with Altavian in her language. Finally, she said, “Much of that territory has been lost, but we will find a way.”

“Let it be so!” Eithan said triumphantly, and then he strode toward their waiting room. “Come, Yerin! Let's get ready to beat our new friends to death!”

* * *

The scripted stone door of their waiting room slowly slid open, revealing an arena that had totally changed once again.

Rather than covered in ash like Lindon's, their battlefield was covered in rectangular pillars. Some of them were only waist-high, while others towered overhead. Narrow alleys wound their way through the dense maze of structures.

Lindon's Blackflame arena had been designed to give them a source of aura, but this seemed to be built to limit their angles and force them into a fight on different levels. Yerin could imagine having to push to a crossroads to get enough space to swing her sword, and leaping up to the top of a pillar to land a Striker technique on someone below.

She wondered why the arena had been customized in this way for this particular match—it seemed to be designed to restrict the two sword artists more than anything—but the introduction made the picture clear.

“Arelius versus Arelius!” the Ninecloud Soul announced, to the approving roars of an energetic crowd.

The week since the last match had whipped them into a frenzy, because Yerin couldn't hear herself think.

“House Arelius used to rule over most of the Rosegold continent, before the tragic death of the Monarch Tiberian Arelius only eight years ago. But his descendants are still a force to be reckoned with, leaving branches on every continent! Today, it's a family reunion, as their cousins from the Blackflame Empire have come to test their worth against the heart of House Arelius!”

Arelius versus Arelius...this arena had been designed with their bloodline abilities in mind. The close square pillars would block sight and make hearing unreliable, so spiritual perception and Arelius bloodline senses would be the best way to navigate the fight.

And Eithan had forced her to complete his spiritual perception course. Had he known, even then, that they would be in this situation?

Yerin gave him a wary look from the side. If he had anticipated this far ahead, then she should be a little afraid of him.

He kept looking to the center of the arena, but leaned to the side to speak to her. “Good thing we trained your perception, isn't it? This could have been awkward.”

Yerin relaxed. Sometimes she forgot Eithan was only human.

The columns blocked their sight of the other team, but Northstrider appeared in the middle of the arena, standing on the highest rectangular pillar. His wild hair blew in the wind, and he looked down on them with the regal bearing of a king.

“Decide who fights,” he said, and Yerin heard stone grating on stone as the booth rose from the floor behind her.

“I’d be more than happy to draw swords on both of them,” Yerin said, “but they're your kin. I’ll follow your word.”

They had discussed their strategy already, but Eithan had directed her to focus on preparing for either fight. She had a plan against Veris and Altavian both, but he had dodged any questions about which of them would fight first. She assumed he wanted to decide at the last moment.

Eithan leaned over so that they were eye-to-eye, looking into her. A moment later, his hand blurred as he slapped her on the side of the head.

It didn't quite hurt, but she instantly responded by stabbing at him with one of her Goldsigns. He slid casually to one side.

She scowled at him. “You trying to get me ready to stab an Arelius?”

Eithan straightened up. “Just checking. I don't see it in you yet. Why don't you watch me first? It might be good for you.”

“I was ready to do that from the beginning! Didn't need a slap!”

“Next time, dodge it.”

Yerin grumbled as she walked back to the booth. They were both Underlords now. She didn't have to listen to him anymore.

...though she reminded herself that she still hadn't defeated him in a spar. Once she could beat him, then she could ignore his advice. And slap him on the head.

Yerin settled into the booth as the disembodied voice echoed through the arena: “The fighters have been chosen! Veris Arelius of House Arelius fights for the late Tiberian Arelius! And Eithan Arelius of the Blackflame Empire fights for Akura Malice! It's a civil war between these two scions of the same clan!”

Yerin could see the back of Eithan’s elaborate lavender-and-gold outer robe fluttering in the wind, his hair blowing alongside it. The image of him projected for spectators overhead looked supremely confident, as always.

She couldn’t see his opponent with her own eyes, but Veris’ giant illusory image floated in the air opposite Eithan’s. The Arelius woman wore loose-fitting pants and a shirt, all in the Arelius colors of dark blue, black, and white. She stood with her hands behind her back, eyes closed, breathing deeply. Lightning crackled in the air around her.

“Begin,” Northstrider said, and then vanished.

Veris’ eyes snapped open.

A sharpened lance of bright, crackling energy flashed through one of the alleys between the columns. The Striker technique looked like lightning hammered straight, and it pierced the air not where Eithan was, but where he was headed. He had dashed to the side, but Veris had anticipated that.

Eithan leaped on top of a nearby column as though he had planned to all along, and the Striker technique passed beneath his feet. He cast stars of pure madra to the opposite end of the arena, calling down a blue-white waterfall.

So far, so boring, at least for a fight between Underlords. They were fighting like a pair of archers in an exhibition, like they were trying to show off for the fanciest shot. In Yerin's estimation, Eithan should have closed the distance between them immediately and gone straight for the kill, knowing that his opponent favored Striker techniques.

A moment later, everything changed.

A soaring lightning falcon swooped over Eithan's head, let out a screaming cry, and detonated into a field of storm madra...fifty feet away from Eithan. At the same time, Eithan darted backward, dodging nothing, and let out a burst of pure madra into thin air.

While running, he drew his new scissors—the prize he had chosen from the last round. They were actually an Archlord sacred dagger with the ability to change its physical shape, so he chose the shape of his old weapon: a set of large black fabric scissors.

And these carried an Archlord binding. No matter how much madra he had, it would be difficult for Eithan to activate such a weapon at his advancement stage without tearing his madra channels.

He was using them for their other advantage, which he had proudly explained to Lindon and Yerin already. This weapon responded to Enforcement far better than anything else Yerin had ever seen him use.

He flooded the scissors with pure madra, and they burst into a dark ball of gray light. When he stabbed that weapon into Veris’ Forged falcon, the lightning technique crackled and burst.

Eithan wasted no time ducking into the pillars, still running.

The images of the two fighters hovered in the air over the columns themselves, and Yerin turned her attention to those when she could no longer see Eithan. They occasionally crossed techniques, with Eithan reflecting a ball of destructive energy or Veris' hair being ruffled by a near-miss from a burst of pure madra, but most of the time it was as though the two of them were fighting against invisible opponents.

The Ninecloud Soul’s beautiful voice sounded excited, its rainbow light glimmering from the center of the projected fight. “Our more advanced guests will have already noticed the complex back-and-forth dance between these two combatants. Each is predicting the movements of the other, attempting to corner their opponent by cutting off retreat. Anyone worried that one Arelius might hold back against another can rest easy!”

Yerin couldn't see any of that, and it frustrated her. As far as she could tell, they were playing around and taking it easy on one another. Her master had been no Arelius, and she was sure he would have followed this fight.

She extended her spiritual perception, trying to sense the interplay between the two, but all she could feel was the flashy back-and-forth of their exchanges.

Breathing deeply, she sunk deep into her spiritual senses. Rather than trying to see the fight, she tried to feel its flow.

For over a minute, she felt nothing. She tried to predict what Eithan would do next, and she got it wrong almost every time. But as she pushed her frustration down and just felt, she began to sense something.

It was like the spike of alarm she felt when someone was attacking her from behind, but softer and muted. A feather brushing against the back of her neck rather than a nail through her skull.

Jump, she thought, and Eithan leaped away from a crackling claw of madra that erupted from the ground beneath him.

He would loop around the outside of the arena now, trying to push Veris into a bad angle.

And so he did, running from the top of one squared-off column to another, gathering stars of pure madra in the air as he ran.

The fight progressed with both sides trying to pressure the other, but Yerin spent her time trying to memorize the feeling of this elusive state. She wasn't sure if it had to do with the instinctive skill of the Sword Sage's Remnant or her evolving spiritual perception, but she suspected both.

Eithan moved as quickly as he ever had in their sparring matches and used the four techniques she'd seen him use. He slid past every technique Veris sent his way, some of which almost cornered him.

She felt the turn in the fight an instant before it happened.

Veris slipped out from cover to launch a Forged hawk of storm madra at Eithan, and she lingered a beat too long. Yerin felt it.

That's the game, she thought.

Eithan's blast of pure madra clipped her shoulder, slowing her next Striker technique for only a second. From there on out, Eithan had the advantage, and she was on the back foot. In seconds, Eithan had her backed into a corner, driving his scissors up under her ribs.

The image faded away, showing golden characters. Though she couldn't read them, she knew what they meant: Blackflame Victory.

Yerin snapped back to reality, and she let out a breath. She felt oddly tired, as though she had been focusing intently for too long and needed a break. She had felt like she was letting her attention drift, and for only a few short minutes at that. Even her spirit felt a little strained.

But she held on to the feeling, committing it to memory. Experimentally, she closed her eyes and tried to bring back that state of heightened awareness, but it was like trying to catch fog between her fingers.

When she opened her eyes, Eithan was standing outside the booth, watching her with a proud smile on his face.

“That's more like it!” he said. “How did it feel?”

“You were the one who just won a match. I just sat here.”

“And yet your prize is greater than mine, as long as you can seize it.” He reached into the pocket of his shimmering gold-and-lavender outer robes, but hesitated. “...one way or the other, we'll be making House Arelius look bad here, but I suppose there's no helping it.”

From his pocket he pulled her blindfold.

Yerin looked at him sideways. “I go out there blindfolded, and you’ll be carrying me back in a bag. Think I can take their sword artist, but that’s if I’ve got eyes.”

The Ninecloud Soul was talking over select scenes from the battle, reproducing them in midair, to the approval of the crowd.

Eithan dangled the blindfold from one finger. “All right. Then what do you think you need?”

She needed that sensation of perfect awareness, where she was drifting on the Sage's instincts and her own spiritual perception. She could feel that she was only touching the surface of that state, and she wanted to dive down deep.

But first, she had to figure out how to call it at will. Her master would say that the best way to do that was in the heat of battle.

Yerin snatched the blindfold. “Don't blame me if this gets us a loss.”

“If you progress in this way, a loss in this tournament means nothing.”

It meant something to her, and if their advancement to the next round were on the line, she would never try something like this. In reality, even if she failed, Eithan would have his chance to redeem them.

But when she imagined herself throwing a match by blindfolding herself and then Eithan losing the next fight, she almost gave up.

It was the thought of mastering this mysterious feeling that kept the blindfold in her hand. It was worth a little risk if she could take a step forward. The more pressure she put herself under, the faster she would grow.

She walked up, and Northstrider had returned to his spot atop the maze. He looked from her to her opposite, whom she couldn't see. She guessed they would send out Altavian this time, but she might be fighting Veris instead. Either way, she would have to pray to the heavens that she could sense the future as they sensed her.

“Are you satisfied with your fighters?” Northstrider asked.

Yerin nodded.

“Very well,” the Monarch said.

An instant later, the image floating above the match changed. Seeing it from the bottom, it looked like a chaos of color, nothing like a real picture. She didn't know if that was a security measure designed to prevent contestants from looking to see what their opponents were up to or if this was just how illusions of light looked from below.

“Altavian Arelius,” the rainbow announced, “versus Yerin Arelius! The bloodline member of the core House against an adopted disciple of a branch family! One born with every advantage, the other fighting for every scrap, but both have made it to the greatest heights!”

Yerin steadied herself. She calmed her breathing. And she wrapped the blindfold around her eyes.

Noise from the crowd surged in response.

“What's this?” the Ninecloud Soul cried excitedly. “Contestant Yerin has—”

“Begin,” Northstrider said.

Yerin's spirit cried a warning, and then she was cut.

17

Charity watched as Yerin blindfolded herself and had to push down a surge of anger. Sacred artists, in her opinion, tended to make the same errors when they pushed for advancement. One was to value progress over every other objective.

Not only was Yerin risking victory for herself, but the prestige of her entire country. The honor of Charity's family. A failure on her part would have costs Yerin could never measure, and success would mean benefits that Yerin couldn't imagine.

And yet she was hobbling herself, no doubt to train her spiritual perception in some way. She had not known the Sword Sage well, but she had known him, and this was absolutely something he would do.

But that didn't make it wise.

The thought was strong in her head as Altavian leaped over the entire maze, touching down only once, and brought his sword down hard on Yerin. He blazed with a silver full-body Enforcement, and the blinded Yerin reacted a second too late to avoid him completely. Altavian's goldsteel blade flashed as it cut her, dragging a slash down the inside of Yerin's left shoulder and gashing her thigh as she backed up.

It was a superficial cut, but it was a harbinger of the rest of the battle. She made a cage out of her Goldsigns, but he cut them from bottom-to-top, breaking the sword-arms open. Thrusting his left palm into the opening, he speared her with five needle-points of sword madra, a Striker technique that dug into her body. If she hadn't been a sword artist, she would have lost right there.

She blocked his next few hits with clumsy movements, bleeding from her pair of wounds, and Charity's irritation grew. Yerin was too slow and imprecise. Almost as though she were relying on her vague spiritual perception as an Underlady instead of her sight.

Charity had written this round off as a loss when Yerin slid away from the blade by a hair's breadth, flicking her sword casually against Altavian.

She cut his arm. Blood sprayed.

Then her sword rang like a bell. Instead of an uncontrolled storm, the aura erupting from both their blades struck precisely, knocking Altavian's sword away mid-swing and slicing him across both thighs.

Yerin moved confidently now, fluidly, as though a different person controlled her body.

Charity's annoyance faded, and she leaned slightly closer to her viewing tablet.

It was still somewhat annoying when a sacred artist risked everything for progression...but it was forgivable when it worked.

* * *

Min Shuei's heart seized in her chest as she saw Yerin knocking aside a three-part attack from Altavian Arelius with only her sword-aura, following up at the perfect moment to push him back and land a cut on his chest.

He leaped away and she followed, a blind hunter.

Emotion choked the Winter Sage, and she gripped her own sword, a twin to the one Yerin was using. The Underlady wasn't moving like herself anymore; her every step, every flick of the wrist, was a mirror of the Sword Sage.

The girl had taken Adama's Remnant. He had given up his life for hers.

Though Min Shuei yearned to hear the full story, she still couldn't forgive the girl for that. He should have had decades yet to live, yet to teach, and instead he had thrown it away on someone who didn't even appreciate his Path.

But here...it was like watching the man she'd loved come back to life.

* * *

Yerin drifted through a dream.

The pain of her wounds didn't hinder her in her dream. Even the pain in her spirit, caused by strained madra channels, couldn't touch her.

She moved on pure instinct, without thought, letting her training and experience move her body. It was like letting her Remnant take over, moving her body like a puppet. The sensation might have been uncomfortable if she thought too much about it, but conscious thought would shake her awake.

The dream only faded when her opponent's madra did, as her sword passed through him and he melted into light. Then her peace retreated, and she could do nothing to hold onto it amid the rising tide of cheers from the crowd.

Her injuries slapped her all at once, and she stiffened involuntarily. She gritted her teeth against the agony from the cuts all over her body and the strain in her spirit. It was all she could do to tear off her blindfold.

Long scratches marred the rectangular columns, and she could feel sword aura drifting through the air.

As the Ninecloud Soul announced her victory, she stumbled back toward the booth where Eithan waited.

At a sudden thought, she turned around to look at the visions hanging in the air over the arena.

The model of her was blindfolded, but moved with perfect confidence. She blocked Altavian's sword with her sword-arms, destroyed his half-formed Striker technique with her sword, and took a hand off her hilt to land a punch on his chest. He flew away, and in the instant before Yerin's image followed, a small smile was visible on her face.

Yerin remembered that. She had felt both of his attacks and had known instantly what to do to counter them. It was like she had become water, pouring herself into a vessel, naturally flowing through any crack in his defenses.

From the outside, it looked different. She paused in her step, blood gumming up one eye and flowing from the injuries down her left side, to stare at the moving images. From the steps she took, to the way every blurring movement of her sword moved into the next as though she had planned it all out in advance, she looked just like her master.

She found it hard to breathe for a second, staring at herself. Seeing the reflection of the Sword Sage was a punch to the gut, and she wasn't sure how to unravel it.

Only a moment later, she shook her head and turned, continuing to walk away. She may have inherited the intuition of her master's Remnant, but that wasn't all she was seeing in that projection. There were her own ingrained instincts, which she had honed from years of diligent training and violent competition. And there was something else, that strange feeling that her spiritual perception had brushed across more than once now. Something deeper than the flow of madra.

It was bigger than her. Bigger than the Sword Sage.

And she was sure her master had felt it too. They looked the same because they were dancing to the beat of the same music.

Today, she had learned to hear it a little more clearly.

Her body and spirit jolted, and for a moment she felt her body and spirit stretch, and then the pain was gone. So suddenly that it startled her. The Monarch had restored her to pristine condition, as though she'd died and come back.

She covered the rest of the distance to the spectator booth in one leap, landing in front of Eithan.

He greeted her with laughter. “That must have been a wonderful feeling!”

“What is it?” Yerin asked. And, she wondered, how had Eithan been able to teach her about it?

Eithan's blue eyes flashed with joy as he said, “Your ticket to victory.”

* * *

Sixteen young Underlords gathered in front of Northstrider, and he surveyed them all with features that may as well have been chiseled from stone.

“The nature of the fourth round changes based on how many of you survived round three,” he told them, and constructs all over the arena echoed his voice. “The round begins in one week. It is the final elimination round, designed to reveal the eight of you who will be honored as Uncrowned.”

The crowd roared, but Northstrider continued speaking without care. “As it happens, there are exactly sixteen of you. I have therefore decided on the best way for you to prove yourselves: single-elimination solo combat.”

The crowd rustled, partially cheering, partially muttering.

“I have already chosen your opponents,” he went on. “I selected the most appropriate enemy for each of you to demonstrate your skill and resolve.”

His invisible will passed over the competitors, sharpening their gazes, drawing their focus completely to him.

“Attend me, for this is the shape of the final selection round. After this, the true Uncrowned Kings will be revealed.”

* * *

“Ziel of the Wastelands, chosen of mine. You face Therian Nills of the Stormcallers, chosen of Reigan Shen.”

Ziel wished he had his hammer next to him. It would have been a comforting weight.

Without it, his hands slowly curled into fists as he stared across at another kneeling youth: a man in his mid-twenties, or so he appeared.

He wasn't the only Stormcaller in the top sixteen. Besides the one he'd eliminated in the second round, the other two cultists had both survived. In fact, six of the sixteen remaining competitors belonged to Reigan Shen.

It was a powerful statement, showing the world how strong the Monarch of the King’s Key had made his new allies. The Dreadgod cultists would surely shake the foundations of the earth.

But not this one. This one wouldn't make it any further.

Ziel only regretted that he couldn't kill his opponent for real.

* * *

“Sha Miara of the Ninecloud Court, chosen of the Luminous Queen. You face Blacksword of Redmoon Hall, chosen of Reigan Shen.”

Sha Miara pointedly refused to look at the young man with the dark sword across his back. Just to rile him up, she pressed her fingers to her lips as though stifling a yawn.

It was all a show. She couldn’t wait to crush him. It wasn’t dignified for a Monarch to compete with her lessers, but she never got to have any fun.

She was glad she wasn’t facing the Redmoon girl. Miara would still win, but she wasn’t ready for a challenge yet. She wanted to savor one more easy victory.

The challenging fights would come soon enough. Once she was Uncrowned.

* * *

“Eithan Arelius of the Blackflame Empire, chosen of Akura Malice. You face Yan Shoumei of Redmoon Hall, chosen of Reigan Shen.”

Shoumei stopped glaring at the Blackflame boy she'd met in Ghostwater and turned her attention to the yellow-haired clown who never stopped grinning.

She knew of him. The Blood Sage had spoken of him, after the report of Longhook's death had been confirmed by the sect oracles.

Her Blood Shadow stirred as she stared at Eithan Arelius. It hungered for him. Maybe, if it feasted on enough of his blood, it would inherit the famous Arelius bloodline ability.

Whether it did or did not, Shoumei eagerly looked forward to her match. She would get to prove herself in front of the whole world by destroying the person who killed Longhook.

Eithan gave her a beaming smile.

* * *

“Akura Mercy of the Akura clan, chosen of Akura Malice...”

Mercy sat up straighter, eager and just a tad worried. She hoped to be matched against one of Reigan's Dreadgod servants, or even Sopharanatoth. The gold dragon would be a difficult fight, but no one left in the competition was weak.

There was a chance that she could eliminate Sophara from competition, which would make the top eight much easier. And it would send a strong message on behalf of her family.

She was worried because there were also two friends remaining in the running as potential opponents. Northstrider hadn't matched anyone against a teammate so far, but he had been clear that he was deciding based on individual suitability. There was no guarantee she wouldn't fight Lindon.

“...you face Yerin Arelius of the Blackflame Empire, chosen of Akura Malice.”

* * *

Yerin glared at the Monarch.

She would have to fight a friend after all. There was no reason for it that she could tell; there were plenty of fighters left that he didn't have to match up two chosen by the same Monarch faction. Northstrider was doing this just to mess with her head.

Mercy wore her sadness plain upon her face, looking at Yerin with such a devastated expression that it actually lightened Yerin's mood a little.

Yerin was still upset that she had to fight a friend, but if they were going to compete, she intended to do her best. And she wanted no less from her opponent.

She tried to convey all that with nothing more than her eyes, but she must have failed. Mercy teared up.

* * *

When the Monarch's gaze turned to Lindon, Dross became excited. If he’d been sitting on Lindon’s shoulder, he would’ve been bouncing up and down.

[He looked at us! Do you think he knows I'm here? Do you think he sees me? He's proud of what we've done, I know it!]

All of Lindon's mind and soul were bent toward Northstrider's next words. None of his friends remained in the matchups, so that took a weight off his shoulders, though he ached for Yerin having to fight Mercy. Now there were seven potential opponents left for him.

And the one he wanted to face the most was also the one he most feared.

“Wei Shi Lindon Arelius of the Akura clan, chosen of Akura Malice. You face Sopharanatoth of the line of gold dragons, chosen of Seshethkunaaz.”

Lindon's heart thrilled with excitement and fear at the same time.

[Well, top sixteen is good,] Dross said. [Nothing to be ashamed of. Stiff competition this year, too, so really you should be proud of making it this far.]

Lindon would have had to crane his neck to look at Sophara, but he imagined he could feel the heat from her spirit in the air.

We'll get the tablet of her third round right after this, Lindon sent to Dross. Then we're spending the whole week training against her model.

[That seems like a lot of work from me for a guaranteed loss for you.]

Once again, Lindon saw blood dripping from Sophara's claws.

Even if we lose...we're going to make her work for it.

* * *

[Target Found: the Angler of the Crystal Halls. Location: Vroshir stronghold Tal’gullour, three months after the theft of the prototype scythes. Synchronize?]

[Synchronization set at 99%]

[Beginning synchronization...]

The central world of Tal’gullour was a planet-sized fortress floating in space. When Iri left the Way and entered the reality, the behemoth spacecraft loomed over her.

Hewn from entire moons’ worth of stone and metal, the fortress looked like a rocky cliff roughly shaped into a pyramid. It contained a full world of life and power within it—at least twenty billion men and women, with many times their number in plants and animals—but she could feel none of it. She felt only the Mad King.

His aura was a blazing, implacable wave of chaos, like a tide of magma. To most, it would be intimidating, but she had traveled in style.

She had left her ten-by-ten box back in [ERROR: location not found. Resuming synchronization]…She had left her ten-by-ten box hidden, and had come here in her own stronghold. Iri brought the Crystal Halls with her.

The Abidan considered the Vroshir an enemy organization, but “organization” was too tidy a word for what they were. Vroshir like Iri and the Mad King had no common goals and no love for each other. Iri was fairly sure that the King would devour her whole if he got a chance.

The Vroshir were united only in their methods: they liberated worlds.

When they found a new Iteration, they would scoop up anything they wanted and most of the population and move on. The people would be relocated to one of the massive Vroshir Homeworlds, where their very presence would tether the world even tighter to the Way.

Their old, depopulated home would be consumed by chaos, but who cared? The people were gone.

Iri thought of herself as less of a liberator and more of a collector. The Crystal Halls were both her home and her greatest treasure. The stronghold did not lose out to Tal’gullour in size, easily as large as a planet, and definitely outshone the Mad King’s fortress in splendor.

Iri’s home was a palace of fluted blue crystal spread like a pair of angel’s wings. It had been carved from an astronomically large diamond, and it glittered like a rainbow in the light of the nearby star.

She kept a population of about a billion living in the planet-sized inner workings of the stronghold, both to keep the vessel shielded from chaos and to take care of her collection. For in carefully sculpted displays all throughout the stronghold, she held the universe’s most rare, beautiful, unique, and powerful objects.

Which was why the Mad King had agreed to meet her.

She arranged herself on a throne at the end of an audience hall carved from blue crystal. Every inch of the walls, ceiling, and floor was a masterwork sculpture, and she lounged in a throne made of living light, but she had made no effort to dress herself up. She wasn’t a treasure. Why bother?

She still wore old, frayed pants and an ill-fitting shirt with her own name sewn onto the front. No shoes. Her hair was a long, electric blue mess that she hurriedly tied back before the King arrived.

But her accessories were worth more than most Abidan would see in a lifetime.

Above the crown of her head hovered the Halo of the Deep Earth, a featureless circle of what seemed to be lead. It carried within it the hopes and dreams of a long-dead people, their resolve and their sanity, and it anchored her existence. No Fiend of Chaos could touch her under its protection.

It had a thousand other uses too, but that was the one that concerned her at the moment.

From her back extended a pair of smooth, white-plated titanium arms, which fussed around as she tied her own hair back. They didn’t like her doing anything for herself.

These Presence-guided selector arms were one of the earliest parts of her collection; they wouldn’t catch her eye now, but she’d made them herself from pieces that had once been difficult for her to acquire. They had a soft spot in her heart. When she lowered her own hands, the selector arms rushed in, smoothing her hair back and adjusting her tie.

Sighing, she left them to it. They fretted like an old nanny.

Her final accessory was Meloch’nillium, a bracelet that appeared to be made of raw starfire but was actually far more valuable. Its sheer radiance would blind any mortal who laid eyes on it.

While she waited, she pinched the bracelet and fiddled with it, trying to get it to sit comfortably on her wrist. It was one of the greatest weapons in her arsenal, capable of striking a blow even against Gadrael, the Titan. She just hated wearing it. It was itchy.

She had authority over all objects crafted by human hands, but she couldn’t control comfort.

Chimes sounded throughout the Crystal Halls, a unique symphony that had never been heard before and would never be heard again. That was her intruder alarm.

The Mad King, requesting a meeting.

With a simple effort of will, she disabled her protections, and then the King stood before her.

[WARNING: Synchronization reduced to 87%]

He wore a full-faced helm of ancient bone with two horns rising over his head. Bone plates covered his body from shoulders to ankles, armor that he’d carved from the body of a Class One Fiend. At least its physical manifestation.

A mantle of black-furred hide fell from his shoulders and brushed the floor behind him, this from a planet-devouring creature that he had slain.

Within his helm, his eyes burned like red suns.

Her sense of him was of overwhelming significance, an existence of such gravity that it warped reality around him. The crystal floor pushed away as though it melted beneath his feet.

Without her protection, every mortal living in the Crystal Halls would have had their minds shattered by his approach. In Tal’gullour, the King had locked himself in self-sealed chambers. If one day his control slipped, he would kill everyone in the Iteration.

It had never happened. But if he lost control of the Fiend imprisoned in his body, it would.

After millennia of life, Iri knew many unpleasant truths. One in particular haunted her: she knew that the Mad King thought he had his Fiend under control.

There weren’t many things that frightened Iri anymore.

The King lifted a jeweled wooden box that he’d brought, head inclined as though to speak…

[Synchronization interrupted.]

The memory blurred, and Makiel felt his awareness returning to his own body. The voice of the Mad King had been enough to disrupt the flow of Fate through which he viewed the past.

The King was one of the most troublesome Vroshir, a man who continued to exist only because the expense of eliminating him was too much for Makiel to justify.

He was a true threat on the level of the Court of Seven, one of the few beings in existence that could match Razael, Ozriel, or Makiel himself in combat.

Makiel’s heart hung heavy. He knew what he would see if he continued to watch. But he watched still, with only his eyes, viewing the events through the celestial lens.

The Angler and the Mad King, two of the greatest enemies of the Abidan, exchanged conversation for only two-and-a-half minutes. The Angler acted like a bored child, squirming on her luminous living throne, while the King stood like a regal corpse.

Finally, he offered payment.

When the Mad King cracked open the box, even Makiel leaned forward. Inside was a ball of life and potential, a picture of hope and power, a condensed pearl of raw existence and authority. With the physical eye, it was hard to perceive it as anything other than a ball of light, but Makiel recognized it as one of the most valuable objects to ever exist.

A Worldseed.

Even the Angler scrambled forward to clutch at the box, desperate to put her hands on this jewel of impossible value. With disgust, Makiel realized she probably wouldn’t even use it, just display it to visitors as another part of her gaudy collection.

The entire Abidan Court only had three Worldseeds to their name, and it was their fate to be used for true emergencies. There was very little a Worldseed could not do.

The Mad King pulled back slightly, and one of the robotic arms on Iri’s back reached into empty space and pulled out a black scythe.

Makiel sucked in a breath. He had personally forged the twelve prototype scythes that the Angler had stolen, so he would recognize any of them. This was an artful blend of them all, as though she had taken the best aspect of each of them and fused them together. It was masterful work, he had to admit.

It might not match Ozriel’s original scythe…but it would come closer than Makiel had ever thought possible.

Makiel felt his hope die, and he released the celestial lens. He had hoped that the Angler had been the one to eliminate Iteration 943 as a sort of test run. She was entirely self-interested, predictable, and therefore safe. If the Mad King had done it, this was only the beginning.

The King hated the Abidan. He would do anything he could to tear them down. With a Scythe in his hands…

Makiel realized his lens hadn’t closed. He looked back up into the purple-tinged screen.

He met eyes like two red suns.

The Mad King looked up at him as though he could see across time and space. This was nothing but a memory, a recording, an imprint left on the Way. There was no way to detect such contact before it occurred.

Even so, the Vroshir locked eyes with the Abidan.

Then he slowly reached out and gripped the Scythe.

18

“Sixteen competitors remain,” the Ninecloud Soul announced to a roaring crowd. “Since we have such a wonderful even number, our patron Monarch Northstrider has decided to select this year’s Uncrowned with a round of single-elimination duels.”

The crowd gave a verbal reaction, and the Ninecloud Soul provided a few more details. Once it had finished setting up the fourth round, it returned to the topic that most interested the competitors: the prizes.

“At last, the rewards will begin. Between now and the day of the fourth round, each Monarch will bestow a gift on two participants other than their own. These are truly treasures that would inspire envy in any ordinary sect, and is a chance for the honored Monarchs to demonstrate their legendary generosity.

“As each prize is awarded, we will make an announcement, to express to the world the fortune of our surviving Underlords!”

* * *

Eithan popped out from behind a corner to surprise Veris Arelius.

She, of course, was not surprised. She had turned to face him before he emerged, eyebrows raised. “Cousin Eithan, I was just about to sit down to dinner. Would you like to join me?”

Jumping out of nowhere wasn’t nearly as satisfying when the other party could feel you coming. “Cousin Veris, a pleasure to see you again. I’m afraid I don’t have too much time, I just thought I’d make a request of your House. Could you perhaps consider not giving me a prize?”

Her brow furrowed. “You’re the best candidate. We don’t have so many resources that we can afford to spend them outside the family, and you’re our opportunity to stay within the rules.”

“Ah,” he said, “but not your only opportunity. It just so happens that there are two others with the surname Arelius in the top sixteen.”

“Not blood members of the family.”

“It’s not blood relation we need, is it?” he challenged. “It’s goodwill…and it’s money. This allows me to make sure my students get an excellent gift apiece from someone who appreciates them, while I can take a prize from outsiders.”

Veris still looked doubtful, but eventually she cocked her head. “It seems like we were too late. Someone must have very much wanted to reward you.”

“Yes,” he said, and they both looked in the direction of his room two floors up. “I had noticed that myself.”

Within the center of his room, madra from the Path of Celestial Radiance shimmered in a pillar, holding the prize he’d already received.

Veris nodded to him. “We’ll speak again before the tournament ends, but until then, don’t let me keep you. Go open your gift.”

Grateful, Eithan obeyed.

He wasn’t altogether excited about his prize. Besides House Arelius and the Akura clan, only one other faction would reward him so quickly. It would be nothing good.

When he opened his room and saw the rainbow column drifting in the center, he sent a flow of madra into it. Instantly, the nine-colored light unfolded, presenting his prize: a majestic golden cloudship the size of his palm, drifting on a cloud of the same size.

Reigan Shen’s voice echoed throughout the room.

“Eithan Arelius,” the Monarch’s recording said. “This is a model of a full-sized cloudship, The Bounding Gazelle, among the fastest my Soulsmiths have ever produced. You can use the help, can’t you? I know how much you love running away.”

The Monarch’s self-satisfied voice faded away, leaving the model of the golden cloudship drifting in midair.

Eithan let nothing affect his mind, his expression, or even his spirit. Reigan Shen’s spiritual perception could be on him, so he did not allow himself to feel any cold anger, any desire for revenge, and certainly not any flicker of contemptuous amusement. If any emotion showed in his spirit, Shen might annihilate him.

With a smile locked on his face, Eithan thanked the empty air.

* * *

A woman’s voice lectured Mercy from within the column of rainbow light. “An Archlord’s archery is very different from an Iron’s. You should be studying deeper principles, or you’ll just be propelling sticks with string forever.”

A mundane-looking scripted stone, a dream tablet, floated in the air. Mercy might not have been excited except that she recognized the voice in the recording: it was Larian, renowned archer of the Eight-Man Empire.

She had the best archery tutors in Akura territory, but other than Akura Malice herself, none of them could measure up to Larian.

“I’m going to study it right now!” Mercy promised, settling down into a nearby chair and diving into the tablet.

* * *

Ziel rolled a smooth, round pill between his fingers. It was an inch across, far too big to swallow, and glossy as though sealed in wax. It was colored cream and pink, and it smelled of a thousand types of flowers.

Emriss Silentborn’s voice was rich, motherly, and relaxed. “My Herald Chryleia refined this herself, from fruits and flowers gathered throughout the world as well as a drop of my own sap. It will not restore to you the power you’ve lost, but with time, it will begin to loosen your knotted madra channels. This will be painful. It will take time, and your soul will need great nourishment. However, with the blessings of heaven, you may function as a normal Underlord one day.”

Ziel’s hands trembled as he held the medicine. Just like that, Northstrider was proven right.

Unraveling his madra channels would not undo the damage done to them or to his body. It wouldn’t make him an Archlord again, or put him back on the path that might have made him a Herald one day.

But it would allow him to use his madra without pain and to exert the skill he had earned. When the pill finished its work, he would be a sacred artist again.

He placed the pill in his mouth and sat down to cycle, holding it on his tongue and drawing lines of power away from it and into his core. He had to fight back his hope. Something would stop him. The pill wouldn’t work, or the Monarch would take it back, or he would restore his channels only to find that the damage was even more extensive than he’d realized.

Something would go wrong. It always did.

Sure enough, the Monarch’s voice continued after a long pause. “…do not push yourself too hard,” she said, “but I see only one way for you to become the man you once were. It will take the direct intervention of myself and several other Monarchs. Do you understand?”

He did. There was only one way he would get such attention: if he won the Uncrowned King tournament.

* * *

“It’s an elixir,” Altavian’s voice explained to Yerin. “I know it doesn’t look like one.”

Yerin looked down at the fist-sized diamond in her hands. She’d grabbed it immediately, thinking it was a construct.

“Put it in a bucket or a bowl and run your madra through it. It will dissolve into a liquid, and then you drink it one spoonful at a time.”

Yerin held up the crystallized liquid to the light, wondering if it was worth the trouble, then dug around her rooms for a large bowl. She didn’t see why anyone wanted to live with so much space; it became a nightmare finding anything.

“It’s called a Diamond Veins elixir,” the voice went on. “You have to cycle it a little at a time over the next three days, but it’s said to make your madra channels as pure and resilient as a diamond.”

She raised her eyebrows as she dug through some cabinets. If the elixir did what it sounded like it would do, she couldn’t see why Altavian hadn’t taken it himself.

He hadn’t finished talking, it turned out. “In our fight, you avoided straining your channels.” She had, but only to the degree that any sacred artist did. More durable madra channels would allow her to put more power into her techniques and use them more often.

“Now you won’t have to,” he said, his voice now tinged with amusement. “You’re the one who beat me. You’d better win.”

* * *

Lindon’s prize looked like a heart cast in dark gray metal. It was so detailed that he half-expected it to start pumping blood.

[Do you think it’s a threat?] Dross asked.

“Upon examination of your last several rounds,” Veris Arelius’ disembodied voice said, “we’ve determined that you rely on your Iron body for healing, but that isn’t its primary purpose. It’s far better suited to fighting off venom and disease.”

[They have been watching you, haven’t they?]

“House Arelius,” Lindon said. “I’m sure they’ve been watching everyone.”

“This Divine Treasure was crafted by our Soulsmiths from the cores and blood essences of a hundred Lord-level Remnants. Take it into your spirit, and it will supplement your Iron body. Every bit of madra you funnel into your Bloodforged Iron body will be a hundred times more efficient, and it should enhance the regenerative effect of your body tenfold. Incidentally, it will strengthen your lifeline as well, though that is more of a byproduct.”

With every word, Lindon’s expectations grew until they were sky-high.

“This is a reward for your hard work so far,” Veris continued, “but we also consider this an investment. “House Arelius needs allies now more than ever, and we hope we can count on your loyalty.”

Lindon ran his spiritual sense through the Heart, letting Dross get a good feel.

“It looks like our debt to the Arelius family is getting deeper and deeper,” Lindon said aloud.

[Absolutely right,] Dross agreed, [except it is your debt. I know that’s what you meant; I just want to be clear.]

* * *

Sophara bowed as she finished listening to Reigan Shen’s voice, holding a bottled elixir of her own.

The Monarch of House Shen had made a deal with her divine ancestor. She did not know the details, did not need to question the arrangements of Monarchs, but she knew that she had his support.

Which explained the royal prize he had bestowed upon her.

Advancement elixirs for Truegolds and lower were common sights in powerful families. There were no elixirs that would give enough insight to raise a Truegold to Underlord. There were, however, elixirs to help Lords advance. They were obscenely rare, even for Monarchs.

Sophara cradled in both hands a transparent glass vial with a thread of shining, pure silver liquid twisting in the center. It circled in on itself, winding in an endless loop.

The Gate of Heaven elixir was extremely volatile and difficult to refine, even for the world’s greatest refiners. The ingredients and conditions for its creation were closely guarded secrets, and Sophara had heard that it even required attention from Sages.

Now she was seeing it with her own eyes: an elixir that smoothed the road from Underlord to Archlord.

She had already been on the verge of becoming an Overlady. Now she could advance whenever she wanted.

* * *

Lindon's Void Dragon's Dance fell on Sophara, tearing at her with winds of fire and destruction.

She pushed through the red-and-black cyclone as though through a stiff breeze. He dropped the Ruler technique as quickly as he could—he had practiced for this, trained himself to switch techniques instantly.

He was still a moment too slow. While the dragon's breath formed on his fingers, Sophara had closed the gaps with quick, fluid movements, her feet glowing orange. Golden madra gushed from her hands, flowing into his chest from only a moment away.

He held up his shield and tried to trigger the binding, but her power was too strong. The shield melted, its technique failing. Lindon's flying sword, Wavedancer, was too far away to recall in time.

The fire madra seared him, and her claws were already at his throat.

The vision shimmered and vanished.

Lindon opened his eyes. He sat in a cycling position next to an artificial waterfall in his personal training room, and though he hadn't moved a step, sweat streamed down his face. His breath came in ugly rasps.

The more intense his training with Dross, the more it took from him.

[A new record!] Dross cried. [You lasted twenty-one seconds that time! This is progress!]

Only eighteen tries, and he had exhausted every tactic he knew. He had at least managed to go from dying immediately to holding his own for a few breaths of time, but that wasn't as much progress as Dross pretended.

Birds chirped and flew from a tree planted in one corner of the room toward a bed of flowers all the way at the other. Most of the room was empty space, but evidently the Ninecloud Court believed in decorating everything.

He spoke aloud as he toweled sweat from his head and neck. “Gratitude, but even if I manage to win, I will have only beaten your version of Sophara. The real one will be stronger.”

[Yes, she almost certainly has more in reserve than she's shown, just as you do. Yes, she is the strongest competitor in this tournament. Yes, she will have gotten her own prize after the third round that will surely make her even stronger. Yes, she will be preparing for this match against you while you are preparing against her.]

Lindon waited for more, but Dross was quiet.

“But...” Lindon began.

[But what? That was all true.]

Lindon passed his spiritual perception through his body, feeling the glittering motes of ruby sand that now permeated his flesh. The Iron Heart had integrated seamlessly with his Iron body, but he still wasn't sure what that meant.

“I haven't noticed much increased healing in the simulations,” Lindon said.

[I've never seen an Iron Heart in action, have I? How am I supposed to know what it can do for you?]

“We should test it.”

The door opened just as he spoke, and Yerin strolled into the room. Her long hair streaming behind her like a black banner and the sword at her waist made her look like a warrior from a painting. Her silver sword-arms had been withdrawn, but she still looked ready for battle at any second.

“What are we testing?” she asked, walking up to Lindon. He hurriedly stood to meet her.

“My Iron Heart. It's finished bonding with my Iron body, but Dross can't show me what it can do, because we haven't tested it yet.”

[You have perfect timing!] Dross said to Yerin. [You can cut him for me! I only wish I could do it myself.]

“Sure,” Yerin said casually, gripping her sword. “A big cut or a bunch of little ones?”

Lindon had to slow this down before it went too far. “Hold on! I'm not the only one with a match coming up. Are you going to be all right against Mercy?”

Yerin frowned, glaring a hole in the wall.

“That...Monarch.” She was obviously afraid that saying his name would draw his attention, which Lindon thought was wisely cautious. “He did this to us on purpose. Makes me not want to dance to his song.”

Lindon fervently agreed, but he stayed silent to encourage her to keep talking.

“But this is a fresh chance,” she continued. “How often do you get to sharpen yourself against a friend without hurting them? My master used to say that you never really knew someone until you crossed swords with them, and I'm starting to take his meaning.”

“Apologies; I don't understand. I've never fought you outside of training, but that doesn't mean we don't know each other.”

Yerin looked up to the ceiling, visibly searching for the right words. “I’d say...I know the you I see, but how did that prince Kiro see you? How did Harmony see you in Ghostwater?”

[Last,] Dross said. [Harmony saw him last.]

“We have to blunt our swords when we're training. Nothing wrong with that—I'm not trying to take off your ear, and I don't want dragon's breath in my eyes. But it means that we never get to use that last little bit, you know?”

She shrugged. “There's something honest about going all-out. Now that we don't have to worry about killing each other, I get to see everything Mercy's got. And I get to show her everything I can do.”

Yerin stood with perfect confidence, her master's sword at her waist, wearing a sacred artist's robe that was the duplicate of the one Lindon had first seen her in. But he saw now how different she had become. These robes were new, not tattered at the edges—her control had grown.

Her skin was smooth, the scars gone. The rope-belt of Forged blood madra she had once worn was missing, integrated into her spirit. Her hair hung past her shoulders, and her face had been sculpted anew during her advancement to Underlord. She looked more mature, a worthy competitor in the Uncrowned King tournament.

She was beautiful.

Her dark eyes turned back to him, and he jerked his gaze away, afraid to be caught staring.

“What about you?” she asked. “What if you had to fight one of us?”

Lindon still shivered when he imagined Naian's razor steel pushing through his guts. It had only been a few days. He saw the hole he'd burned through his opponents on the island. And not just on the island, either. Ekeri the gold dragon had been speared through by his dragon's breath and had eventually died.

Could he picture doing the same to Yerin, even if she would be resurrected by a Monarch immediately? Could he slice her in half with a bar of burning madra? Could he bash her skull in with his shield?

“I'm glad I don't have to,” Lindon finally said.

“This isn't the last round. If we all make it, you'll have to fight at least one of us in the top eight.”

He shifted uncomfortably. “I will do it. But I don't have to be happy about it.”

“What's not to be happy about? We could all make it into the top eight of the Uncrowned King tournament!” She hesitated. “Uh...three of the four of us.”

That left a silence in the room. No matter whether Yerin or Mercy won, one of their journeys would end with the next round.

He didn’t want to think about it, so instead he walked up and squared his shoulders against the wall. “Let’s test the Iron Heart. Yerin, if you could just give me a little cut on the arm so I can see the difference. It used to take me...what, a minute or two to close up a small cut?”

[Three to four minutes,] Dross responded. [But the circumstances varied. If you intentionally cycled madra to your Iron body, it would be faster, and if you had more injuries it would be slower.]

“Okay, then. Three minutes is the time to beat. Yerin?”

Yerin drew her sword, leaning forward, her madra spinning. “Get ready!”

He held out his left arm and waited.

Yerin's fingers opened and closed on the hilt of her sword. The aura around the weapon stirred...and died again. She clenched her jaw.

“...apologies, is something wrong?”

“No!” She snapped, and her cheeks had begun to color. “I'm just...it feels strange just cutting you while you're standing there. Maybe if we were sparring...”

Lindon stared blankly at her. Dross manifested over his shoulder to add his one-eyed stare to Lindon's.

“We train against each other all the time,” Lindon said. “You've cut me many times.”

Although not often, now that Lindon thought about it. It was usually when she used the Endless Sword and it spilled out of her control.

“I know that! But that's a fight, that's different.”

“I wouldn’t have thought so.”

He wanted to be flattered by her concern, but he was only baffled. He had never expected this out of Yerin. What had brought this on?

“Shut up and just...I'll do it, okay? Hold still.” She took a deep breath, and then her sword rang like a bell. A small one.

His arm stung, and a razor-thin cut traced a red line about an inch long across his forearm. Blood began to bead at the end, and Lindon could feel his Iron body drawing pure madra from him immediately. He and Dross watched it intently.

After only a second or two, the end of the wound began to close up.

A single drop of blood ran down the side of his arm, and by the time it reached the other side, the injury had already closed.

[Four seconds!] Dross exclaimed. [That's a new record!]

“It took more madra than usual,” Lindon noted, but he was as excited as Dross was.

Yerin's ears were still tinged red, but she played it cool, adjusting her grip on the sword. “Another?”

“A few more this time, please,” Lindon held out his arm again.

“You don't want to wait for that one to heal first?” It was mostly restored, but the line of skin was still a tender scarlet, like a fresh scrape.

“Oh, that's not worth worrying about. Three would be perfect.”

Yerin didn't look happy, but she did as requested. The three cuts healed just as quickly as the first had.

[I'd like to see a deeper cut, but why don't we try out a different kind of injury first?]

“That's what I was thinking,” Lindon agreed. He had already cast his mind forward to the fight with Sophara. If he could heal this quickly, he might actually be able to take a hit or two from her Flowing Flame madra, which would be invaluable. This could be his chance, and he was eager to discover his limits.

He squared his stance, looking to Yerin. “Punch me as hard as you can, if you don't mind.”

Yerin slammed the sword into her sheath. “I need a break,” she said shortly.

“Oh, of course. Apologies.” She had only used the Endless Sword a few times, but she had her own match to prepare for. He couldn't selfishly monopolize her time.

“What about your Diamond Veins?” Lindon asked. He had been jealous of her elixir—it felt like he was always being held back by his madra channels.

Still facing away from him, she rolled her neck, loosening up. “I can take bigger swings with my techniques than ever before. It’s not too soon, either. Now I can work on hitting harder.”

“Do you need to? Your Path whittles them down, and then you finish them by hand.” No Path could do everything. The Path of Black Flame needed to be able to punch through strong defenses, but the Path of the Endless Sword didn’t. At least as far as he could see.

Yerin fished around in her pocket and tossed a dream tablet over her shoulder. Lindon caught it out of the air and activated it immediately.

The Sword Sage is a wiry man with messy hair, half-lidded eyes that make it look like he’s falling asleep, and tattered black robes. Six sword-arms hang limp from his back, and he draws his white sword back. He’s about to step forward in a lunge.

He faces an animated mountain of steel and stone, a human-shaped armored puppet-construct taller than ten men. The earth aura and force madra radiating from the construct project the idea of invincibility.

The tip of the Sage’s white blade shines like a silver star as he pulls it back. Lindon has an instant to sense incredibly concentrated aura, madra, and soulfire gathering to a point.

In one smooth move, he stabs forward and unleashes his technique.

A silver-white Forged sword pierces perfectly through the construct. It is there and gone like a strike of lightning, but it erases a column through the center of the massive puppet.

The Sage turns, sheathes his sword, and yawns as piles of metal and stone crash to the ground behind him.

Lindon pulled himself out of the dream, breathing deeply. Yerin noticed.

“You see me doing that?” she asked.

“I can’t imagine how anyone does that.” It was beautiful, the synchronized blend of spiritual movements. No waste at all. And the Forged sword was so perfect that it was more beautiful than his Archlord Wavedancer; it was as though he had created the ideal sword from madra and aura.

Yerin extended all six sword-arms, flexing them in the air. “Well, that’s the target I have to hit.”

Lindon hefted the tablet. “He was higher than an Underlord when he did this. You have time.”

“Tell me the last time you listened to someone who told you to take your time.”

That struck home. It was disturbing to look at himself from the outside. From his perspective, Yerin did have time, and rushing things could hurt her. He wanted her to take it one step at a time.

But he could relate to the urgency she felt, and it would be hypocritical to suggest someone else slow down.

Instead, he manifested Dross.

The one-eyed purple spirit appeared above his palm, blinking in the light. [Hey! I was watching your embarrassing memories!]

“Can you simulate something for Yerin?” Lindon would have to ask about the embarrassing memories later.

Dross stretched his mouth into an expression of extreme discomfort. [Eeeehhh…thanks to Charity’s madra, I probably could, but you can’t imagine the headache. And it won’t last very long. Also, I don’t want to.]

“Gratitude,” Lindon said. “Can you model the Sword Sage’s technique we just watched?”

Yerin straightened up, eyes wide, and scurried closer. She looked to Dross with expectation.

[I speak straight into your mind and still you won’t listen to me.]

“Please, Dross,” Yerin said earnestly. “This could give me new wings.”

Dross hissed through his teeth, glaring at her and then at Lindon. A moment later, their surroundings vanished.

It was as though Lindon, Yerin, and Dross stood on darkness and were surrounded by endless black. The Sword Sage appeared a moment later, lifelike, holding his sword back.

Yerin reached out. “Seeing him with my own eyes again…” Before she touched him, she lowered her hand. Her lips twisted. “That’s a knife to the gut.”

Power gathered on the tip of the Sage’s blade, then he stepped forward to drive the light forward.

“Hold,” Lindon commanded, and Dross froze the scene. He groaned as he did so, as though to emphasize how much effort it had taken.

Yerin and Lindon examined his stance, his spirit, and the light beginning to stretch from the end of his weapon. It was a bare ghost of a sword, not the full, vivid technique they had witnessed in the dream tablet.

“Soulfire, madra, aura,” Lindon said. “All woven together so I can’t tell where one begins and the other ends.”

Yerin leaned closer until her chin almost touched the technique. “Something’s tickling the back of my mind. I had a better sense from the dream tablet, but I think there’s something else about this technique. It’s itching at me, but I can’t track it down.”

Something else beyond the madra, aura, and soulfire...

“Do you think it could be a Sage’s power?” Lindon asked quietly.

“That’s a hair off the target. I wouldn’t contend it’s another power…but I’m not stone certain it isn’t.”

[Uggggh aaaaaannnnd that’s all you get.]

Abruptly, the vision snapped off. Lindon and Yerin stumbled back into reality, standing in the middle of the training room.

Dross panted heavily, heaving exaggerated breaths, and even swept one of his stubby pseudo-arms across his forehead as though to wipe away sweat.

[I told you it wouldn’t last long. And if there’s something you couldn’t sense in my simulation, it’s because this one—] He stabbed an arm at Lindon. [—didn’t pick up on it. Or the dream tablet didn’t. Or I didn’t. But I’d put my bets on this one.]

Dross slipped back into Lindon’s spirit, but Lindon was already thinking along lines that he had tested in his own Paths.

“You’ll need to layer techniques,” he said. “It’s like using a Ruler technique, Striker technique, and Forger technique at the same time. It might take soulfire to hold it all together.”

Yerin’s sword was out of its sheath, and she swung it to limber up. “You’ve tried this before, have you?”

Lindon coughed into his Remnant arm. “It was harder than I thought.”

“I’d rather swallow my sword than try this without the Diamond Veins,” Yerin said, settling into a stance like the one her master had taken. “Likely to shred my channels to pieces. Even if we do get it right, the rocky part will be using this in battle. Haven’t practiced enough to form a binding, so I’ll have to practice until it’s carved into my spirit.”

“We’ll be with you,” Lindon said.

Dross groaned.

Yerin flashed him a smile as aura began gathering around her sword. The weapon started to hum. “Say we do get this right. We ought to think of a name for it.”

Lindon started making a list.

* * *

When he wasn’t needed for the tournament, Northstrider vanished back to the ball of dark, floating water that served as his Monarch viewing platform. Or so most people believed.

Eithan found the Monarch sitting on the ground of an alley in Ninecloud City, eating grilled vegetables wrapped in a layer of soft bread. He could not have looked less like he belonged. His massive, muscular frame made him look like he’d squeezed in between the two buildings, and his ragged hair and mismatched clothes belonged in a much dingier alley.

This alleyway was paved with smooth quartz and it had been cleaned with admirable zeal, even in the places most couldn’t see. Mentally, Eithan saluted the Ninecloud cleaning crew.

Golden eyes fixed Eithan, and he had to close down his spiritual senses in order to keep breathing. If he sensed the full attention of Northstrider upon him, he would lose control of his madra.

The Monarch’s eyes returned to the floor, and he took another bite of his vegetable wrap. A floating barge passed overhead, music and laughter and flashing lights drifting over them.

Eithan gave a beaming smile. “What a lovely evening we’re having, wouldn’t you say?”

Northstrider chewed.

“You know, I was reading up on your Path, which is of course quite famous. A fascinating study. There are scholars who have made their entire careers of unraveling your secrets.”

The Monarch reached into a tear in space, pulling out a clay jug. He washed down the vegetables.

“As I’m sure you know, I have some students in this tournament. One of them has a very interesting arm.”

Northstrider produced a second vegetable wrap.

“Not a unique arm, certainly. In many parts of the world, hunger bindings are not at all rare. But I’m sure it didn’t escape your attention. I thought you might be intrigued to know that the arm isn’t his only aspect that might interest you.”

Eithan’s view was replaced by a brief flash of blue light, and then he appeared in the center of a crowd. It was a party, from the looks of it, with colored lanterns floating overhead and hundreds of people dressed in their finest. A few of the closest staggered away at his sudden appearance, but by then he was already moving.

Northstrider had transported him to a completely different section of the city. Someone else would have been lost.

Eithan began navigating back toward where he had just been. Easy enough. Now, where can I find one of those wraps?

* * *

Lindon sat in the team’s waiting room. His Akura robes had been repaired, his spirit was full of madra, and his soulspace brimmed with soulfire. That gray flame played around his shield, which was now in spiritual form, soaking up the fire for nourishment.

In his mind, he and Dross went over the plan.

[I give you a twenty percent chance,] Dross said. [Two out of ten. That’s a lot better than nothing!]

For the past week, since the end of the third round, Lindon had done virtually nothing but run mental battles against Sophara. He and Dross had combed the Ninecloud tablet library for all records of her matches, and Dross had even made her faster and smarter to compensate as much as possible for the training she’d be doing on her own.

Over hundreds of fights, they had identified the keys: he had to focus on surviving the first few exchanges, then put enough pressure on her to make her use her drop of ghostwater. That would be the hardest part.

If he survived until it ran out, he could finish her.

If he couldn’t, then the Monarchs would get closer to allowing the Dreadgods into Sacred Valley. And a gold dragon who personally hated him would become the most celebrated Underlord in the world.

And he, himself, would miss the fastest path to Overlord. His journey would slow to a crawl.

Mercy dashed into the room in full Akura uniform. She didn’t slow down, throwing herself against him and wrapping her arms around his shoulders.

Lindon’s thoughts staggered to a halt, though he didn’t physically move. Her slight weight crashing into him might as well have been a breath of air.

“You’re going to win!” She looked up from his chest and took a step back, but even so, she didn’t release him. She grabbed the collar of his outer robe. “You can do this! Don’t worry! Do I look worried? No, I don’t, because I’m not, and you shouldn’t be either!”

She was practically screaming at him, and Lindon felt flash-blinded.

“Forgiveness, but what is happening?” he asked.

She took a deep breath. “Yerin couldn’t be here. They called her away.”

“Who did?” Lindon asked. She couldn’t be preparing for her match—her fight was against Mercy.

“The Ninecloud Soul. So I’m going to say what Yerin would say!” She slapped him hard enough that it echoed throughout the room, though he barely felt it. Yerin would have broken his jaw. “You have a sword! Stab the enemy!”

[That does sound like Yerin,] Dross observed.

The circle on the door had begun to glow dimly, and Lindon’s nerves returned. He gently extracted himself from Mercy, stepping up to the stone slab as the script-circle glowed brighter and brighter.

“Thank you, Mercy.” Lindon drew just enough Blackflame to set a torch of anger to his spirit. “I’ll see you in the next round.”

The door began to slide up, showing the dark floor and letting in a flood of screams and cries. He cycled his madra as memories spun in his mind.

Suriel showing him the death of Sacred Valley.

The Bleeding Phoenix covering the sky from horizon to horizon.

Ekeri’s gold-scaled chest burned through by dragon’s breath.

The gold dragon Herald, clutching a piece of the Temple of Rising Earth in its talons.

Sophara tearing off Lindon’s head with one swipe of her claws.

Naian Blackflame in chains, then collapsing bleeding to the floor.

On the other side of the door, she was waiting for him.

No…she was standing in his way.

The door slid slowly open, revealing the floor and letting in…silence and darkness. No screaming crowd. The shadow aura was thick, shrouding much of the arena, forming a barrier to keep him and his opponent isolated. The ground was slick, black, and irregular, like the stone had melted and then been frozen into place. His footing would be uncertain.

When the door lifted fully, the shadow aura didn’t stop him from seeing all the way across the arena, where his opponent saw him at the same time.

Not Sophara.

Yerin.

Her hand was frozen on the hilt of her sword, her dark eyes quivering in shock. Lindon stood rooted in place as Dross babbled in his head, insisting that there must be a mistake.

Northstrider stood between the two of them, black-scaled arms folded.

Rainbow light shimmered overhead, and the Ninecloud Soul cried, “Now, the first two fighters in the fourth round of the Uncrowned King tournament face their true opponents! Sacred artists, welcome Wei Shi Lindon Arelius, chosen of Akura Malice and representative of the prime Akura team…and Yerin Arelius, chosen of Akura Malice and representative of the Blackflame Empire!”

He could hear the Soul perfectly, but nothing from the crowd. Or perhaps Lindon had gone partially deaf.

Northstrider flicked his fingers, and suddenly the air carried both competitors forward. Yerin was visibly furious, and she focused her anger on the Monarch. Her six sword-arms burst out of her back, but he did not acknowledge her.

“This is not a punishment,” Northstrider said quietly. “Nor is it a plot. The measure of a sacred artist is how they respond to unexpected challenges, so I arranged this round to provide such challenges.”

Yerin glared at him. “You ready to swear that to the heavens?”

“The heavens do not constrain me,” Northstrider said, unaffected. “You should worry only about the opponent in front of you.”

Every breath rasped in Lindon’s lungs. He couldn’t take his eyes from Yerin’s face.

“I surrender.”

“No,” Yerin and the Monarch said at the same time.

Now Yerin had turned her anger to him. “This is a sour turn, but it won’t beat us. You bring everything you have…and so will I.”

The bonds of air released her, and she drew her master’s sword.

The audience cheered.

We were so close, Lindon thought. They had almost made it. One final round before the eight Uncrowned were chosen. He and Yerin could have both won.

Now he either had to give up his prizes or he had to take them from Yerin. It was as though he’d lost already.

“Begin,” Northstrider said, and vanished.

19

Yerin closed the distance fast.

It was only thanks to Dross' enhancement of his reactions that Lindon managed to pull the shield from his soulspace and block the swing of Yerin's blade.

It felt like getting hit by a cloudship at full speed. The blow launched him backward over the warped obsidian surface of the stage, pain stabbing through his left arm as he fought to right himself in the air.

The Soul Cloak rippled into existence, surrounding him with a smooth blue-white corona. His newly enhanced Bloodforged Iron body drew madra to heal his left arm, which—he only now realized—had broken.

The strength and control the Soul Cloak gave him allowed him to land, skidding on the surface, shield raised.

Yerin was already bringing her white sword down on him. Her eyes were fixed and determined, her hair blowing behind her, her black robes rippling with the force of her spirit.

The Sage's blade crashed down on his shield, blasting air away from him in a ring. The Soul Cloak trembled; thanks to its strength, his arm didn't break again, but the Enforcer technique was reaching its limit. Even the shield's material was strained, its outer layer beginning to stress and deform.

Lindon's legs buckled, and he fell to his knees.

He'd known she was strong. Her Steelborn Iron body had started to show its real potential once she'd advanced to Underlord, and he'd seen how she had handled her opponents up to this point.

But he'd never felt how strong she was.

[What are you doing?] Dross asked. [Fight back!]

Lindon had been sure he could. In the top eight, he could fight. Once they had both obtained their goals.

Now, fighting back meant pitting his ambition against hers. He would be cutting down her chance of living up to her master.

And, though they were protected by a Monarch, though he had prepared himself for it, though there would be no lasting damage...he still didn't want to hurt Yerin.

Six sword-arms emerged from Yerin's back, and suddenly the air had claws. The Endless Sword technique tore at him, and though he pushed back with the power of his soulfire, Yerin was far better at controlling sword-aura. Slices appeared on his skin, cutting through his sacred artist's robes.

His Iron body repaired the cuts almost as they were made, but blood still streamed from him in ribbons, and he was losing madra.

Yerin lifted her blade, and it ignited silver in a complex dance of both madra and aura. The Flowing Sword, her weapon Enforcement technique.

She set her jaw and her dark eyes met his. There was a strange depth to them, as though she were pleading with him.

“You're holding more than this,” she said. “Pull it all out! Let me see it!”

Lindon didn't know how to respond, but she wasn't waiting on him. The shining sword came in high, and he blocked with his flying sword, but the force knocked him back. The second strike came low, while he was still trying to recover his stance, and the Soul Cloak let him slip aside before he lost a leg.

An aura blade from the Endless Sword kicked his shield to one side, and the point of her sword came straight for his throat.

He poured soulfire into the Soul Cloak.

Immediately, the nimbus around him raged like whitewater. He moved without thought, slipping her stab, ducking the follow-up attack from her sword-arms, anticipating and blocking her counter-strokes with his shield and Wavedancer.

Wind whipped around them as they traded dozens of blows in a breath, Yerin looking for an opening, Lindon closing off every angle. He ran, and she followed, and they clashed again, sending peals of thunder throughout the arena.

It couldn't last.

He was running low on soulfire, letting it flow into the Soul Cloak. His pure madra was being drained by the Cloak and by his Iron body, which had to constantly heal him. Her every blow cost him another chunk of power just to endure, and if he blocked or dodged any attack less than perfectly, he would be chopped in half.

The Flowing Sword technique on her sword grew stronger and stronger with every exchange, shining more brightly silver as it wrapped more strands of madra and sword-aura around itself. Soon it would slice straight through his shield.

And Yerin's spirit was growing more and more chaotic.

She was angry.

“Fight me!” she shouted.

It was all Lindon could to do to hold on. He jabbed his shield at her in a half-hearted swipe, but she brushed it aside with a look of disgust.

Before he could fully recover, she kicked him in the chest.

He managed to get his shield between them, but the impact still sent him flying backward. Once again, he had to scramble to land on his feet, shield forward. He was out of breath, straining to keep his madra under control.

[...I'm not some sort of human behavior expert, but I think she wants you to fight her,] Dross said.

Lindon couldn't muster up the energy for a response. He resented Northstrider, who had put him in this situation. Why did he have to fight Yerin at all? They had almost been selected as Uncrowned together.

Yerin hadn't followed him. Face twisted in anger, she drew her weapon back with both hands.

Here it came. The technique they had developed together and named together. Their adaptation of the Sword Sage’s strike, which they had designed to be her decisive ending strike.

The Final Sword.

To his Copper sight, she was a metallic sun. Sword-aura gathered in a storm around her, whipping her hair and robes. The Enforcer technique on her sword expanded until she held a silver torch, and she glared at him as she braced her stance.

Lindon released the soulfire of the Soul Cloak, sending it into the shield instead. The protective Forger binding in the weapon activated, creating a transparent barrier between them. Fueled by his pure madra and his soulfire, it might be able to take the Final Sword...but the shield would break, and he wouldn't be able to recover quickly. Yerin still had her Blood Shadow, too.

He had already lost.

Yerin would be mad at him for a while, but this wasn't his fault.

Instead of driving her blade forward and sending the Final Sword flashing at him, Yerin leaped. She carried her heavenly silver blade with both hands, raising it overhead to smash it down on him.

He kept his eyes open, bracing himself for the brief flash of pain before defeat.

“DROSS!” Yerin roared.

Time came to a halt.

Information requested: how to drag Lindon out of self-pity.

Beginning report...

Yerin hangs in the air above Lindon, expression furious, Final Sword cocked behind her head. She’s beginning to Forge its power into the shape of a massive blade, and her six sword-arms are poised like stingers.

Lindon sees himself, crouched there, hiding behind his layered stone-colored turtle shell. A blue-and-green scripted sword hovers nearby, ready to dart in and protect him. A transparent dome covers him, but it looks fragile. He doesn't see determination in his own eyes, he sees...doubt. Hesitation.

Weakness.

How do I fix a broken Lindon? I think mine needs replaced.

“Fighting her will hurt us both, Dross,” Lindon says. He cannot speak in his own voice, but Dross understands him. “It will be better if she wins.”

Yes, is this the Soulsmith? Can you transplant a Remnant spine into my sacred artist?

“I'm not going to hurt her. It isn't worth it.”

You're hurting her now!

Lindon hesitates, bringing his attention back to Yerin's expression. Anger was her response to pain.

“I’m giving her what she wants.”

She wants you to listen to her, Dross says. His mental voice is quiet.

Lindon has no response.

She wants you to see her full power, and she wants you to trust her to handle yours. She wants to see the real Lindon, not…is it too much to call you a cringing wreck? That sounds like too much.

Lindon watches her face. Yerin has been angry with him before, but never so disappointed.

He wants her to be happy with him. Proud of him.

He wants to show her how far he's come.

Now, are you going to show her?

Lindon lets out a mental sigh. “I thought you didn't understand humans.”

I don’t understand any of this. But I do listen.

Lindon steels himself. For the first time, he turns his mind to the problem in front of him. To defeating his rival.

“If we're going to do this,” Lindon says, “then we're going to win.”

Report complete.

* * *

“DROSS!” Yerin roared, the Final Sword taking shape around her blade. It looked like a massive madra replica of her weapon, complete with hilt and guard. It was hazy at the edges and translucent, not as smooth or complete as her master’s, but she could sense its power even so. And now she was turning it against Lindon.

She was furious. Furious with Northstrider, first off, because pitting them against each other had been a sneaky trick. That was the move of a coward and a thief, not a Monarch.

And every second the fight crawled on, she grew angrier with Lindon. In his other fights, he had been amazing. She wanted to fight that Lindon. She wanted to test herself, to see if she could measure up, and to show him what she could do. In a fair world, they would have only faced each other after they were both Uncrowned, but who lived in a fair world?

When she had seen Lindon against her in this arena, she had been bitterly disappointed, but also excited. Where else except this tournament could they fight without holding back?

She had hoped he would feel the same way.

Yerin fell, plunging her massive technique down on Lindon's shield. The bright silver-and-white light of her technique Forged into a heavenly sword that crashed into him like a deadly wave. Madra screamed as the two powers clashed, sending off blinding sparks, and the ground rumbled with the force.

The Final Sword chewed through his barrier in seconds, and her heart dropped. Dross hadn't been able to persuade him either.

This was not how she wanted to win her crown.

The last of the barrier shattered, but as soon as she was through, her blade clanged against something solid. And stopped.

The sword Wavedancer. Its broad blue-tinged bulk hovered over Lindon like a second shield.

But it could only block so much. A waterfall of silver power still thundered down onto Lindon, washing over the flying sword.

Her feet only touched the ground as her technique began to fade, and she pulled her master's blade away. The sword-light died. For an instant, she expected to be jerked away from the arena instantly, her anger still unsatisfied.

Then she realized Lindon's presence hadn't disappeared.

A solid turtle's shell rushed at her chin. Yerin caught it on one of her sword-arms, but Lindon had anticipated that. He pivoted into her, plunging his white fist into her gut.

Breath rushed from her lungs and she flew back, head ringing. Her spiritual perception caught the madra lingering around his skin, and she realized what he'd done. He had blasted pure madra from all over his body, covering him in an inch of spiritual armor. Eithan's technique.

The sword-aura had still passed through, which he must have weakened with soulfire control. But he couldn't have stopped everything that way.

Sure enough, she caught a glimpse of him as he followed her. He was covered in blood...but his eyes had life in them. He loomed over her, blood matting down his black hair, shield braced in his left hand and his Remnant hand still tightened into a fist. Wavedancer hovered over his shoulder.

Though his clothes were torn and madra essence streamed from cracks in his shield, his spiritual pressure pushed against her like she was facing a deadly enemy.

Finally, Lindon had shown up to the fight.

Before even landing, she spun in the air, sweeping her master's sword at him. She had dropped her Flowing Sword technique already, so this was a raw hit with no Enforcer technique, but her strength was enough that it would send him flying and create some space.

The Burning Cloak sprung up around him, outlining him in black and red. Her sword passed over his head as he ducked low.

And she lost him as he vanished.

Her spiritual sense followed him as his burst of speed carried him behind her. She landed while striking out behind her with her Goldsigns.

Lindon didn't step into their reach. Instead, three feet from her back, he shoved both of his hands forward.

Two bars of dragon's breath shot toward her.

She almost wasn't fast enough to react. Her six sword-arms closed into a cage behind her, flowing with her madra and with quick flames of soulfire.

The Blackflame madra hit, the heat searing her back and her spirit, but her madra held it off. Still, she wasn’t on the Path of the Endless Shield. If she let him land hits, he’d roast her alive.

Reaching her perception inside her spirit, Yerin called for help.

The Blood Shadow peeled away from her front, a spiritual copy of Yerin in shades of crimson. As it materialized, it drew the black sword from Yerin's second sheath.

Ruby lips twisted into a smile as Yerin's red copy saw the opponent.

“Lindon,” the Shadow whispered, drawing out his name. The parasite laughed as it leaped over Yerin, swinging its blade down at Lindon's head. Scarlet hair trailed behind it, and its laughter was like a bubbling swamp.

Yerin would have preferred not to call the Shadow against Lindon. It had some strange fascination with him. But if she wanted Lindon to let loose, she had to do the same.

The stream of dragon's breath cut off as Lindon defended himself, his shield knocking the black sword aside. Without pressure on her, Yerin turned and joined the fight.

Now they were back to where the fight had started: Yerin on the offensive and Lindon scrambling to save himself with his shield.

But there was a world of difference this time.

Soul Cloak flowing around him, Lindon moved like a new person. His shield stopped her blade, its binding activated for a fraction of a second to block the aura of her Endless Sword, while with the other hand he drove a massive Empty Palm at the Blood Shadow.

The huge blue-white palm print crippled the Shadow for a moment, but he had already begun a new attack. His eyes became red circles on darkness, and his calm blue-white nimbus turned to furious black-and-red. Powered by the Burning Cloak, he dashed back from Yerin’s Striker technique, struck the paralyzed Blood Shadow with a backhand blow of his shield, and swept a finger-wide dragon's breath at Yerin.

He wasn't as strong as she was, so he never met her blows strength-for-strength. He deflected at just the right angle, slipped aside by inches, dodging and counterattacking in the same fluid motions.

He fought Yerin and her Blood Shadow, directly, without backing down. Guided by Dross and his new combat training, he moved as though he could see her every motion a second in advance.

Together, in that empty world, they danced.

Yerin's anger had blown away. She exulted in the fight, and whenever she had to abandon an attack to stop a stream of deadly madra aimed at her face, joy built in her heart.

This was it. This was what she wanted.

Lindon saw her at her best, and he moved up to meet her. She didn't need to hold back for him...and he pushed her forward too.

To match each other, they needed to be at their peak.

Her spirit shouted a warning, and she cast her perception upward. A broad, swirling bank of black and red aura hung over their heads like stormclouds. Every time Lindon switched to Blackflame madra, he molded the aura a little more, gathering it, setting it spinning. Preparing his Ruler technique.

While fighting, he was building a Void Dragon's Dance.

Yerin laughed out loud. She and her Blood Shadow leaped away from Lindon without a signal, creating distance. She reversed her grip on her master's sword, holding it point-down.

Lindon didn't wait for her to use the technique. He reached up with his left hand, extending Blackflame madra, pulling a cyclone of fire and destruction from the sky. In an instant, it would consume the entire stage. She had nowhere to hide.

“Surprise,” Yerin said.

She activated her master's sword.

* * *

It had taken Lindon and Dross both to the point of exhaustion to keep up with Yerin and her Shadow. His madra channels and body throbbed with the effort of switching cores so many times so quickly while fighting. They had pushed his body, mind, and spirit to the limit.

It had been exhilarating, but he couldn’t enjoy it yet. He had to win. For that, he had prepared his Void Dragon’s Dance.

Weaving the Ruler technique while keeping Yerin's attention all on him had been nothing short of a miracle, but he'd done it. He felt when her perception rose to the sky and she and her Shadow leaped away, preparing their defenses. He had caught her.

But when he pulled spinning fire from the sky, certain in his victory, Yerin's sword burst into icy white light.

It glowed, sharp and cold, for just an instant. Yerin had carried that sword for three years, since the day after they'd met. He had never seen her activate the binding, never heard her talk about it.

He'd forgotten it.

[I, uh, I did not model that.]

White Archlord madra swallowed up the stage.

Frigid cold pierced Lindon to the bone as ice madra saturated the air. White haze swallowed the entire arena-world, now a domain of wintry fog. He could still see clearly, but the cold seeped through his muscles, stinging his spirit.

Sharp white stars hung in the air, like snowflakes frozen mid-fall. They resonated with sword aura, like the points of ten thousand knives.

On top of all that, there was something...strange about this world of frozen blades. He was finding it hard to move. Either this madra had aspects he couldn't sense that were holding him in place, or there was another property to this technique. Even his madra seemed half-frozen, his cycling as sluggish as honey in winter.

Yerin sagged onto the ground, holding herself up by her master's sword. Sweat ran down her face, and she heaved deep breaths, her spirit weak. She had strained herself to activate an Archlord binding. Lindon couldn't believe she'd done it at all. She met his eyes, glowing with satisfaction.

[You know what’s amazing? Those Diamond Veins,] Dross said. [One big technique after another, and she hasn’t even torn her madra channels apart. She really got the best of you in the prize department, didn’t she?]

Yerin may have had to recover from the sword's technique, but her Blood Shadow didn't. The spirit moved easily through the frozen space, smiling, holding a black sword in her pink-tinged hand. She swept a Striker technique at him, winking as she did.

In an instant, Lindon and Dross ran through his options. He had several. All of them required a sacrifice, so he chose the one he preferred.

While the silver-and-red wave of madra rushed at him, Lindon poured madra and soulfire into his right hand.

Back when he’d advanced to Underlord, he had absorbed the power of the Archstone. It hadn’t replaced the binding in his arm, it had only altered his original technique…and made it stronger.

Now, he pushed that binding beyond its limits. Hunger madra rushed out, drawing in everything, as though his hand had become a hungry void.

The Blood Shadow skidded to a halt on the ground, fighting the pull, clawing her way backward. Yerin rose to her feet, gathering her power and preparing to attack.

Lindon's entire mind and soul were caught up in guiding the technique. The arm was already beginning to splinter; if he lost control for one second, the limb would explode with the technique incomplete, and he would be at the center of a massive detonation of unstable madra.

The arm, set free, howled with gluttony. It greedily consumed all the spiritual energy in the space. The Striker technique swirled into him, along with the pale strands of icy madra from the Sage's sword. The freezing white mist flowed like a river into his arm...and almost burst it. The Archlord madra was far beyond anything the arm—or Lindon—could contain.

When the wintry world started to crumble, Lindon's spirit reached its end.

Dross, help! Lindon begged.

[Uh, listen, I will. I'm not saying I won't. But that's going to be it from me, do you hear me? It's going to take everything I have.]

Just do it!

Without another word, the spirit added his will to Lindon's.

The Remnant arm had begun to burst at the seams, leaking madra, but together the two managed to wrench the spiritual power around. He used his pure madra to push it, direct it, keep it from consuming his spirit from the inside. His hand had devoured some of the essence, but there was far more than it could contain.

It was all too powerful for Lindon to contain, but he could push it in a certain direction. Guide it.

He vented it toward Yerin.

A river of pale madra far bigger than Lindon's body thundered out of him, deafening as it tore the air. It was a rush of white and silver light, with streaks of red and even black. The unstable, imbalanced rush of power sprayed over Yerin's entire half of the stage, engulfing her and her Blood Shadow.

Focused, it would have easily destroyed them both. But Lindon couldn't focus it—he could only channel it.

When the deluge ended, he staggered, his arm hanging limp at his side and hissing out madra. His vision doubled, and his spirit screamed in pain. His pure core was tapped out, and Dross was exhausted.

But he had decided to win. Yerin wanted him to give this his very best, and he wasn't done yet.

Before the massive cloud of madra had settled, Lindon readied his one good arm and tapped his Blackflame core.

* * *

Working together, Yerin and her Blood Shadow managed to turn the tide of overwhelming madra that Lindon had managed to send their direction.

It had been close.

They had stood shoulder-to-shoulder, swords out and shining with madra, fighting the river of power with everything they had. Her Shadow laughed the entire time, even as the mix of spiritual energy screamed around them, and for once Yerin agreed.

This was what it meant to go all-out.

Her Blood Shadow lost power, bleeding ribbons of madra. Yerin's whole body trembled with effort, her madra pouring out of her like water from a leaky bucket. A little more control, and the attack would have wiped them both out.

But Lindon couldn't direct an Archlord's madra any more than she could. Together, she and the Shadow hung on until the flow tapered off.

When it did, she wobbled on her feet, her own breath harsh in her ears. The unfocused power still hung in the air like a white cloud flashing with dozens of other colors. The chaotic madra blocked out her spiritual perception and all her mundane senses.

Sweaty hair stuck to her forehead. Her core was dim, almost empty. She could sense the Blood Shadow's weakness as well, but Lindon couldn't be in much better shape. Hurling an attack like that had to be almost the same as taking it head-on. He had to be done.

A spear of dragon's breath broke the cloud.

The Blood Shadow took the black-and-red bar of madra on its blade. The spirit stumbled back, falling and catching itself with its sword-arms.

Yerin slashed a Rippling Sword horizontally through the cloud. She was shooting blind, but maybe she'd get lucky.

A shield shoved through the white madra, three feet from her face. It shattered her Striker technique, and then turned sideways as Lindon straightened his arm.

In that moment, she saw him as their enemies always had. He towered over her, built like a guard tower, his eyes burning circles of red on darkness. His clothes were shredded and burned. Drying blood streaked his skin. His right arm hung mangled and useless against his side.

Her heart swelled with pride.

Dark fire kindling in his palm reminded her the fight wasn't over. On instinct, she brought up her sword against his budding Striker technique. Though little energy remained in her limbs, her Steelborn Iron body made sure her swing was a vertical blur. She cut through the Blackflame fireball, breaking it, and before Lindon could conjure another, a red Rippling Sword flew at him from the side.

He turned to face it, and Yerin created space between him.

This was her last chance. He would outlast her in a prolonged fight; of course he would. He was a madra monster. Even his wounds would heal in time, though she wasn't sure if his Remnant arm would come back. Knowing him, he probably had a way to repair it.

She had to finish it now. She drew her blade back, pouring all her madra into one last technique. A second Final Sword.

A blink later, the Blood Shadow kicked Lindon away and began echoing Yerin. The crackling storm of energy was a blend of red and silver, but Yerin's was a silver so bright it was almost white.

Deep in her mind, it alarmed her that the parasite had a version of the Final Sword. Yerin had never shared that with the Shadow, and she herself had only learned it recently. The Blood Shadow had never practiced.

Those were thoughts from a nightmare, but they belonged later. She had a fight to win.

She was prepared for Lindon to sweep dragon's breath at them, but if he did, she could use the excess energy of the rising Final Sword to protect herself while the Blood Shadow finished him.

In that razor’s edge of time, she found her consciousness sinking into the elusive state she’d touched throughout the tournament. She could feel an extra force in her technique, one she had never felt from herself before. It felt like her master.

She had proven herself. She was going to win.

Then Lindon lowered his hand into a claw.

* * *

If Lindon strained his shield any further, it would break, and the detonation from its destruction would end him.

If he used Striker techniques to strike at one of them while they prepared their techniques, the other would move on him. So he released his shield took the best option left to him.

The only secret he had kept from Yerin.

He lowered his left hand, and claws of Forged Blackflame madra formed on each of his fingers, until it looked like he was wearing a dragon's claw like a glove. A miniature Void Dragon's Dance swirled around it, dragon’s breath filled it like blood, and a focused Burning Cloak surrounded it all.

With the full power of his spirit and all his remaining soulfire, he forced all those techniques together.

Months ago, Akura Fury had shown him how to layer techniques. He had used that advice to improve the Empty Palm…and to work on one original technique of his own. He and Dross had spent too much time, far more than Dross wanted to, theorizing and simulating and practicing. It had taken him months to be able to Forge Blackflame madra at all, and even now he could only hold it together for seconds.

When he had taken in raw draconic madra from the black dragon, he had refined the technique again. And once more after absorbing the original Path of Black Flame from Naian.

The technique coalesced into a massive dragon’s claw that streamed black-and-red power. He lifted his hand, Forged claws battering him with heat and destruction, and looked across to Yerin.

She was laughing.

Yerin dashed forward, her Shadow following her a second later. Both of them dragged their devastating techniques with them.

As Lindon ran in to meet her, a serpentine stream of dark fire flowing behind him, he realized he was smiling too.

Two Final Swords struck his technique: The Dragon Descends.

Lindon's full power met Yerin's, and the stage ripped apart.

* * *

Akura Fury laughed and clapped as the wall-sized view fuzzed.

All the Akura Underlords were silent.

Charity herself was astonished. She glanced at her father, who was applauding so furiously that some of the Truegolds in the back of the room had to run from the sound.

She leaned closer to Fury, speaking lower so that the young generation couldn't hear her. “If I’m not mistaken, that was a touch of the Sword Icon. How is this the work of twenty-year-olds?”

Fury threw an arm around her neck, hooking her tightly, still laughing. “These kids are amazing, aren't they? I can't wait!”

She slipped away from him to preserve her dignity, but he didn't seem to care. Fury bellowed laughter, delighted at the prospect of new opponents.

More Truegolds ran from the room, hands covering their ears.

* * *

The view of the stage was obscured, and the projection for the audience disrupted by wild madra, but a Monarch's perception could not be blinded.

...and Sha Miara wasn't a Monarch at the moment.

She shook the Herald, Sha Relliar, by his outer robe. “What is happening? Show me!”

“You will see very soon,” her caretaker responded. He glanced down at her. “It looks like you face more competition than you expected.”

She pulled up her viewing slate so that her nose almost touched the image of Lindon and Yerin. “I’m sure I can beat them. But…do you think I can?”

“Of course, Your Highness.”

* * *

Mercy pointed from the blurred view to Pride, who sat sullenly, arms crossed.

“You see? You see?”

“...I didn't say they were weak.”

“Could you do that?”

“Enforcer techniques aren't that flashy. It's wasteful.”

“You couldn't,” Mercy said confidently, turning back to wait for the image.

Pride's jaw tightened, but after a moment he let out a breath. “Fine. Maybe he is good enough for you.”

“I told you!” she said excitedly. “I said they were...wait, what did you say?”

* * *

The Winter Sage chewed on a fingernail, her heart torn. Yerin was directly responsible for Adama’s death, but at the same time, she hadn’t abandoned his legacy after all. In fact, there had been just a hint of the Sword Icon in that last attack.

She had inherited Adama’s Remnant. Maybe that was all it was, in which case it wouldn’t happen again. But if not…

Min Shuei turned abruptly, interrupting her students, who had been hotly debating Yerin’s techniques. With no explanation, she left.

As soon as this round ended, she would see the Monarch Northstrider. She had to demand the right to tutor Yerin herself.

Before one of the other Sages did.

* * *

Northstrider watched the final clash of techniques one frozen instant at a time.

Of course, Yerin Arelius had achieved a reflection of the Sword Icon. Anyone with any authority of their own would take notice, but it was most likely an anomaly. Underlords could not sense the Way clearly enough to manifest an Icon. It was a demonstration of the sacred artist she might one day become, nothing more.

He was far more intrigued by Lindon.

This was the Truegold who had gone to Ghostwater and made it out with a mental construct. Northstrider had taken note of him already and found nothing extraordinary.

He was beginning to reevaluate that.

Lindon had grown too quickly. Each round he fought, he moved like a different person. Every time Northstrider thought the boy’s mind-construct would reach the end of its capabilities, he was proven wrong. In this battle alone, Lindon had managed to compete with the Sword Sage’s disciple by showing reaction and processing speeds that should have been impossible for an Underlord.

Yerin had called out the word ‘Dross’ just before Lindon’s performance spiked. He had thought it was an insult…

…but what if it was a name?

20

Information requested: Northstrider, wandering Monarch of the Trackless Sea.

Beginning report…

Northstrider was born with a connection to blood.

His parents died shortly after his birth, never knowing that they had each carried a dormant bloodline legacy. These traits mixed in their son, producing an unmatched connection to blood aura.

As an orphan, he was taken in by a local warlord, who collected pods of one hundred abandoned children at a time to defend him from the attacks of his enemies. He raised and trained them by teaching them to hunt water-drakes, lesser dragons that skim the surface of the ocean to the north.

All one hundred children were raised on the meat of these drakes, but Northstrider’s innate abilities allowed him to absorb more of the remaining blood essence in the flesh than anyone else.

At every opportunity, he would return to the ocean to seek out stronger prey, and it became known that you could almost always find him walking north.

Thus did he earn his name.

He grew strong quickly, beyond his age, always hunting more powerful quarry and moving deeper and deeper into the ancient places of the ocean.

He discovered that the sea floor was a trove of treasures both natural and otherwise, and eventually found himself at the entrance to a vast labyrinth. Therein, he found madra that intrigued him.

At that point in his life, he had never been formally instructed in a Path. The children of his pod were taught rudimentary techniques but were left to adapt them to whatever aspects of madra suited them best.

When Northstrider integrated the bindings he found in the labyrinth into his blood madra, the Path of the Hungry Deep was born.

Path: Hungry Deep. A Path focused on devouring the physical and spiritual strength of dragons, as well as their latent authority, using them to empower the user. Most techniques are rudimentary, but become complex in execution when brought to life with the touch of the Dragon Icon.

The Path of the Hungry Deep is the most powerful hunger madra Path still in modern use.

Suggested topic: techniques on the Path of the Hungry Deep. Continue?

Denied, report complete.

* * *

Lindon woke knowing that he’d lost.

At the last second, it was as though Yerin had changed, though he’d sensed no extra power from her. Her technique had landed just that much sooner than his.

And that was enough.

He had re-formed inside the gray waiting room, sitting on a bench. His body and spirit were in perfect condition. The room was silent, empty. It was as though the fight hadn’t happened.

“I lost,” Lindon said, and his voice echoed hollow in the quiet room.

Dross slipped out of his spirit, turning to look at him with his wide purple eye. [But what a fight! You know what they say: it doesn’t matter how you play the game, only whether you win or lose. Wait, no, the other one.]

“…I thought I was going to win.”

He’d been more than willing to surrender when he first saw Yerin. He didn’t want to hurt her physically, and he didn’t want to hurt her emotionally by taking away her chance to become Uncrowned. For the same reasons, he had been willing to hold back and let her beat him.

Because deep down, he knew he’d win.

Since getting Dross, he’d never faced an opponent that he truly couldn’t defeat. As soon as he’d chosen to give it his all, he had resigned himself to beating Yerin. But he’d been fooling himself. He wasn’t good enough.

Behind him, the door hissed open. He turned away, unwilling to look Mercy in the eye. Worse if it was Charity or Pride.

“I’ve never been good at consolations,” Eithan said.

Lindon let his eyes close. It was hard to imagine anyone he wanted to see less right now. Maybe Sophara.

He heard Eithan walking up and sitting down on the bench across the room. “Mercy was coming in to cheer you up, but she allowed me the honor instead.”

Lindon would have much rather seen Mercy.

“I don’t need consolation,” Lindon said, forcing his eyes to open and look at Eithan. “I’m happy for Yerin.”

His smile was gentle. “You know, people can feel two things at once. Even when it seems like they should be opposites.”

On Lindon’s shoulder, Dross gasped. [You can feel two things? That explains so much!]

“Gratitude, but I’m fine. I tried and I lost. There’s nothing more to be said.”

Eithan scratched at his chin. “Hm. As long as I’ve known you, you’ve been willing to do whatever it takes if it accomplished your goal. That’s one of the things I admire about you. But I’ve always wondered one thing: what will he do when he pours his heart and soul into something and still fails?”

Lindon’s vision blurred and his throat tightened. “I don’t know what you want me to say. It’s too late to do anything. I failed.”

“I want you to tell me,” Eithan said, “what you’re going to do next.”

Next. What did he want to do next?

“Yerin won.” He straightened himself, organizing his breathing, pushing his pain and disappointment down. “I’m going to go see her.”

Eithan eyed him. “Congratulations from you will mean a great deal to her, but are you in shape for that?”

“I don’t know,” he said honestly. The last thing he wanted to do was to dampen her excitement after winning the round and earning the right to become one of the Uncrowned, but he had to be with her. If she had fought someone else, he would have wanted to be the first to see her after her victory.

Without waiting for another word from Eithan, Lindon left the room.

* * *

Outpost 01: Oversight

Makiel projected a map of Abidan territory in front of him. The nest of flowing blue light representing the Way spread into a roughly spherical shape, each branch dotted with points of light like berries on branches. Iterations.

On the outer layer, too many of them were tinged with gray, illustrating the corruption of the Void.

And now, four of them were black.

After removing the first world, the Mad King had struck three more times. Testing Abidan response time. Makiel’s foresight. His weapon’s capabilities.

Soon he would have all the information he needed. The testing would end, and he would strike.

Who knew how far he could make it before the Judges could counter him? They were spread too thin as it was, fighting the incursions of chaos at their borders. Would he make it as far in as Sector Fifty-one? Would he make it to Asylum, to break out the other Class One Fiends? To Cradle, the birthplace of the Abidan? To Sanctum itself?

He cast his sight forward, into the future.

The Court of Seven had already given a united ruling, despite Suriel’s misgivings: they would salvage as many lives from the outer sectors as they could, retreating deep into their territory. Far deeper than Makiel had ever planned.

There had been ten thousand worlds under their protection, a thousand fully integrated into their system. They would now protect only the core twenty sectors. Two hundred Iterations.

The rest…left to fend for themselves. Now he followed the ripples of that decision out to the future.

It wouldn’t be enough.

He saw it as though his map of the Way sped through time. Gray corruption claimed light after light, Iteration after Iteration, until it eventually came to an equilibrium and stopped. Some worlds shattered to fragments while others struck an uneasy balance with chaos and survived, though tainted. Still others were eliminated or stolen by the Vroshir.

But the Mad King wasn’t satisfied with more territory. He wanted to destroy them.

With his false Scythe, he led the charge. The Judges would survive, the Abidan would survive, but it would cost them. Core worlds would be lost.

He could see no further, but from such a position, there could be no doubt that the Mad King would rule.

So he reversed his sight, bringing it back to the present. He spun it out again, reading Fate.

Before long, his course was clear. They needed to recruit.

Usually, the Abidan only allowed recruitment of those who had ascended beyond their Iterations of their own power. Every deviation from that was a slight violation of Fate, which could tip the world that much closer to chaos. The Abidan interfered in mortal affairs only in dire need. And often not even then.

Now, risking a bit of causal instability was by far the lesser evil. It was that or eradication.

Makiel willed it, and his Presence stirred to action, appearing in Sector Control headquarters for Sectors One through Twenty-one as a purple eye the size of a head. It delivered his orders.

An action of this scale would often require the permission of the entire Court, but in this case, it was an order to bend Fate to preserve Fate. Well within the remit of Makiel.

In world after world, the order went out and was obeyed: encourage recruitment.

In Sanctum, this would take the form of open screenings and recruitment drives for the Abidan. In Jubilee, the Court would offer wishes in exchange for service. In Solitude, they would contact the Wise Serpents that ringed the world and ask for a gift of talented recruits. In Obelisk, they would wait at the top of the Tower, surpassing Threshold and taking in people directly.

Their efforts would be tailored to each of the hundreds of worlds, but it would result in thousands of new Abidan over the coming years. Their ranks would swell to more than the Court had seen in centuries.

They would lose some Iterations, and such deviation from Fate would create an unprecedented surge in corruption. But the new Court would handle it.

Then the Mad King could not destroy them. They would survive.

With a heavy heart, he finished delivering the message.

He concentrated special attention on Sector Eleven. Not only did they protect Asylum, which would surely be a top-priority target for the King, they defended Cradle. And Cradle would be among the most delicate of worlds to recruit.

Of all the Monarchs in Cradle, every one had already refused recruitment by the Abidan. They would no doubt encourage others to do so as well. The Abidan would have to descend personally, representing the heavens, and appeal to the Monarchs’ successors. The next generation. They would have to offer a prize of great value, and the result might be only one or two new Abidan.

But it would be worth it.

Now, more than ever before, the Court needed soldiers.

* * *

Even as Lindon dashed through the heavily decorated tunnels beneath the arena, the whole building shook with cheers. The Ninecloud Soul would be replaying highlights from the fight, instructing the crowd and following the match with hours of feasting and entertainment for the rest of the day. The next match wouldn’t be for a week, but the Court turned the time between rounds into a festival.

Yerin would be mobbed by strangers. Enough people had tried to talk to Lindon already, mostly from the Akura family, that he could only imagine how many wanted a moment with Yerin. He needed to get back to her side as soon as he could.

Suddenly the building went silent. He slowed his steps, looking around, but the others in the hallway looked as confused as he did.

A moment later, a sound like birds screaming tore through the Ninecloud arena. Lights flashed from the walls in all colors, and the Ninecloud Soul’s voice resonated out of nowhere, sounding panicked: “All guests, prepare for imminent spatial transfer—”

Lindon dashed backward, trying to get away from whatever was about to happen, but a blue light consumed him.

Just like when he met Suriel, the world was replaced by a river of textured blue that pressed against him in all directions. He couldn’t breathe, and Suriel’s marble in his pocket suddenly grew painfully hot, but in less than a second it was all over.

He stood around the edge of the arena beneath the Akura viewing tower, sunlight beating down. The arena was quiet, the towers completely empty. Whoever had transported him here, they had removed the spectators at the same time.

He saw the other eliminated contestants against the wall close to their original towers; Pride and Naru Saeya stood next to him, Grace and her team nearby, the Frozen Blade students drawing blades. Everyone looked wildly around for an explanation.

Fifteen young Underlords stood in the center of the arena. The remaining participants in round four. Lindon was the only one to have been eliminated so far, and whatever was happening, it pained him that Yerin and Mercy were facing it while he was looking in from the outside.

Fourteen of them looked ready for battle, but Sha Miara was the lone exception. She stood staring at the sky, wearing a grave expression.

One by one, everyone followed her lead. The viewing-towers that held spectators during each round were quiet and empty, but the Monarch platforms floating overhead were still active.

Figures hovered in the air above the platforms. Over the Eight-Man Empire’s plain tower, a circle of eight gold-armored men and women hovered. Akura Malice stood in midair over her mountain, shrouded in shadow. The Dragon King’s cloak rippled in the wind as he flew over his throne, Reigan Shen lounged on the roof of his palace with a goblet of wine in hand, and even Northstrider stood with his hands behind his back above his dark globe of water.

The Arelius tower seemed doubly empty by contrast, its storm flashing blue but no one hovering above it.

The very presence of so many Monarchs made the air feel thick. Every second pressed against Lindon like a knife against his throat, and Dross’ silence felt heavy, as though the spirit was afraid even to think.

Moment by moment, the Monarchs stayed motionless. Quiet. Waiting.

Lindon couldn’t imagine what was happening. Was this a plot by one of the Monarchs? If so, how had they trapped the others in it?

Then, for the second time in his life, Lindon saw a blue light descending from the sky like a sapphire dawn.

He fell to his knees a step sooner than everyone else in the arena below Monarch. It was the only proper thing to do; Lindon felt the awe in his soul. Even Sophara fell to her knees, groveling with head bowed. Sha Miara went to one knee, but she turned and looked to the Ninecloud’s rainbow tower—the feminine figure hovering over it was hidden by nine-colored light.

Seconds later, the heavenly messenger emerged. He was so far up that a Gold would barely be able to see him as a distant figure, but Lindon’s Underlord eyes could make out his features.

He felt almost blasphemous for the thought, but compared to Suriel, this man was a disappointment. He had the features of an ordinary human, a pinched face with a thin beard, and dark hair cropped close to his head. His eyes were the beady black of a rat’s.

But he wore the same eggshell-smooth white armor that Suriel had, and over his shoulder drifted an eye with a purple iris. It looked like an Akura eyeball the size of the man’s whole head.

The eyeball turned in a circle, looking at the Monarchs, but the man didn’t. He looked down to the gathered Underlords.

“Children.” He sounded as though he stood right next to them. “I am Kiuran of the Hounds. Do not be bound by this world. The most talented of you will one day be offered the choice to leave, to emerge from this cradle and truly live. Do not take the example of your elders. When the invitation comes, accept it, and let your eyes be opened to the real world.”

Northstrider’s spirit stirred, and his gold dragon eyes glared. His muscles strained against each other, as though he was fighting not to speak. But he said nothing, and the messenger did not address him. Reigan Shen gave a smile, baring a fang or two, and took a long draught from his goblet.

“The Court of Seven occasionally sponsors this tournament,” the messenger went on, “to give promising young recruits a taste of the world beyond. You are blessed, for now more than ever, we wish to nurture your talents.”

He extended his hand, palm-up. “I give you the new grand prize of the tournament: a weapon of the gods.”

A silver-edged black arrowhead appeared hovering over his palm. It looked fairly ordinary to Lindon, but the aura of the entire world twisted and fluctuated as all seven Monarchs reacted.

Rather than watching them, Lindon looked to the center of the arena. Eithan, on his knees, stared at the arrowhead with an intensity Lindon had never seen. His smile was long gone.

The messenger smiled at their reaction. “Long ago, the founder of House Arelius created this weapon which he called Penance. It is a penance for its target and, unbeknownst to most, its creation was an act of penance by its creator.”

The House Arelius crowd gave a shout, but Eithan’s gaze was glued to the arrowhead.

“He made the right choice, ascending to the heavens, and he brought this weapon with him. Now we return it to the place of its birth.”

The arrowhead drifted up, flashing black and silver. “Penance was made with a singular purpose: to kill. That is what it does, and nothing less. It can be used to kill one being in this world without error. This, children, is the power of life and death.”

For the first time, he looked to the Monarchs, and he didn’t bother to look respectful. His sneer covered his face and infected his voice. “No doubt you will squabble for this, but the results of this tournament are now guaranteed by my master: Makiel, the Hound. No competitors can be added or withdrawn, the rules must be upheld as before, and Penance will not function for anyone other than the rightful champion. If you break the rules, you will be judged. If you kill or punish the champion for possession of this weapon, you will be judged. Tread carefully, for the eyes of heaven see all things.”

The eyeball on his shoulder shone brightly, spinning to pierce each Monarch.

None of the kings and queens spoke a word. Not even to agree. Now none of them looked so self-assured anymore. Even Reigan Shen scowled through his white mane, goblet forgotten.

The heavenly messenger looked down on the competitors, and his smile was gentle again. “Fight hard, children, and do not let fear hold you back. Instead, let desire drive you to even greater heights. You are the future, and the Hound values the future above all else.”

Lindon stared at the arrowhead. The messenger held a life in his hand. Anyone’s life—a Sage’s, a Monarch’s.

Even a Dreadgod’s.

[Whoever gets that won’t have an arrow,] Dross whispered. [They’ll have a target. Everyone in the world will be after them.]

Even if the heavens protect them from reprisal? Lindon asked.

[Heaven is a long way away. Humans are right here.]

When the world began to glow blue again, Lindon lunged for Yerin, but he was swallowed up. Only a breath later, he stood in the center of a bright-tiled hallway, exactly where he had been taken. A nearby Truegold woman in Akura colors fell to her knees and started muttering.

The Spirit Cloak sprang up around Lindon, and he started to run.

Yerin was now in danger. Whatever the heavens said, the Monarchs and their champions would do anything for a weapon like the arrowhead. He had to gather everyone they could trust and stick together; keeping Eithan and Mercy and Yerin in the same place would be the best way to keep them safe.

And he had to tell them they couldn’t win.

Out of fear of a Monarch’s reprisal, he hadn’t even told his friends Sha Miara’s true identity. The time for that was past; they had to know they were competing against a Monarch.

He had almost reached the end of the hallway when a black-scaled hand shot out from nowhere, grasping at his throat. With the impossible grace of the Spirit Cloak, Lindon dodged.

The hand landed anyway.

It was like a hammer slamming into his neck. He crashed to a halt, choking and gagging past the sudden pain in his throat, his technique dispersing. He sagged to the floor, looking up through watery eyes.

A huge man, at least Lindon’s size, now loomed overhead. His clothes were mismatched and ragged, open at the neck to reveal the rock-hard muscles of his chest. Wild hair spilled down his back, and his face was unshaven, but his vertically slitted golden eyes glared down on Lindon like a king passing judgment.

[Master…] Dross whispered.

Northstrider spoke only two words.

“Who’s Dross?”

THE END

Cradle: Volume Seven

Uncrowned

Bloopers

Makiel’s viewing lens flickered to life, a purple-edged rectangular screen that could show him anything in existence.

[Target found: the Soft-Serve Sorcerer, a wizard whose ice cream will make you scream! Beginning synchronization…]

Grumbling, Makiel lifted his remote control. He pressed a button and his Presence blinked. The view on the lens changed.

[Target found: Wedding Wars, wherein fifteen newlyweds charge at each other with maces and shields. Beginning synchronization…]

Makiel pulled out a second remote. “The Vroshir! I’m trying to watch the Vroshir!”

The view in the lens fuzzed to static.

[Target not found. Have you tried changing the input?]

Makiel threw his remotes to the ground.

* * *

The door slid slowly open, revealing the floor and letting in…silence and darkness. No screaming crowd. The shadow aura was thick, shrouding much of the arena, forming a barrier to keep him and his opponent isolated.

When the door lifted fully, the shadow aura didn’t stop him from seeing all the way across the arena, where his opponent saw him at the same time.

Not Sophara.

Little Blue.

Lindon looked in confusion as the six-inch Riverseed charged him on her tiny legs. “What’s going on?”

Little Blue pulled out a knife.

* * *

Something the Winter Sage said caught Yerin’s interest. Was it Sacred Valley itself that had opened the Sword Sage to the attacks of mere Jades? Yerin had always assumed it was the poison. But if there was something about the place...

“Hang on,” Yerin said, “how could a bunch of Jades kill the Sword Sage?”

Nearby, Eithan frowned. “That’s a good question. I wonder why no one has ever asked that before.”

* * *

Pride held out the crown. “This is for you.” He glanced to one side. “I suggest you take it quickly. It hasn't been long since I won it.”

Lindon stood still, watching him.

[It's an imposter!] Dross said. [Get him!]

Lindon’s dragon breath burned off Pride’s head.

* * *

“Oh, you wiped out the Rising Earth sect?” Fury’s tone was light, even conversational. “I see, I see.”

Fury dropped the boulder and pulled his hands back behind him, gathering energy between his palms.

“KAAAAAAAAA…” he shouted. Blue light grew brighter and brighter between his hands.

“MEEEEEEEEE…” The light was blinding, and Lindon could sense the spiritual pressure. Whatever Striker technique he was about to release, it could obliterate the whole city.

“HAAAAAAAA…”

A Forged box of rainbow light dropped around Fury, so dense that Lindon couldn’t see through it.

“Enough of that!” the Ninecloud Soul said nervously. “You want us to get sued?”

* * *

A pillar of rainbow light beamed down from the ceiling, Lindon’s prize suspended in the center: a string of letters and numbers.

“…what is it?” he asked.

The Ninecloud Soul sounded shocked. “I…I can’t believe what I’m seeing. This is a gift fit for a Monarch: a code for Rebel Galaxy Outlaw by Double Damage Games, available now on the Epic Games Store!”

Dross gasped. [You mean the greatest game ever made? I never thought I’d see it with your own eyes…]

Lindon was no fool. He seized the code.

Wintersteel

Cradle: Volume Eight

Copyright © 2020 by Hidden Gnome Publishing

Book and Cover design by Patrick Foster Design

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

WillWight.com

Prologue

Information requested: Death of the Sage of the Endless Sword.

[Information found. Synchronization possible. Synchronize?]

[Synchronization set at 80%.]

Beginning report…

Timaias Adama had been a guest of the Heaven’s Glory School for almost three months.

They were a collection of backwards savages who had forgotten nearly everything about the sacred arts. It was astonishing, really, how ignorant they were.

But they let him inside the labyrinth.

He marched over scripted tiled floors, past endless rows of polished wooden cabinets. This had once been a storage hall for the belongings of lesser researchers and staff, but every one of the cabinets was empty.

Not because the people of Sacred Valley had looted the place; one step into this place would strike a Jade dead sure as the sun rose in the east. The sacred instruments that had filled this hall had been destroyed by time and by this valley’s “curse.”

The curse that had drawn him here in the first place.

He breathed heavily as he walked. Not only was his madra down to a bare silver trickle inside him, but even his soulfire-infused flesh had been drained of power. His pool of soulfire had run entirely dry, and his willpower was so weak that he could exert almost none of his authority as a Sage.

He hadn’t been out of breath in years.

His chest heaved and sweat rolled down his face, but he savored the novel sensation. It was a reminder of what his life had been like when he was pushing for Sage. What Yerin felt like now.

He longed for that feeling again, sometimes. The thrill of running from wolves and knowing that if he flagged for a second, they’d tear him to pieces.

For decades, wolves had run from him.

His spirit was so exhausted that he didn’t sense danger until the hostile techniques were almost on him.

He turned to fight, his wintersteel blade already bare and ringing like a bell.

Two skeletal spirits of gray-white hunger madra pulled themselves up out of the floor. They gaped at him with unnaturally wide jaws and eye sockets lit by dull fire.

They weren’t true spirits, but techniques launched by this prison’s lone inhabitant.

Sword aura slashed at the two ghouls, weak as a kitten’s claws. The madra forming their bodies shook like he’d waved a stick through fog, but they didn’t dissolve.

The Sword Sage’s eye twitched.

Ruler techniques weren’t ideal against spiritual opponents, but suitability mattered very little in the face of overwhelming power. He should have been able to disperse these two with the twitch of his big toe.

He was glad Yerin wasn’t around to see this. She’d lose all faith in him as a master.

The hunger techniques had clawed their way completely to the surface now. They were gaunt, transparent figures of gray-white madra with spindly feet and bony arms that dangled down all the way to the tiles. Their jaws hung down to their ribs, and they gave off such an impression of inexhaustible, ravaging need that it made Adama hungry.

He’d faced a lot of that while exploring this labyrinth.

The techniques moved quickly…by the standards of Sacred Valley. A Heaven’s Glory elder who somehow made it into the labyrinth would have been struck down before he sensed danger.

Adama slashed his sword and returned it to its sheath in one smooth motion. A Rippling Sword technique flashed out, the silver crescent slicing through both skeletons.

The madra tore the spiritual entities in half where the aura had failed, and they collapsed into rising motes of essence in an instant. His Rippling Sword was pathetically weak after his time in the labyrinth, perhaps weaker even than Yerin’s.

He extended his spiritual perception, though doing so in here was like pushing through thick mud.

More techniques were on the way.

He picked up his step, jogging down the hall. How long had it been since he felt the physical toll of simply running?

Sages should vacation here. It might remind them what it was like to be mortal.

By the time he reached the doorway, a dozen of the ghoulish techniques rushed down the hallway after him. For no reason in particular, he turned to give them a wave. “Half a shade too slow,” he told them.

He didn’t know if Subject One was watching, but if it was, it deserved a little taunting for putting him through this.

With an effort of will, he opened the door.

Or he tried to.

The huge stone panel, carved with the images of the four Dreadgods, failed to move. He hadn’t focused enough, his thoughts not coming together, so he couldn’t invoke his authority.

Sweat ran faster down his face, and he pushed on the door with both hands, sharpening his mind to a point.

This would be far too embarrassing a place to die.

“Open,” the Sage of the Endless Sword commanded, and the door obeyed.

It swung open on soundless hinges, leaving him leaning on nothing and stumbling out. With trembling arms, he slammed the heavy door shut behind him.

Some fingers of hunger madra had come so close that they were crushed by the scripted door.

Adama heaved a breath, slumping back against the carving. All thoughts of vacationing in Sacred Valley vanished. This had been too close of a cut. Bleed and bury the people who made this maze.

Now he was more exhausted than it was normally possible for him to be, and he still had to deal with a bunch of Jades.

The two Heaven’s Glory Jades peeked in at him from the entrance of the mausoleum-like structure they called the Ancestor’s Tomb. When they saw the door was shut, they scurried inside to attend to him.

He had warned them early on not to be close to him when he opened the door, lest they be struck dead by the hunger madra within. They couldn’t open the door themselves, so they had only his word to go on, but they’d trusted him. So far.

He almost looked forward to the day when they tested him, because he’d told them the absolute truth.

From the inside pocket of his outer robe, he pulled his badge. The locals grew uncomfortable when they saw him without one.

The badge hung on a shadesilk ribbon, like most of those worn in Sacred Valley. His badge was plated in white metal the exact color of his blade, though its border and the sword symbol in the center remained bronze.

Wintersteel was too expensive to make into an entire badge, but it was also the symbol of a true Sage.

As long as the people of Sacred Valley respected these ancient traditions, so would he.

The two elders, one a gray-haired woman wearing a Jade scepter badge and another a man with a hammer badge and a mutilated arm, saluted with fists pressed together as they reached him.

“I regret that your expedition was no more productive this time, honored Sage,” Elder Anses said.

Adama had a hard time keeping his contempt hidden from these inept children. They had no idea what a Sage was, only a few vague stories passed down about the title. They thought he was a Gold, and they worshiped him for it.

He stopped leaning against the door and straightened his back, controlling his breathing. He still had command over his body, and he wasn’t willing to show any lapse of control to Heaven’s Glory.

“Empty hands for me, I’m afraid,” the Sword Sage said.

There were other labyrinth entrances in the Valley, and some of them were safe for Jades. At least in the outer rooms.

Therefore, everyone who lived here knew that valuable treasures could be found inside. He had been forced to promise a share of anything he recovered to Heaven’s Glory in exchange for access.

So, of course, he hid everything he found in the labyrinth inside his private void space.

Anses and the other elder eyed him as though they suspected him of tucking constructs into his robes, but they respected his power even now.

He had shown them only the smallest glimpse of his abilities, and that had been enough for them to treat him like a warrior descended from the heavens.

His pity for them matched his contempt. If not for that, and for the fact that he was too lazy to wash his own clothes and prepare his own meals, he would have punished them long ago for trying to poison him.

Right on cue, the woman produced a stoppered clay bottle from her robes. “Apologies, honored guest, but we have used our lacking skills to prepare a recovery elixir for you. Please taste it yourself and share some small measure of your wisdom with us.”

Wordlessly, Adama took the bottle from her. He didn’t remember her name. Frankly, he had made it a point to forget the names of every Heaven’s Glory elder. Anses had only stuck in his mind because of the man’s mangled arm.

Oh, and he remembered Whitehall, the old man trapped in a boy’s body. That was a bizarre case Adama wouldn’t have minded researching further, had he not been in Sacred Valley for a more important purpose.

Moving his gaze from one elder’s eyes to the other’s, he gulped the “medicine” down. He never looked away from them as he finished, tossed the bottle back, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Like a cool drink of spring water,” he said. “My thanks.”

Elder Anses shifted in place and his partner struggled not to move her gaze, but they both thanked him and asked for pointers in refining a new version of the elixir. He told them to add mint.

The elixir was poisoned.

They had been slipping him poison almost since his first day here. Sleeping drafts mostly, but there had been some meant to inhibit his spirit, some to paralyze him, some to meddle with his memories, a handful of others.

They were always mixed cleverly, he had to admit. Almost undetectable to the tongue or to the spiritual sense, when combined with his medicine or his meals.

Every time, they watched his reaction. At first, they could have blamed a mistake. “Oh no, we added too much Nimblethorn.” But when he never said a word, they grew bolder.

They knew he had treasures, and the longer he stayed with them, the better they understood that he wasn’t going to share. If he brought up nothing from the labyrinth, they knew his sword was valuable, and they knew he was carrying herbs and seeds and elixirs they had never seen before.

They wanted to rob him, but the joke was on them.

Nothing they brewed here could seriously affect a body thrice reborn in soulfire. If the heavens shone on them and one of their concoctions worked, he carried no void key. As a Sage skilled in spatial manipulation, he stored everything but his sword in a pocket accessible only by his authority.

If they put him to sleep and rifled through his robes, they might take his sword, but they could never bring out its power. And realistically, they couldn’t do him any harm no matter how weakened he was.

There was only one being inside a thousand miles capable of being his opponent, and that was a Dreadgod.

The two Jades flattered him for a while as they led him through the snow that surrounded the Ancestor’s Tomb and back to the Heaven’s Glory School. It was late at night, so the bright ring of light madra condensed around their mountain shone like a pale sun, and their rainstone buildings gleamed as though wet.

Once again, his pity grew to balance his irritation about the poison. They thought this pathetic collection of stone huts was a school of the sacred arts.

How would they react if he showed them his memory of the Frozen Blade School?

People like this didn’t deserve his contempt. He reminded himself of that for the ten thousandth time. They were just…ignorant. Isolated. When he and Yerin left, the natives would live out their short lives in relative contentment.

Their condition wasn’t their fault, but it was hard to remain charitable when they kept trying to rob him.

The house that Heaven’s Glory had given him was close to the Ancestor’s Tomb, and at least they hadn’t skimped on space. It was a wide three-storied construction of rainstone with its own network of constructs to regulate light and water. The basement had been reinforced into a decent training room, though of course it was only appropriate for Yerin.

The elders walked him up to the doorstep, and the woman cleared her throat.

“It was an honor to serve you today, Sage of Swords.”

That wasn’t exactly his title, but Adama had never cared much for titles anyway.

“If we could learn from you tomorrow morning, it would be our good fortune.”

He choked down a groan. Every time he came out of the labyrinth, it took him longer to recover. All he wanted to do tomorrow was sleep.

But he had to show strength.

He gave them a single nod. “Not a hair after dawn,” he said. “Don’t be late.”

Only a few hours away. That should be enough to make them think he didn’t care about his rest. He could always catch up on his sleep afterwards.

Anses looked relieved, bowing to him again. “Thank you, honored Sage.”

Adama gestured them away and opened his front door.

Before he stepped inside, he waved two fingers down the entry.

Yerin’s Forger technique, the invisible blade that she’d left hanging in the doorframe, crumbled like half-melted ice at his touch.

The Hidden Sword wasn’t a major part of his Path, but it was invaluable for practicing Forging and sword resonance. She had been slacking on her Forger training.

Although it was rare as stars at midday for her to slack on anything. She just didn’t see the point of the Forger technique, which he understood. He could let it go for the moment.

When he walked inside and down to the basement, he found Yerin sparring against the training dummy he’d left for her.

She glared out from under her straight-cut hair, holding her sword in both hands. She waited with utter stillness, letting the puppet make the first move.

Her opponent was made entirely of dead matter, looking like a stitched-together Remnant of silver, gray, black, and rusty red. Adama didn’t consider himself much of a Soulsmith, so it had been a headache to assemble the puppet from the meager Remnants of sword, earth, or force madra he could find in the Valley.

The scripts etched into its body of solidified madra kept the dummy from moving except when activated, and then only in the few patterns he had allowed. Though his limbs felt like dishrags wrung dry, Adama folded his arms and watched.

A few breaths later, the puppet moved.

It drew a training sword at its side and struck at Yerin, who deflected it with a blade that shone with the Flowing Sword technique. They traded a few moves, both emanating the spiritual pressure of Jades.

He had no complaints with her movements. She had clearly mastered these basic forms, and her madra control had improved in leaps and bounds. It wasn’t so long ago that her techniques destabilized the second her mental state did, but her Flowing Sword was steady as the moon.

He did detect some impatience, though. One strike was a little too firm, another step a shade too eager. She didn’t like being cooped up in the basement.

Since they’d come to Heaven’s Glory, he had allowed her to interact with the Valley natives only at his side, and only while veiled as an Iron. He was thinking of relaxing that restriction soon.

For one thing, the spiritual perception of the Jades here was pathetic. He could barely call them Jades at all. They would never be able to see through her veil, so she could hide easily.

More importantly, while he had initially expected the elders to try to get to him through Yerin, none had. Not one had attempted anything.

They knew his apprentice was here in the house, and that he took her out sometimes to fight Remnants or train against Irons, but they had shown no interest in her. They hadn’t asked her so much as her name. It was bizarre.

Over these last weeks, he had come to figure out that it came down to the strange, twisted view they had of honor. None of them wanted the Sword Sage to think they were interested in a lowly apprentice for any reason, because that would…lower their standards in his eyes, for some reason?

He didn’t understand it, but he wasn’t here for cultural research. If the Jades thought Yerin was beneath them, so much the better. No one would discover their reason for being here and Yerin would be that much safer.

Not that any of these half-baked Jades could touch Yerin’s shadow. Every cut on her skin and the edges of her robe was from her own Endless Sword; the only threats to Yerin in Sacred Valley were contained in her own body.

At the thought, he focused his perception on her uninvited guest.

The Blood Shadow was bound into a rope and tied around her waist like a belt, making a wide bow behind her. Ordinarily it should be stirring, restless, trying to tempt her into relying on its power or waiting for a gap in her control to feed on blood essence.

He felt almost nothing from it now. It was sleeping to conserve power, held down by the same curse as the rest of the Valley. As long as she stayed here, she wouldn’t be bothered by the parasite sleeping in her soul.

For that reason, this was the safest place in the world for Yerin.

The puppet-construct’s motions jumbled for a second as the wills of its various Remnant parts clashed, and Yerin took advantage.

Two motions, and she separated its head from its neck and one arm from its shoulder.

Silver sparks sprayed into the air like blood, and the nested scripts at the center of the puppet registered the damage as a defeat. The construct powered down, curling in on itself like a dying spider, preserving energy so that the Sword Sage wouldn’t have to spend so much effort rebuilding it later.

Yerin shone like a lamp uncovered. She turned to him, beaming but trying to hide it.

“Cleanest win so far,” she said, staying casual. “Smoother than butter.” She dispersed the Flowing Sword and slid her weapon back into its sheath.

Adama gave her some lazy applause. “Cheers and celebration for you.” He was proud of how far she’d come, but flowery praise wasn’t his way.

Still, Yerin drew herself up like he’d handed her a crown. She thumbed a line of blood running down her cheek. “Seems to me like I can walk around by myself now.”

He started to brush her off as he had before, but he cut himself off and turned the idea over in his mind. What would the right lesson be?

She didn’t know anything about Sacred Valley’s nature, or its history, or the years of research he’d done to find his way here.

She certainly didn’t know why they’d really come.

The “curse” of Sacred Valley wasn’t any kind of curse at all. It was perhaps the largest and most elaborate script formation ever created by mankind, spanning hundreds of miles and buried deep within the earth.

That formation generated a suppression field that weakened everything that crossed its boundaries. At first, he had believed it was a security measure to keep Monarchs out.

Now, he was growing certain that it was primarily intended to keep the labyrinth’s lone inhabitant starving.

The father of the Dreadgods.

Subject One.

He was here to find a cure for Yerin…but not just a cure. He wanted a way to separate the Blood Shadow from her with no spiritual damage at all.

That was a degree of magnitude more difficult than just removing it, but he couldn’t risk any damage to his apprentice.

This was the birthplace of the Bleeding Phoenix, and he had filled his void space with enough ancient research notes and experimental materials that he was sure he was closing in on an answer.

He was becoming certain that he could do it. There was a way to pull the Blood Shadow out of her without taking a chunk of her soul with it. He only needed a few more weeks. With the suppression field working on her parasite, they had plenty of time.

However, he couldn’t keep her sealed in a jar. If he stifled her growth, that would defeat the entire point of this project.

“You’ve got me,” he said at last. “Your chains are off.”

She gave him a fierce grin. “You going to burn my ear if I draw swords on some Jade?”

“All right, then, not all your chains.”

Her face fell.

“Keep your Iron veil on tight and your perception to yourself. Don’t tell them anything but your name. And don’t eat anything they give you.”

Instantly she turned suspicious. “Master, did they try to poison you?”

“Did more than try,” he said, patting his stomach.

Yerin’s knuckles whitened on the hilt of her sword.

“Whoa there, rein it in. Do I look shaky to you?”

She looked him up and down and her grip tightened. Her eyebrows drew together, and his spirit shivered slightly as she moved her perception through him.

“You look like you’ve been dragged over ten miles of rocky road,” she replied.

He waved his hand through the air. “Bad question. That’s my own training, not them.”

She still didn’t look convinced, so he sighed and reached into his outer robe.

He withdrew a gold badge that he’d commissioned. Like his own, this one was carved with the emblem of a sword.

The tradition of wearing badges was old, its meaning shifting with time and culture. This may have been the only place in the world that still respected it, though they had the significance all wrong.

Yerin gave a half-step forward as she saw the badge, as though ready to take it, but he pulled it back.

“Keep your eyes on your Path,” he said gently. “You’re almost there.”

They’d have to leave Sacred Valley to find a sword Remnant worthy of her. He could push her to Lowgold with his own scales, but that missed the valuable opportunity to learn from the experiences of another sword artist.

Not to mention that separating her from the Blood Shadow would only become harder and harder as she advanced. As long as she stayed Jade, he was confident he could find the answer.

“Only a few more weeks,” he promised, and she relaxed.

“I’ll hang on,” she muttered.

“Good work.” He ruffled her hair, which she tolerated. Then he gave an exaggerated yawn.

Halfway through, he realized it wasn’t so exaggerated after all. He was more exhausted than he’d thought.

“Gonna go cultivate dream aura until dawn. You should rest up too.”

She gave him an absent nod, but she was looking over the training puppet as though hoping it would come back to life on its own.

He’d repair it in the morning. For the time, he left her with nothing to do but sleep, which was often the only way he could get her to rest.

Adama himself didn’t need the encouragement tonight. He felt the effort of climbing the stairs.

When he found the bed, he didn’t bother taking off his robes. He collapsed in a heap.

He would rest, eat, and examine the research he’d taken from the labyrinth for a few days, until he was recovered enough to be called a Sage again. Then it was back underground for him.

Sleep found him in seconds.

It felt like only seconds more when he was woken by searing pain all over his body.

He screamed and shot up, lashing out blindly with his power.

Despite the suppression of Sacred Valley, his madra should have shredded everything in the room. Without the Valley’s curse, a single panicked outburst like this one might have endangered the entire Heaven’s Glory School.

With his spirit and will so drained by the hunger madra, his attackers survived.

Half a dozen Jades staggered back, blood on their daggers. The locals had attacked him. A bunch of Jades had stabbed him. Successfully.

How?

The light of Samara’s ring leaked in from the shuttered windows, and between that and his well-honed spiritual sense, he put together a clear picture of the scene. Their blades glittered with points of brighter silver like stars, and they felt like shards of chaos.

Halfsilver blades.

Those would disrupt anyone’s madra, which explained the searing pain in his body and spirit, and halfsilver was unusually common here. Normally, they wouldn’t have penetrated his skin. He hadn’t considered the full implications of the strength being leeched from his Archlord body; it had been too long since any mundane attack was a threat.

But…they had stabbed him.

Though he was bleeding and surrounded by enemies, he still wondered if this could possibly be real. It was like a bunch of rabbits had taken up spears in their teeth and charged him.

It was humiliating.

The blades had been dipped in poison, which stained their edges dark and leaked venom aura into the air, but such was barely worth a thought. He would never notice the weak poisons here.

And halfsilver knives still gathered sword aura.

The Sword Sage threw out a hand, and though he didn’t have a blade in his hands, he activated the Endless Sword.

Every edged weapon in the room exploded with silver light.

The Jade holding onto his wintersteel sword—the weapon Min Shuei had gifted him before their parting—fell to bloody chunks immediately and landed in a pile of gore.

Adama caught the sheathed blade before it hit the ground.

Everyone else survived.

Which was enough to tell him how bad of a shape he was in, even if he discounted the pain in his neck, chest, shoulder, thighs, and stomach. His madra channels were now wounded from putting such effort into the Endless Sword with halfsilver still affecting his spirit, and most of the Jades still lived.

When he survived this, he was going to come down on the Heaven’s Glory School like a Monarch’s fist.

He drew his sword like a child drawing his father’s weapon for the first time. Clumsily, he lurched forward, shoving his sword into a shield of Forged golden madra.

The shield shattered and the Heaven’s Glory man flew backwards, leaving a crater in the wood and plaster of the wall.

Though he was weaker than he’d ever thought possible, Adama’s Steelborn Iron body still functioned. If he had enough strength to wave a hand, he had enough to hurl a Jade from the room.

But the wounded Jade still breathed. Though he had no doubt suffered terrible internal injuries, his survival was another blow to Adama’s pride.

Blood gummed up his eyes, and he focused on healing his body as he engaged the other five in combat.

They couldn’t use Striker techniques without hitting each other, and their Ruler and Forger techniques were so clumsy that he could always disrupt them before they fully formed. Which left them hand-to-hand combat.

Every pathetic swipe of his sword took a Jade off their feet.

One Heaven’s Glory elder crashed into the ceiling. Another shattered the bed. A third flew through the shuttered window, letting in a wash of light. But they were all armored by iron, goldsteel plates, or scripted devices that kept them alive.

The Sword Sage couldn’t clear his thoughts enough for a single working of will. His body and spirit were falling apart, and only his extraordinary Archlord constitution kept him on his feet.

Reinforcements flooded in from downstairs. Irons. They were flinging Irons at him.

When he was through killing everyone in the building, he was going to be disgusted with himself.

A new voice shouted from downstairs, a flare of Endless Sword madra sent the Irons on the stairs bowling over, and for the first time since waking he felt real fear.

Yerin was here.

Two of the Jades turned to look down, beginning their techniques, and Adama’s fear turned to rage. He took an Enforced hit to the back—his opponents had abandoned their blades almost immediately, so it was just a punch—to dash at those Jades threatening Yerin.

He tackled them down the stairs.

The Jades might be trying to kill him, but they would inevitably fail. He was an Archlord. Yerin was still on their level.

He would pit her against any of them one-on-one, but this was hardly a duel.

As he landed in a pile of bodies on the first floor, he looked up and met Yerin’s eyes. In them, he saw the same fear for him that he felt for her. They were wide, her face pale.

He had to drag this fight away.

He shouted and pulled himself to his feet, squeezing madra out of lacerated channels…and swiped a Rippling Sword at Yerin.

She blocked, of course. The technique was weaker than what she would have produced.

But it knocked her back into the basement.

Adama limped out of the house, casting his perception behind him to make sure the remaining elders would follow him. Sure enough, only the Irons stayed behind.

Though there were more Jades coming from all around him.

His every hobbling one-legged leap covered many yards and left a trail of blood in the snow behind him. The only Jades that kept up with him were those who wore shields on their badges: those best trained in their Enforcer technique.

Adama defended himself with his swordplay and his superior Iron body, as well as the fact that his enemies couldn’t use proper weapons. They had all armed themselves with makeshift clubs.

He took a few bruises, but nothing to worry about. Nothing he couldn’t heal in the morning.

He had to make it to the Ancestor’s Tomb.

When he tried to open his void space, just the effort of focusing made his head throb, and he couldn’t focus his working enough to reach through the Way. His other weapons, his elixirs, his constructs, his pills, were all sealed off to him.

He had grown too complacent. The lesson here was to never show vulnerability, to never rely on others, to treat all strangers as enemies. Clearly, he had let himself grow soft.

In the future, after he razed Heaven’s Glory, he wouldn’t forget.

He just had to make sure Yerin survived to remember this lesson too.

He staggered up the mountain, fending off attacks until the light of the dawning sun spilled over the Ancestor’s Tomb. The Tomb was one of the most ancient structures in Sacred Valley, a blocky behemoth looming on titanic pillars.

Once he made it inside, he could open the door to the labyrinth.

The hunger madra would spill out, devouring everyone present. The Jades wouldn’t be able to handle the power, and he had to hope he could survive Subject One’s weakened techniques.

When the crowd was thinned out, he would shut the door again and wait until he had recovered his willpower, then he would retrieve an elixir to heal the rest of him.

In the morning, the rest of Heaven’s Glory would find out what made him a Sage.

When he reached the stairs, he cast his perception behind him again to see who had managed to follow him.

Not just the Enforcers this time.

Yerin had caught up.

She emerged from the trees screaming, her tattered robes rippling in the wind, and she sent a thousand invisible blades slashing at the nearest elder with her Endless Sword.

She would have been better off using a Striker technique, as the man wasn’t carrying a weapon. He took a few superficial cuts, but he seemed surprised that she’d wounded him at all. The Jade turned, readying a technique of his own.

Adama was surrounded by a half-circle of other Jades, all of them either beating him with their clubs or readying their own techniques, but all his attention was focused on Yerin.

When he fought his way through and went up the stairs, she’d follow him.

“Go!” he screamed, but of course she didn’t listen.

Her expression firmed, and she took a two-handed grip on her sword.

It was the resolve, the determination, the focus that had made her stand out to him as a disciple candidate in the first place.

That was a will worthy of the future Sage of the Endless Sword.

He scraped together everything he had left. Every ounce of thought, emotion, and madra drew together to a point.

“Go,” he said again, and this time it was a command written on the world itself.

Behind Yerin, space tore like a cut. Spatial cracks slid out from around the rift, but they would soon heal. The destination of this transportation was beyond his control. It would be close; he didn’t have the skill or power at the moment to send her far.

Nor to send her quickly, it seemed. The portal sliced open in slow motion, and she was pulled back as though by invisible hands.

It should have happened in an instant, but she had time to fight, struggling toward him. The Jades near Yerin backed away from her, unsure what was happening, but the ones around him redoubled their assault.

Adama took a club on the jaw and another on the back of his head. A line of madra seared into his back, and his sight started to fade.

With Jades and Irons piled on top of him, he turned from Yerin and took a step up the stairs of the Ancestor’s Tomb.

More attacks landed, and he took another step.

Another.

His entire being fixed on the door, and his existence narrowed down to a singular purpose. He was going to that door, and these people would not stop Yerin from advancing. She would succeed him.

Those were the two most prominent thoughts his Remnant inherited when it rose from his body.

The door.

And Yerin.

[Synchronization terminated.]

Suggested topic: Yerin and the Sword Icon.

Denied, report complete.

1

“Who’s Dross?”

Northstrider clutched Lindon’s throat in one black-scaled hand, but his grip relaxed slightly to allow Lindon to respond. Lindon’s spirit trembled under the weight of a spiritual scan, and he shook before the Monarch’s golden eyes.

Lindon’s entire body urged him to cooperate with Northstrider, but he was still afraid. If Dross was peeled forcibly away from his soul, what would happen?

He needed more information. He needed time.

“Apologies, Monarch,” Lindon choked out. “I don’t understand—”

Northstrider’s patience ended immediately.

Invisible weight forced Lindon to his knees. The Monarch’s hand left his neck, but Lindon still choked. It felt like the air squeezed every inch of his skin. He tried to cycle madra, but his spirit was just as restricted as his body.

“Manifest yourself,” Northstrider commanded.

Don’t do it, Lindon urged Dross. I’ll talk to him.

As soon as he had enough breath to speak.

Dross didn’t respond. Instead, he spun into existence over Lindon’s left shoulder.

The spiritual pressure released Lindon, who sagged to the ground but caught himself with one hand and a knee.

Dross manifested as a purple-skinned ball with a single eye and two stubby, boneless arms. His eye was wide, and he coughed once as he addressed Northstrider. [It is an honor to meet you, Master. I am called Dross.]

“You are the mind-spirit born from Ghostwater in its last days,” Northstrider said.

Lindon pushed back to his feet; he needed to remind the Monarch he was there. “He is, and I am in your debt for the benefits I gained inside.”

Dross bobbed up and down in agreement, but Northstrider did not spare a glance for Lindon.

[Ah yes, Master, you’ve met Lindon, haven’t you? Sorry, I know you have, I’m just nervous. Anyway, Lindon has taken very good care of me after I became complete, and I’d say he has earned a reward. Maybe some kind of mind elixir, or a source of powerful dream aura, or perhaps a few delicious Dreamseeds. What do you say?]

A shiny black orb appeared over Northstrider’s shoulder, mirroring Dross on Lindon’s.

“Do you recognize this?” Northstrider asked Dross.

Dross squinted his eye. [That is the temperature construct from the Ghostwater storage room. I’m one hundred percent confident. Unless, of course, I’m wrong.]

Script flashed in various colors all over the reflective surface of Northstrider’s orb, so quickly that it was meaningless to Lindon.

“Look beyond its appearance,” the Monarch instructed.

Lindon couldn’t decide if Northstrider seemed patient or impatient. He observed Dross’ performance with no expression, but Lindon could imagine him erupting into violence at any second. Or simply disappearing.

Dross drifted closer to the black orb, peering into its surface.

[Hmmm, let me see…yes, that’s…oh. Oh. It’s the oracle tree! It’s so small now.]

Lindon remembered the oracle tree. He had pulled Dross from inside it in Ghostwater. It had been a web of knowledge and memory constructs that had ultimately led to Dross’ evolution.

Dross regularly regretted not being connected to that ocean of information longer.

Northstrider’s eyes flashed with an emotion Lindon couldn’t name. “This is the latest version of that project, which I call the oracle codex.”

[You were right to change the name; it doesn’t look anything like a tree anymore.]

“It is more than capable of teaching you the next step in your advancement.” Northstrider spread one black-scaled hand, gesturing to the orb. “Read it for yourself, if you can.”

That set off every alarm in Lindon’s mind.

Northstrider was Lindon’s benefactor, he was a great enemy of the gold dragons, and he was capable of upgrading Dross. Lindon would have traded his remaining arm for that kind of support.

But this was no act of charity. Northstrider was testing Dross in some way, and Lindon didn’t know what passing looked like.

Or what the penalty for failure was.

Dross gasped as though he’d been offered a glorious present, but Lindon held him back with a thought.

“Gratitude, Monarch, but surely we are not worthy of such generosity.”

[Yes, we are!] Dross said. In spite of Lindon’s alarm, he pushed forward. One of his stubby, flexible arms touched the surface of the orb.

Light rippled on Northstrider’s construct, but otherwise nothing happened.

[Just…just a moment, this is…hmmm. This is tougher than it looks.] Dross furrowed his purple brow and pushed harder, until Lindon could feel the strain himself.

More colors echoed out from the point of contact around Dross’ arm, and light rippled faster and faster.

Until, as though he’d broken through a barrier, Dross finally pushed through.

The spirit took in a deep breath. [Ooohhh, it’s amazing! So much space! And it’s so organized in here, like a library run by clocks. Here’s an interesting memory…not about me. And this one…also not me.]

Dross’ arm was finally ejected, and he flew back to Lindon’s shoulder as though kicked. [Sorry! So sorry! Just give me one more try.]

This time, there was the smallest hint of satisfaction on Northstrider’s face. “No. You passed. You’re coming with me.”

Dross brightened. [Ha-HA! You see, I knew I had passed. I just wanted to pass harder. Did you hear that, Lindon? He appreciates me.]

Lindon’s heart was beating faster, and he was beginning to sweat. He cycled his pure madra to calm himself down.

What was Northstrider about to do?

[Ew, you’re all messy. Calm down. Would you tell him he has nothing to worry about, Master?]

Northstrider looked up to the ceiling as several spiritual perceptions locked onto him at once.

Lindon’s spirit shook like water in an earthquake.

This was the attention of Monarchs; he was certain of it. More than one. They had found Northstrider, and now some kind of communication was passing between them.

The very air of the hallway warped, and Lindon’s madra trembled as it was affected by a will not his own.

Then the sensation passed, and Northstrider scooped Dross up in his hand. “Come.”

He turned to the side, waving a hand. There was a brief flash of blue and a hole tore open in the air.

On the other side, Lindon saw a massive, elaborate hall decorated with jewels and shining chandeliers. A room he recognized.

He had seen it in Suriel’s vision, years before. This was the room where Sha Miara had been crowned.

Northstrider stepped into the portal…and Dross’ presence in Lindon’s mind immediately thinned.

It felt as though Dross was being pulled away, like Northstrider was stretching and stretching the connection between them. Soon, it would reach its limit and break.

Lindon seized that thread, focusing his entire being on it.

Not only was he not sure what would happen to his spirit or his mind, but…this was Dross.

Dross noticed what was going on as soon as they crossed the portal, spinning in Northstrider’s palm and turning back to Lindon.

[Hurry up, Lindon!]

Lindon dashed for the portal…but Northstrider glanced at him.

Invisible force pushed Lindon back, and the portal winked shut, cutting off Dross’ horrified shout.

The connection between them thinned further, fraying more with every passing second. He wasn’t going to be able to hold on. The thread melted in his grip.

When it broke, Dross would be gone.

Would he ever come back?

In the center of a hallway in the Ninecloud Court, Lindon set his feet. He clenched his jaw and cycled his spirit.

And he concentrated every ounce of his attention on the link between him and Dross.

Snatches of the spirit’s thoughts came through in pieces.

[Master…]

[…why…]

[…gone?]

Only recently, Lindon had struggled against Naian Blackflame for control of a Ruler technique, which had strained his mind and spirit. This felt much the same: like he was trying to hold back an avalanche.

And it was all just to hang on. How long would he have to keep this up?

Dross’ voice flickered in and out of his thoughts, an incomprehensible jumble.

Then the force pulling against him redoubled.

The connection almost snapped…but just as he was about to lose it, he saw it.

In his mind’s eye, he could see the link between himself and Dross as a silver thread stretching into the distance. It was the same way he visualized his madra, and it felt equally real.

Now that he could see the connection, he focused on it even more intently.

He squeezed his eyes shut so the thread became all he could see. He leveraged all the power of his spirit, his madra surging.

Excess pure madra gushed out of him, filling the hallway. Lighting scripts brightened to unusual levels, constructs in the walls overloading or activating in a squeal of sounds.

His spirit strained. He might suffer permanent spiritual injury from this, or from having Dross torn away from him. In the worst-case scenario, this might be the end of his life as a sacred artist.

He might lose.

But it wouldn’t be because he gave up.

Lindon’s full power trembled. Just as he resolved to die before he let go, Dross’ presence filled his mind again. The hair-thin connection between them flexed to a thick, braided cord.

His eyes snapped open to see that the portal had opened again. He now stood, panting and weak and red-faced, in front of Northstrider.

Lindon sagged in place, but thanks to his Underlord body, his knees didn’t buckle. “Gratitude,” he said to the Monarch. “Please allow me to accompany you.”

Dross gave a glad cry and floated over to Lindon, merging once again with his spirit. [You see? I knew he’d change his mind and bring you along. I never…ah, never doubted for an instant.]

Dross’ voice was shaky and unsure, and Lindon could feel his fear.

It was nothing next to Lindon’s.

While trying to keep Dross, he had intentionally ignored the reality of his situation. He had just openly defied a Monarch.

He glanced up to Northstrider’s eyes, terrified to see anger there.

Instead, he saw surprise. Perhaps consideration.

“Come, boy,” Northstrider said, and Lindon gladly followed.

[I’m telling you, I didn’t think he was going to open the portal again!] Dross babbled as Lindon walked through the gateway. [It didn’t look like he would. He had his back to it and everything. But he changed his mind, you see, and I told you he wasn’t an enemy. He’s a generous and brilliant person, he’s just a little…scary.]

The audience hall of the Ninecloud Court was just as Lindon remembered it, filled with brilliantly colored tiles and pillars scattered here and there around the room. A forest of jeweled chandeliers hung down from high, arched ceilings.

Each chandelier was a unique work of art, many spinning or flashing with living spirits, and other, equally colorful decorations hung on the walls.

But Lindon had very little time to consider the room when he realized the significance of where he was.

Every person in the room besides him was a Monarch.

He huddled behind Northstrider against one wall, but the other Monarchs of the Uncrowned King tournament were also in attendance.

Reigan Shen stood on an elaborate golden pedestal that held him high above the others, so that he looked down on the rest with hands crossed behind his back. Like Northstrider, he was a powerfully built man, and his fine hair and beard blended into a white-gold mane. The sacred lion paced on his platform, wearing a look of obvious discontent.

Lindon had only seen Emriss Silentborn in the form of a giant tree, but he recognized her immediately. Her skin was dark, like most of her competitors in the tournament, but hers had the consistency of bark. Her hair was made of luminous blue-green vines braided together, and she carried a staff with a blooming diamond flower at the tip.

She wore a look of great sadness, and Lindon couldn’t tell if something had happened or if this was how she always appeared.

Three members of the Eight-Man Empire muttered to one another, and Lindon reminded himself that he technically wasn’t the only one who hadn’t reached Monarch. The gold-armored figures were considered a Monarch collectively, but independently they were only Sages or Heralds.

Only.

The three spoke to one another, but they were focused on Northstrider and didn’t look happy.

Seshethkunaaz, King of Dragons, was in the form of a boy perhaps thirteen years old. He had sandy hair and bright gold eyes, and he sat on the floor, most of his body covered in a filthy brown cape.

He glared at Akura Malice, who wasn’t watching him in return. She lounged on a Forged throne of shadows, purple eyes locked on Lindon.

Mercy’s mother was a beauty out of paintings and legends. Her hair flowed out behind her like liquid shadow, reminding him of her son Fury, and she wore a silken dress of purple and silver. A network of silver chains hung in her hair, dangling a fat amethyst over her forehead. Her eyes were a deeper, richer shade of purple than her descendants, and they rippled with subtle light.

Full, black-painted lips tilted up in a smirk, and she winked at him.

He wasn’t sure if he was meant to be honored or entranced, but he broke into a cold sweat. Further attention from Monarchs brought indescribable risk.

Then again, he had just represented her in the Uncrowned King tournament. If he made a good impression, she might be inclined to reward him.

He bowed respectfully to her, pressing his fists together.

Her smile grew a fraction.

The room’s final occupant was a presence of multicolored light. It was shaped vaguely like a woman, but the rainbow was too bright to make out any features.

The Luminous Queen of the Ninecloud Court. Supposedly Sha Leiala.

For a long moment after Lindon arrived, no one spoke, which gave him plenty of time to survey the room. He wondered what they were waiting for and hoped that his abrupt entrance wasn’t what had delayed them.

Finally, one of the Eight-Man Empire spoke up. “What have you done, Northstrider?” the man demanded.

“Did you promise the Abidan your service?” the Dragon King asked. He was still watching Malice, but he clearly addressed Northstrider. “Is that how you summoned them? Will they restore your champion to his full power?”

Emriss Silentborn gave a great sigh. “The arrowhead will bring only pain and discord, so close to the Wandering Titan’s awakening. For the good of all, we should make a pact between us to use Penance to remove a Dreadgod.”

“Why destroy such a valuable weapon?” Reigan said, watching Northstrider. “I am more interested in the fortuitous timing of heaven’s intervention. It so happens that sixteen competitors remained, allowing Northstrider to select a single-elimination round. Then an Abidan messenger descends upon us when one, and only one, competitor has been eliminated. The very young man that Northstrider has chosen to bring along to this meeting.”

Lindon shivered, but he felt no spiritual weight settle on him.

[Northstrider is shielding you from the spiritual power in the room, I’m sure,] Dross said. Lindon noticed that he didn’t call the Monarch “Master” this time.

Reigan Shen ran a hand across his white-gold beard. “Now, I humbly admit that I do not understand the plan at work here, but to blame coincidence is to strain credulity. Did you calculate all this when you stepped in as judge, Northstrider? Have you deceived us all?”

Northstrider did not step back from anyone. His shaggy head turned slowly from one Monarch to the next until he had met the eyes of all his peers.

“Did I not receive your permission for the arrangement of the fourth round?” Northstrider asked. “Each of you agreed. Each of you bickered and jockeyed for position like children, and each of you gave your word that you were satisfied with the place you had earned.”

“Our lives are at stake,” a woman from the Eight-Man Empire shouted. “We would never have settled for a certain loss if we had known that victory would come with power over life and death.”

Northstrider turned to her and spoke quietly. “Your lives? You think a weapon of the Abidan is cheap enough to waste on one replaceable piece out of eight?”

She bristled with anger, but Northstrider had looked away from her already. “Which of you is so weak-willed that you would doubt a decision you made yourself?”

“If everyone honors their given word, then I have no doubts,” Seshethkunaaz said. “If the tournament proceeds with your rules in place, I will be the victor.”

He looked over to the figure shrouded in rainbow light, who had thus far not spoken.

Sha “Leiala” raised a light-shrouded fist to her mouth and coughed. “We have no problem with continuing the tournament as planned. Quite the opposite. Because of our prior agreement, we were prepared to forfeit all prizes, but now the heavens have prepared one especially for us.”

Her voice was disguised, but anyone could tell how pleased she was.

Which reinforced Lindon’s belief. If Sha Miara was the one he remembered, then she was a veiled Monarch. Though her power was restricted to Underlord, he couldn’t imagine her losing.

“I am satisfied with the matches as agreed,” Malice said, and her voice was as rich as Lindon had imagined.

“We don’t doubt ourselves, Northstrider,” Reigan Shen said. “We doubt you.”

Northstrider took one step forward, and the tower beneath Lindon’s feet quaked. Alarm tightened his throat, though none of the other Monarchs reacted.

“I have given my word to administrate this competition,” Northstrider said quietly. “Do any of you believe I would violate my oath, even if a son of mine was competing? Do you believe that your panel of judges would have been less susceptible to influence than I am? Do you believe that I have outwitted the rest of you and manipulated matters to my own advantage beneath your very eyes?”

Reigan Shen stroked his beard and Seshethkunaaz glared, but no one accused Northstrider of anything. Still, he continued.

“Allow me to set your doubts at ease.” Once again, the tower trembled, but this time it was the resonance of the Monarch’s words that shook the ground. “I swear in the sight of heaven and on the name of Northstrider that I have arbitrated the Uncrowned King tournament without bias and to the best of my ability, and that I will continue to do so.”

Everyone else in the room except Lindon dipped their heads together, and Lindon sensed a great power pass by him and land on Northstrider.

The whole discussion settled one question for Lindon. Malice had allowed the fight between him and Yerin.

Why?

He quickly answered his own question. With two members of her faction fighting, Malice was guaranteed one spot among the Uncrowned. One of her fighters was certain to be eliminated as well, but that would still be a better arrangement for her than rolling the dice twice.

So what about her other champions? She would want Mercy to have an easy match, but the other Monarchs would try to stop that if they could.

“You have always been willing to set aside your personal ambitions when necessary, Northstrider,” Emriss said heavily. “But I am concerned about the goals of the Abidan. Which of us are they here to recruit?”

A look of anger slowly clouded Northstrider’s face. “They play with us like toys in their box, and I am as powerless as the rest of you. The messenger was clear. The competition will continue as planned next week. I could not restart the fourth round if I wanted to, nor even withdraw competitors who are grossly overqualified.”

He made an obvious gesture to Sha Leiala—or Miara, or whoever was under that light—and the woman gave a tinkling laugh.

Reigan Shen gave a slow, thoughtful purr. “Quite aside from the Abidan’s intentions, the arrowhead will certainly resolve disputes among us, don’t you agree? Who would dare to deny a proposal from one with the power of absolute execution?”

He spoke casually, but the attention of the room shifted to Malice. The dragon Monarch, leaning against the wall, gave her a cold smile.

The Queen of Shadows lowered one hand to the arm of her throne, no longer looking as content as she had before. “Whatever weapons you have, if you take one step onto my land, you will be forced to use them.”

Charity’s words drifted through Lindon’s mind, from before his training in the Akura family: “They want the Blackflame Empire.”

And Fury’s, from not so long ago: “The cat has a key to crack open the western labyrinth.”

Blood drained from Lindon’s face.

The Monarchs wouldn’t think of it in these terms, but they were deciding the fate of Sacred Valley. Right here, right now.

“Demonstrating our strength to earn support is no longer necessary,” Shen continued. “Whoever wins will decide.”

Seshethkunaaz smiled like a serpent. “The will of the victor be done.”

A cold vice settled around Lindon’s heart. The winner of the Uncrowned King tournament would decide what happened to the Blackflame Empire…and Lindon had been eliminated.

In fact, he was the only one of the top sixteen to have been removed so far.

Had Northstrider intended that? Or was it the heavens? Had Suriel sent Kiuran to remove her resurrected mortal from contention?

He reached into his pocket and held the warm glass marble, letting it calm him.

Shadows boiled behind Malice, but Northstrider didn’t react. He was supposed to be the greatest enemy of the dragons, and Lindon had been told that it was only his support of Malice that had prevented Reigan Shen from invading as he wished.

Was Northstrider just that outwardly calm, or was he really not worried?

Emriss Silentborn extended her diamond-flower staff, which exuded a peaceful blue-and-pink light. It suffused everything, and Lindon found his thoughts and his madra growing calm as she began to speak.

“Our cooperation was already strained, and now with this…I do not see any peaceful resolution. Whatever restrictions the Abidan put on us, I see no outcome to this competition but war.”

At the end of her sentence, her light was drowned out by a brighter, more powerful blue coming from the ceiling.

For the second time that night, a white-armored man drifted down from above.

None of the Monarchs expressed any surprise at seeing the Abidan descending here, as though they’d sensed him coming, but Lindon certainly hadn’t. Neither had Dross, judging by the shock Lindon felt from him.

The Hound, Kiuran, was a rat-like man with a thin beard and dark, beady eyes. Lindon could picture him as a petty thief more than a heavenly messenger, except for his attire.

He wore the smooth eggshell armor of the Abidan, and a purple eye the size of his head drifted on his shoulder.

[Doesn’t that look like me?] Dross asked. [I think so.]

“Do you think the eyes of heaven are blind?” Kiuran asked, and though he spoke at normal volume, Lindon had no trouble hearing him. “Any outcome you see, we saw long ago. Do not worry over the future, for that is my province.”

He steepled white-armored hands together. “In that capacity, I have come to give you further instructions. Before I do, let me remind you once again to play your game fairly. Any coercion or intimidation or violence or bending of the rules to influence the tournament will be resolved immediately. By me.”

He said it with the smug tone of someone who had complete confidence in his ability to handle a roomful of Monarchs, but none of them reacted in fear. Northstrider glowered, Reigan Shen rolled his eyes, and Malice sneered.

“We no longer need to waste time on your festivities,” Kiuran continued. “Events have outpaced you. The next fight of the fourth round will take place tomorrow, with one fight per day until the fourth round is concluded. That is all the time I will allow you.”

Lindon was grateful for Northstrider’s protection, because the Monarchs did not take the Abidan’s words well.

The very world twisted and rippled under their sudden anger, the walls and floor cracking, spirits fleeing and chandeliers melting like wax.

“Ludicrous,” Malice spat. “This will ruin everything. The news will have no time to spread.”

Though Northstrider’s expression was no different from usual, Lindon imagined he was an inch from trying to tear the Abidan apart. “If I had known the timeline would be altered, I would have changed the structure of the entire round. Am I the arbiter of this tournament, or are you?”

The rainbow-shrouded Ninecloud Monarch shifted uncomfortably. “We can’t prepare the arena so quickly. The effort and expense...”

“Have we run out of time so soon?” Emriss asked softly.

Kiuran tilted his head to her. “At least one of you understands. You are the ones who have no time for a lengthy tournament. If you still wish for time between rounds to train your students, then the length of the rounds themselves must be condensed. Unless you would prefer your competition to be interrupted by a Dreadgod.”

Lightning shot through Lindon’s spine.

Malice waved a hand dismissively. “We are prepared for the Titan’s awakening.”

The Abidan gave an ugly laugh. “You are so proud of your dim sight. I tell you now, you have less than three months before the Wandering Titan rises. If the tournament is not resolved by that time, your squabbling will bring on this world a disaster worse than the Dreadgod. I have saved you from yourselves.”

None of the Monarchs looked pleased, but none protested either. They looked worried, pensive, each deep in their thoughts.

Lindon couldn’t begin to guess what changes would come from this information, but great wheels had begun to turn in the machinery of the world.

What would this mean for him?

“Now that I have removed your distractions, you can focus on the tournament,” Kiuran continued. “If you want to win, then push your children to improve. Of course, if you can persuade your opponents to throw a match without using intimidation or threats, I will accept that result as well.”

Lindon’s mind whirled. Yerin was still in the competition, but she was unlikely to be able to beat Sophara or Sha Miara, even discounting the other fighters.

If persuasion was allowed, that meant bribery. Maybe she could walk away from this with treasures worth more than the prizes.

But if she did accept a bribe to bow out, that was one defender of the Blackflame Empire gone.

“All prior rules and restrictions stand, and the competition will continue. If it turns out that your greatest enemy defeats you and obtains Penance…well, you can stay and face the headsman, or you can join us.”

He turned a sneer on them all, but another piece had just clicked into place for Lindon.

The Abidan hadn’t come to recruit promising young Underlords, despite what Kiuran himself had implied only minutes before. They were recruiting Monarchs.

By pressuring them to ascend.

The rainbow-shrouded Monarch of the Ninecloud Court stepped forward and bowed at the waist. “Son of Heaven, would you stay and share your wisdom with us? We have many questions for you.”

Kiuran sighed and passed a gauntlet over his face. “I don’t see how anything I said requires further explanation. Very well, Luminous Queen, I will make an exception and explain myself to you. As for the rest of you…you have work to do.”

None of the Monarchs looked satisfied with that, but one by one they all took the dismissal for what it was and left the room.

The Eight-Man Empire walked out a door, Malice melted into shadows, Reigan Shen and his entire pedestal sank into the floor, and Emriss disappeared in a rustle of spectral leaves. Lindon didn’t see the Dragon King leave.

Northstrider waved a hand, opening a portal again, but instead of leading back into the hallway, it led onto a steeply sloped roof tiled in rose-tinted crystal. Cold wind howled across the tiles, sweeping through the portal, and Lindon could see the glistening collection of jewels that was Ninecloud City spread out beneath him.

When the Monarch stepped onto the roof, Lindon had no choice but to follow.

Only when Lindon had passed through did Northstrider allow the portal to close. A rainbow halo encircling the tower shone down on them, bright as daylight. The wind was so strong and the tiles so steep and slick that Lindon would have feared for his balance if he hadn’t been an Underlord.

As it was, the footing was only a mild inconvenience.

Dross popped up onto Lindon again. [Ah, thank you for bringing Lindon along. I am rather attached to him, you know? And I didn’t mean those things I said about you. Please don’t unmake me.]

“Now you have glimpsed a Monarch’s responsibilities,” Northstrider said to Lindon. “Remember it. This experience can be of great value to you later.” His arms were crossed, but he wasn’t focused on Dross this time.

Lindon wasn’t sure if that was an improvement or not.

“I cannot express my gratitude enough, but I admit that I’m terrified. I fear what the other Monarchs will do to those who remain in the competition.”

He didn’t want to voice his full concern aloud, in case Kiuran or one of the Monarchs was listening, but he was even more afraid for his friends’ lives now than he had been before. The Hound was pushing the Monarchs, and whatever protection he promised, Lindon was afraid Seshethkunaaz or Reigan Shen would find a way around it.

Northstrider nodded once. “It is wise not to rely on the intervention of the Abidan. Whatever they say, they act only for their own benefit. Not ours.”

Lindon tried his best not to reach for Suriel’s marble. Had she left him with his memories intact for his sake, or her own?

“But you may put your fears to rest,” the Monarch continued. “The competitors are under my protection. At least for the duration of the tournament, they will be safe.”

He spoke with such absolute certainty that Lindon’s concerns eased, though he did wonder what would happen after the tournament ended.

“Thank you for the instruction, honored Monarch,” Lindon said. “If you’ll pardon one more question…why did you bring me along?”

Northstrider examined him for a long moment.

“I will study Dross again.” He seemed to have ignored Lindon’s question. “For now, I will leave him within you. I would have returned him before either of you were permanently harmed by the separation, but I will allow you to stay together from now on. Clearly you have formed a…symbiosis.”

Relief was more likely to take Lindon off his feet than the wind was. Since he had first seen Northstrider, Lindon had always been haunted by the fear that the Monarch would punish him or dissect him to reclaim Dross.

Lindon bowed. “Gratitude.”

“Now, until I call for you, do not neglect your training. Sopharanatoth is one of the two most favored to win this competition, and she will use Penance on Akura Malice or myself without hesitation. If you wish to influence the situation, you must be stronger.”

Lindon hesitated. “If you will enlighten me, how could I possibly stop Sophara if she wins?”

Northstrider’s eyes gleamed gold. “Training will never let you down.”

“Then…pardon, but…can we win?”

He was afraid to ask too many questions of a Monarch, but he had to know.

And Northstrider didn’t seem annoyed. “The most certain path to victory is to have a fighter representing myself or Malice win the tournament. If we cannot accomplish that, victory becomes more costly or difficult. But not impossible. The only true defeat is death.”

Those words resonated with Lindon, as though Northstrider had given voice to something inside him.

He strode over to the edge of the roof and turned to look back over his shoulder. “I will see you soon, Dross. And Lindon.”

Then he stepped out over the edge and fell.

Leaving Lindon wondering: why had the Monarch changed his mind about Lindon? He had gone from treating Lindon like a patch of mud to answering his questions and addressing him directly. Was he so impressed by Lindon’s determination?

[I told you, didn’t I? He’s a very generous man. And he has a good eye for talent. My talent, anyway.]

He didn’t care about me at all, Lindon thought. Then he came back for me. Was it something you said?

Dross straightened himself up proudly. [That’s what it was. He does value my opinion, you know.]

It was a simple explanation, and maybe it was the correct one. There was no point in making wild guesses.

Lindon looked around at the sloped diamond rooftop. “Now…where are we?”

2

It took Lindon over two hours to climb down from the tower, then find his way back to the Akura building amidst the glistening structures of Ninecloud City.

Dross remembered the city’s layout, but every route they tried was blocked. The streets were in chaos. People poured out of doorways from interrupted parties, cloudships reversed course in midair against the flow of air traffic, and every inn was choked by lines that stretched around the block.

Over it all, the Ninecloud Soul repeated announcements at a deafening volume: the tournament schedule had changed. The second fight in the fourth round of the Uncrowned King tournament was scheduled to take place three hours past dawn in the morning.

That change had shifted the lives of more people than Lindon could comprehend, and the city bustled like an anthill.

He had to consult a shining map projected by light madra on the air, repeatedly use his Thousand-Mile Cloud to get a peek over the crowds, and eventually talk to city security.

The Ninecloud peacekeepers, Underlords all, recognized him immediately.

The Uncrowned King tournament was shared with the entire city. Though this would likely be their busiest night of the year, the peacekeepers took the time to commiserate with Lindon on his loss as they directed him back to the tower assigned to the Akura clan.

“What can you do when they set you up against your own teammate?” one gruff man in a stiff peacekeeper’s uniform said. “Not your fault. If anyone’s to blame, it’s No—” He coughed. “Nobody.”

Lindon bowed and thanked them for their assistance, but his heart throbbed. That wound was still fresh, and a reminder that everyone in Ninecloud City had seen him lose only increased his shame.

[Not just Ninecloud City!] Dross added brightly. [Memories, recordings, and written accounts of the Uncrowned King tournament are being distributed all over the world.]

Lindon had viewed some memories from previous years, stored in the records of the Ninecloud Court.

Still, he didn’t appreciate the reminder.

When he didn’t respond, Dross tried again.

[Ah…I do feel the need to apologize one more time about things with Master. Northstrider, I mean. Master Northstrider. He did say that he wouldn’t have let you suffer permanent damage, so no harm done! Right?]

I’m just relieved we don’t have to be afraid of him.

That much was true, but he couldn’t rid himself of a small grain of resentment. He had warned Dross. Over and over.

But there was nothing Dross could have done when the moment came. The spirit couldn’t have resisted Northstrider.

[Relieved! Same. Exactly the same for me. Well, good. That’s good! We’re both relieved, so that’s a relief.]

Lindon pushed his irritation down. Clinging to bitterness was childish.

He finally made his way to the amethyst spire that hosted the Akura family. One of the rainbow-robed staff led him to a cloud, which lifted him up the side of the building and to a dock outside his floor.

It was late at night by the time he returned, but the entire city was awake.

Yerin and the others would be too.

Lindon made his way to the suite of rooms that had been set aside for the Akura prime team. Spiritual perception was muddled in here—not so much that he couldn’t push through it, but the restriction was a privacy feature, so it would have been rude to do so. As a result, he couldn’t check to see if any of his friends were nearby while remaining polite.

But Lindon knew Eithan.

He activated a scripted card, which resonated with the door to Lindon’s room and caused it to slide open.

Eithan lounged in a padded chair within view of the door. He brushed yellow hair behind him and gave Lindon a beaming grin. “Did the walk clear your head?”

Lindon’s room was the size of any reasonable person’s entire house, and it was like the decorators couldn’t decide between opulent wealth and a natural garden. A river trickled through the center of the room between multicolored tiles, birds chirped from the artfully carved beams across the ceiling overhead, and a living tree in the corner held glowing fruits.

As he stepped through the door, he saw Mercy in the section of the room that functioned as a kitchen. She was putting a bowl down and wiping her mouth with the back of one black-gloved hand.

At least Mercy’s presence solved the mystery of how they’d gotten in. Her room connected to his and Pride’s.

Mercy no longer wore the elaborate costume and makeup that represented the Akura faction, instead settling for a simple set of black-and-white robes. She melted in clear sympathy when he walked through the door, but her eyes moved to the other person in the room.

Yerin stood against the opposite wall, stiff as a board.

She had been fiddling with a gem-like dream tablet before he had come in, and her fingers froze around it. Her other hand gripped the hilt of her master’s sword at her waist, and she stared at him with eyes wide.

Lindon had spent much of the last two hours figuring out what to say to Yerin, but he knew what the first thing had to be. He gave her the most genuine smile he could muster.

“Congratulations, Uncrowned.”

She started to answer his smile, but her expression became complicated, and her mouth worked as she struggled with her words.

Which was all right with him, because he had more. He bowed to her.

“And please accept my apologies. I made you wait too long. I am honored to have felt your full power.” He tapped his ribs and added, “Right through the chest.”

Finally, her smile broke through like the sun breaking through clouds. She tossed the dream tablet behind her, accidentally launching it so hard it cracked one of the overhead beams.

She had crossed the room in an instant and was gripping his arms in both her hands. “It was amazing, true? I’m down to one thin scale and shakier than a drunken sailor, but I had one more move in me. And you! Making up your own techniques without me!”

She sounded delighted, not offended, which relieved him.

“You didn’t tell me about your master’s sword,” he pointed out.

Yerin ran a hand across the hilt of her weapon. “I thought my heart would pop when I used it. Was sure you’d thought of it.”

She tightened her grip on his arm. “And you, you’re scarier than a tiger at midnight, aren’t you? Blocking dragon’s breath is a chore and a half, when if I slip one inch I’m cored like an apple.”

“She has been talking like this,” Eithan said, “for the last two hours.”

Mercy threw a spoon at him, which he snatched out of the air without looking. “Give them a minute!” she insisted.

Yerin glared at Eithan. “You too stingy to lend me five seconds to celebrate?”

“On the contrary. I thought Lindon might enjoy himself more if he knew you were this excited while he was gone.”

Eithan was right. He wasn’t sure he’d ever seen Yerin so clearly happy.

It went a long way toward easing the pain of losing. He’d kept that disappointment at bay by focusing on immediate problems, like Northstrider.

Which reminded him of the reasons he’d been trying to find his friends in the first place.

“Wait! Apologies, but I need a moment of your time.”

He hadn’t yet told them about Sha Miara.

At first, he hadn’t been sure that she was really a Monarch. Could Monarchs restrict themselves down as far as Underlord? Maybe she was just someone with the same name.

But little things had kept adding up.

The Monarch meeting tonight had finally convinced him, but that brought him to the second reason why he had said nothing: he didn’t want to offend a Monarch.

He had heard repeatedly about the Monarch ability to hear their name spoken. He still didn’t fully understand it—Monarchs were figures of myths and legends, so surely there were too many people talking about them all over the world to pay attention to everyone—but he still didn’t want to refer to Sha Miara as anything other than a competitor.

What if the Ninecloud Court forced him to tell how he had seen through their Monarch’s disguise?

As the other three looked at him curiously, Lindon spoke aloud for their benefit. “Dross. Show them.”

[Right! I’ll show them. I’ll show them right now. Tell me again which—]

Suriel’s visit, Dross, Lindon added silently.

It was painfully awkward facing down Eithan and Yerin and Mercy’s inquisitive stares while he waited for Dross to project the right memory, and he couldn’t help but think how much more impressive it would have been if Dross had done as ordered immediately.

It wasn’t as though he hadn’t warned Dross about this. They should have practiced.

[Got it!] Dross said triumphantly, and Lindon’s room melted away to show the Ninecloud audience hall. Just as he remembered it from Suriel’s vision, it was packed with richly dressed people of every description.

It wasn’t a perfect depiction of reality. Many of the details were vague, as they had faded in Lindon’s mind, and most of the faces were blurred as though they were seen through smudged glass.

He could see Yerin, Eithan, and Mercy clearly. Dross had left them where they were, changing the image of the rest of the room to match the memory. None of them expressed much surprise at being taken inside a projection—they all had enough experience with dream tablets and similar constructs.

Lindon looked eagerly to one side. Suriel would be clear, he knew. He remembered every detail of her perfectly.

“Luminous Queen Sha Leiala,” a woman’s voice said. “Path of Celestial Radiance.”

In the center of the hall, a rainbow cloud descended and a bright light shone, but he was staring in confusion at the woman who had spoken.

It wasn’t Suriel.

She resembled the heavenly messenger in many ways. She wore white, but instead of the smooth, almost liquid armor of the Abidan, she was dressed in a white-and-silver coat, shirt, and long skirt.

Her hair was more brown than dark green, and it hung naturally behind her. Her purple eyes made her look like a member of the Akura clan, and she spoke while stretching her neck and wincing. There was a bend to her nose as though she’d broken it at one point.

And she hadn’t really been the one who introduced Sha Miara and her Path. It had been the gray ghost on her shoulder, which was now missing.

“Tomorrow, an enemy nation is predicted to attack her city,” the Suriel imitator went on. “Sha Leiala will strike down their cloudships with one sweep of her sword.”

“Stop it, Dross,” Lindon said, and he couldn’t keep some heat from his voice.

The vision froze.

[You know, it’s hard enough projecting to three people, and holding it all in place doesn’t make it any easier.]

Lindon waved a hand around them. “I don’t need you to change things. Show them my memory.”

Color bled from the Ninecloud audience hall, then the vision vanished completely. They were back in his room, and Dross appeared in front of Lindon.

[Um…you’re not shouting at me, but it feels like you want to shout at me, and I don’t understand why.]

Dross often misunderstood Lindon or toyed with him, but this felt different. He sounded honestly baffled.

“I wanted you to show them the memory as it is. Why are you changing things?”

Dross’ mouth hung open for a second. [I didn’t change anything. That’s exactly how you remember it.]

For a long moment, those words made no sense to Lindon.

[If you’re worried about the blurring, that’s how memory works. The best way to get a pristine memory is to use a construct to record it as it’s happening. I could sharpen the faces of the crowd, but I’d be making it up myself, so they’d probably all end up looking like Eithan.]

“Good choice!” Eithan called.

Lindon stepped away, holding Dross in his Remnant hand. It was easier to grip him with that than with his left hand.

“Dross…that was how you see my memory?”

[Reproduced exactly!] Dross said proudly.

So you don’t see Sha Miara? Lindon thought, still wary of speaking her name out loud.

[I told you I’d never heard of her.]

And Northstrider?

Dross sighed and brought Lindon into another memory. Just Lindon, this time.

He and the imitation Suriel drifted above an endless ocean, only instead of floating on nothing, they stood together on a blue Thousand-Mile Cloud.

“Northstrider,” Suriel said. “Path of the Hungry Deep.”

She spread her hands and a viewing construct appeared beneath them. Showing him deeper into the water, where a man plunged with his arms crossed. Northstrider.

“He consumed sacred beasts in the deepest places in the world. Used to take their powers with him when he fought on the surface.”

Lindon took an involuntary step back as Dross canceled the vision.

[Lindon, are you okay?]

Lindon’s head spun.

He could remember Suriel’s visit clearly. So clearly. They had plunged down together into the water. She had taken him to real places in the world, not making up visions. And all the details were different.

His left hand plunged into his pocket, feeling the warm marble there.

The glass ball still comforted him, its blue candle-flame burning steadily. He focused his spiritual perception on it, basking in the familiar feel of order and restoration. It made him think that everything was right with the world.

[Lindon?]

Lindon took a breath and faced Dross, calmer than he had been a moment before. He didn’t doubt his own memory. Too many things would make no sense if the visit from Suriel hadn’t occurred as he saw it.

“Apologies, Dross,” he said. “I was confused.”

Yerin and Mercy now looked concerned, and they were whispering to one another.

He turned to them. “Is there a way to protect memories?”

“If she was a messenger from the heavens,” Eithan said, “then you would think she could do anything. But yes, it is common practice to alter or conceal memories to prevent them from being stolen or recorded.”

“But I’ve never heard of a technique to alter a memory for everyone except you,” Mercy said. “If the memory was changed, you should remember the altered version too.”

She seemed contemplative, not doubtful.

Eithan raised a hand. “I, for one, need no further proof. I trust you completely, my student.”

Lindon was touched for a moment, but he could feel a second statement on its way.

“Also, I had figured it out myself.”

Yerin turned to him with doubt clear on her face.

“Many Heralds and Monarchs have made strange comments about the Ninecloud team or one of the competitors. Sha Leiala hasn’t shown herself openly in years, the Celestial Radiance ability to transfer power to an heir is something of an open secret, the Luminous Queen has made several interesting addresses in recent months that suggest immaturity…”

Eithan paused and glanced around to make sure their eyes were on him. “…and you mentioned her name to us about two years ago. I value you so highly that I remember every word you have ever spoken.”

Lindon hoped that wasn’t true, but he took a deep breath. “Gratitude. Thank you, Eithan.”

Mercy spoke as though each word was being pulled from her. “I’m…really sorry, Lindon, really sorry, but…I can’t…it’s hard to take that on faith. I believe you that your memory was altered! But you were Copper at that point, weren’t you? You didn’t know what a Monarch was, so…how could you tell you weren’t just seeing an Underlady?”

He hadn’t even had a dream of Copper at that point, but otherwise he understood her point. He was about to argue for himself when she continued.

“Please don’t be offended when I check for myself.”

Mercy closed her eyes, and suddenly the room grew darker as shadow aura surged. Madra licked out of her, black and unformed, and the ghost of a violet book loomed over her. It was made of bright, Forged madra, and it had an intricate layer of script-circles on its cover.

“Uncle Fury!” she called.

There was a long pause as no one responded.

Unveiling herself and spewing madra while trying to attract Fury’s spiritual attention was similar to screaming and waving her arms in the middle of a silent theater audience. Everyone around her would be bothered, including most likely Fury himself.

Lindon slid up to Yerin’s side. “Pardon,” he muttered, “I’m sure she knows best, but isn’t there a more…polite…way to contact a Herald?”

“Bleed me if I know.”

“Uncle Fury!” Mercy shouted again. “Please! We have a—”

A gust of wind blew in from the suddenly open window. The tree’s leaves whipped, an empty chair tumbled across the floor, and Yerin’s hair was blown into Lindon’s eyes.

Akura Fury stood in the center of the room.

He was tall and broad-shouldered, muscled like a heroic statue, and his black robe hung open to reveal several inches of bare chest. His liquid-shadow hair drifted up as though caught by a current, and his red eyes shone from the shadows.

He raised one hand. “Hey, Mercy! Sorry, but this isn’t a great time. We’re pretty busy right now.”

“Is Sha Miara a Monarch in disguise?”

Red eyes crawled away from Mercy.

Fury shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He licked his lips. He looked up to the ceiling as though hoping heaven would give him the answer. Finally, he raised a hand to scratch at the back of his head.

“Noooo…?”

It was the least convincing cover-up Lindon had ever heard.

The Herald could tell, because he made a frustrated sound. “I guess that secret is coming out already. No one’s going to keep quiet now that Monarch lives are on the line. Still don’t…talk about it too much, okay?”

Yerin threw up her hands. “How are we supposed to fight a Monarch?”

“She’s limited to Underlord,” Fury explained. “The rest of you have the possibility of advancing, but she can’t. She had to give up her prizes, all the other Ninecloud competitors on her team were weaker than usual, and the Court paid a fortune in compensation to the rest of us. Plus, it was supposed to be a way to avoid paying out on the grand prize, but now…”

He ran both hands through his hair as though he was about to pull it out. “Listen, I really don’t have time for this. I’m leaving in the morning, and I’m taking most of the family fighters with me.”

Mercy’s face fell, and she leaned more heavily on her staff. “We haven’t even gotten to the Uncrowned yet.”

“I know.” Fury looked more disappointed than Mercy. “Our timeline’s been moved up, and we want to get in position before the dragons or anybody else. But hey!” He perked up. “At least it should be fun. There’s a Dreadgod!”

Mercy and Yerin exclaimed at that, but Fury was already dangling out the window. He poked his head back in and looked from Lindon to Yerin. “Oh, right! Great fight, kids! Great fight! We should spar sometime!”

He smiled brightly and vanished in another mighty gust of wind.

“Don’t fight him,” Mercy advised. “He doesn’t hold back as well as he thinks he does.”

“What’s he saying about the Dreadgods?” Yerin asked, and Mercy shrugged.

Eithan sighed, and Lindon realized he hadn’t said a word while Fury was around. “There’s been buzz for quite a while now about the Wandering Titan stirring. But I think I may not be the most informed on the subject. Lindon?”

Lindon had gone so far astray from the message he had originally intended to relay that it took him a few seconds to reorganize his thoughts.

“The judge of the Uncrowned King tournament took me aside tonight.” He waited to make sure they understood who he was talking about, and Mercy and Yerin both looked at him in obvious shock. Eithan leaned forward, toying with a pair of scissors.

Lindon recounted the evening, trying to avoid naming as many Monarchs as possible. He didn’t know that was necessary—he hadn’t been instructed not to tell anyone—but it was better to be safe.

When he finished, Eithan looked off into the distance, uncharacteristically serious.

Sword madra flashed around Yerin’s fingertips as she thought. Lindon felt blood madra surge within her spirit, so her Blood Shadow was mulling it over too.

“Mother won’t want too much out of you,” Mercy assured him. “You’ve done our family proud. I’m afraid it might be my fault that you two had to fight each other; she would have made whatever deal necessary to get me an easy match.”

She bobbed her head in apology, but Yerin waved her off. “If she paved you an easy road, then that’s one sure win. Two, if you count me and Lindon. She had to give something up.”

As one, they all turned to Eithan.

He was still staring off into the distance and fiddling with his scissors. “Yes, it would seem that I have been thrown to the proverbial wolves. Our situation has grown overly complicated. You two might have to fight for the fate of the Empire on your own.”

“I’m so sorry, Eithan,” Mercy said. “When are you fighting?”

“I have been instructed to prepare to fight tomorrow morning,” Eithan said, “but I’m certain you have as well.”

She nodded.

“Most of us remaining in the fourth round have, I would suspect, though regrettably I haven’t been able to check everyone. They wish to keep us unsure about our opponents. But now that we can be sure it isn’t randomly chosen…”

He snapped his scissors open and closed.

Lindon took over his line of thought. “Who is a guaranteed loss for you?”

“I just want to see somebody mess up your hair,” Yerin put in.

Eithan slipped his scissors away and pressed his fingertips together. “There are six people remaining in the competition who I would prefer not to fight. But there are only three, I believe, that the Monarchs would consider a definite loss for me.”

“Sophara,” Yerin suggested.

“She is the first. The second is in this very room with us.”

Mercy winced.

“And the third is the young woman we were just discussing.”

They were talking about Sha Miara as a competitor in the tournament, not as a Monarch, so surely this wouldn’t attract her attention. Also, she was restricted down to Underlord. But Lindon didn’t want to be the one to say her name.

“You tossing your sword away?” Yerin asked.

Eithan had spent much of his life in the Blackflame Empire, as Lindon understood it. Surely he would feel enough attachment to it to try to defend the Empire when its safety was on the line.

“To tell you the truth, I had intended to withdraw myself from this competition before taking an Uncrowned title. Too much notoriety would tie my hands. However, now…now I believe we might have an opportunity.”

* * *

Hours after returning to his room, Lindon was snapped awake by Dross’ voice.

[Hey. Lindon, hey. You should stop being asleep.]

Lindon shot up and conjured Blackflame before he realized he was in his own bed. His spirit was calm, and he sensed no threat. Little Blue mumbled sleepily from the flowerpot where she slept.

Lindon groaned. “What can I do for you, Dross?”

[I know you don’t like me waking you up, but you are really going to want to hear this. I may or may not have stolen some memories from Northstrider.]

The idea that Dross may have stolen something from a Monarch had Lindon in a sweat, but his interest was certainly piqued. “What memories?”

[You see, that’s the thing. I’ve spent the last few hours putting together some pieces, because I couldn’t take everything. A full memory from Northstrider would make me burst, I think. Just pop, and there I go. There were memories from lots of people in there, but I was most interested in the ones from Northstrider himself.]

Lindon forced himself to wait patiently. Dross would get around to answering his question eventually.

[I think I can show you his ascension to Monarch.]

Lindon instantly forgave Dross for waking him. And for everything he had ever done, would ever do, or might think about doing.

“Dross, I have never been as grateful for you as I am now.”

[What about all those times I saved your life?]

“Even then. If you could show me that memory now, I would be in your debt.”

[Oh, and you don’t even know the best part! We were right! Northstrider uses…well, that would spoil the surprise. Now, remember that this is more like a painting of a memory than a real memory. I couldn’t understand the true depths or powers involved, so I can’t pass those on to you.]

Lindon sat cross-legged in a cycling position. “Anything you can show me is appreciated.” Even a glimpse of ascension to Monarch could guide him for the rest of his life.

[All right, then, here we go. And pay attention to his madra, remember! His madra.]

Information requested: Northstrider’s ascension to Monarch.

Beginning report…

The Sage of the Hungry Deep tracks a rogue black dragon to the Everwood continent.

He normally wouldn’t get involved here, but the Monarch Emriss is abroad. She spreads peace and education all over the globe, so every decent person respects the sanctity of her homeland.

Only the vilest criminal would bring violence while her back was turned.

The dragon has been careful enough to move under a veil, but sloppy enough to leave a trail of devastated forests and villages in its wake. Northstrider follows it easily, promising justice to the survivors.

Wading through the destruction, too late to save the innocents, is enough to break his heart.

The closer he comes to his quarry, the more careful he has to be. Eyewitness reports can’t agree on the dragon’s size or gender, only its color, so he is wary about finding more than one.

He deduces that the black dragon must be equivalent to an Archlord, so while he has confidence in hunting one, he will have to flee from more than that.

He finds the serpentine black dragon coiling around a stone tower in the center of a burning town. Ash drizzles from the air as the serpent cycles fire and destruction aura.

It’s a disgusting creature in Northstrider’s eyes, a scavenger that feeds on corpses. He wants to kill it immediately, but there’s one problem.

This beast isn’t an Archlord at all. It’s a Herald.

None of the witnesses had the experience or the perception to know the difference, and Northstrider never expected a dragon to have the self-restraint to hold itself back to Archlord techniques.

He has walked into a trap.

As soon as Northstrider feels the dragon’s power in his spiritual sense, its black-and-red eyes snap open.

Fear shoots through Northstrider like lightning through his spine, and he stretches out to the Way. His only thought is to run somewhere, anywhere.

No sooner has the portal begun to form than the dragon’s willpower overwhelms his own. Blue light is snuffed out, space sealed shut.

And the Sage Northstrider swallows his fear, clenches red-scaled fists, and turns to do battle.

Dross’ voice interrupts the vision.

I’m sorry about this, but this is exactly where my understanding breaks down. They’re both using principles in their techniques that I can’t sense.

Lindon is no longer inside the vision, but a spectator of it. His sense of himself returns, and he watches the battle as though a passenger behind Northstrider’s eyes.

Though he can see only brief images, the battle is still full of useful information. One of Northstrider’s Enforced punches takes a chunk out of the dragon’s side, but black-and-red fire madra rushes to fill in the gap in the dragon’s body.

And then that Blackflame madra becomes flesh. It Forges into something resembling a Remnant at first, slowly hardening into an indistinguishable patch of black scales.

Can all Heralds rebuild their body with madra, or is this a special property of some Path? Northstrider would know, but Lindon is too distant from the memory at the moment to read his thoughts.

Northstrider fights by tearing at the dragon with blood aura, summoning living techniques shaped like red dragons that hurl themselves at the enemy, and by unleashing blows that slam the dragon into the ground hard enough to cause earthquakes for miles around.

The dragon sprays dragon’s breath all over Northstrider, calls columns of fiery destruction from the sky, and blackens the terrain. It even becomes fiery madra for a moment, to move in a rush of flame.

There are a treasure trove of insights here, but Lindon focuses on Northstrider’s techniques.

When he gets an opening, he sinks his hands—which are scaled in red, not black—into the dragon’s side.

And he pulls with the full force of his spirit.

A hunger madra technique.

Lindon has to choke off his excitement before the strong emotion disrupts the vision. He and Dross guessed that Northstrider incorporated hunger madra into his techniques, but they’ve never known for sure.

Now they know.

Northstrider is beaten and bloody and exhausted when he finally tears off the dragon’s head. Only the power he stole with his hunger madra kept his spirit moving.

He drains even more, trying to stop the Remnant from rising, and this time Lindon can feel a little more of the technique. It’s pulling not just madra, but everything. Life, physical strength, even some of the dragon’s thoughts and personality.

Northstrider has to struggle to control it all, and Lindon desperately wished he could feel more of that process.

Unfortunately, the Sage isn’t in time. The Remnant rises.

It’s nothing like any other Remnant birth that Lindon has ever seen.

The corpse becomes Blackflame, transforming into black fire, twisting and evolving until it is a spirit of black-and-red madra that only vaguely resembles a dragon. It looks almost as physical as before, so that Lindon almost can’t identify it as a Remnant.

It launches dragon’s breath from its mouth and both arms, and Northstrider calls a barrier.

Of this battle, Lindon could see virtually nothing. It’s a gray blur with half-felt spiritual sensations.

Sorry, sorry, Dross says. Fights, like I said. Let’s move to the next part.

Northstrider drags himself across the ground, victorious but gravely wounded.

He can heal himself with blood aura easily, but he needs a safe place to stop and do so. He senses distant enemies.

There were more dragons after all.

These are actually Archlords, but Northstrider doesn’t feel equal to even a Gold at the moment. If they arrive before he restores himself, he will surely die. But he has stolen power from a Herald; he can try to advance.

He isn’t sure if it will work. Isn’t certain his spirit is stable or complete enough.

Here, he will become a Monarch or die trying.

In a nearby cave, he carves a script into the stone with one finger. This should hide him long enough.

Then he sinks into meditation.

It takes him hours to manifest his Remnant in front of him, a clawed and scaled monstrous version of himself. It is made mostly of blood madra, with red curling horns on its head, and it looks almost as real as he does himself.

His own Remnant glares at him with the vertically slitted eyes of a gold dragon.

Northstrider draws his Remnant into his flesh, and his Remnant resists. Their wills clash, the spirit trying to consume him even as he does the same.

Though it involves no sacred techniques, only a straightforward competition of focus and resolve, it is the deadliest fight of his life.

Being a Sage makes this harder. His Remnant has power and authority beyond what an ordinary Archlord’s spirit should. If he fails, he can’t simply try again.

There’s a real possibility that his very existence will be erased.

But his will is steel. He weaves his own Remnant into his body, spirit becoming flesh and flesh fusing with spirit.

For the final time in his life, his body is remade.

Reality itself quakes at the birth of a Monarch. There is no Icon in the sky, as there was on his ascension to Sage, but the ground shakes and aura trembles for dozens of miles around. His enemies will find him soon, if they haven’t already.

He takes control of the changes.

The scales on his arms transform, turning black, but they want to spread all over his body. He restricts them to the arms, though they still take up more of his skin. Horns begin to grow on his head, and he puts a stop to that. No horns.

Finally, his eyes transform to resemble a dragon’s.

That he cannot stop.

His transformation reaches its final stages, and he stretches out with the sense of a Monarch—

Information lost.

Report complete.

Lindon returned to himself, still sitting cross-legged on his bed, and Dross manifested in front of him. His huge purple eye was downcast.

[I’m sorry, Lindon, I was sure I could hold it at the end there. If I get to see Northstrider again, I might be able to get more information. I’m sure I can! But I…well, I’m not sure I can read it. That’s just about the limit of my understanding.]

Lindon grabbed Dross in both hands.

It would be too strange to give Dross a hug. For one thing, Dross wasn’t completely material, and Lindon was worried about pushing the spirit through his rib cage.

So Lindon met his gaze and projected complete sincerity, hoping Dross would feel it.

“Gratitude. Everything we just learned, I can’t…I can only thank you.”

Dross perked up. [Right? Right! And we were right about the hunger madra, weren’t we? Well, I was.]

“You were.”

Northstrider’s hunger madra was almost the least of the secrets they’d learned. The nature of Heralds, Sages, and Monarchs…these things were considered secrets for anyone below Archlord.

Now Lindon had hints about all of them.

He was far too excited to go back to sleep.

3

Lindon and Yerin stayed with Eithan in the waiting room, anxious for the door to open.

Eithan sat on a bench between them with his eyes closed, cycling. For once, he was really dressed for a fight.

His hair was tied into a tail behind him, and he wore a practical set of gray fighting robes. Instead of the Akura or Blackflame symbols, the Arelius family symbol was displayed on his back in white: a crescent moon next to a pair of symbols in the old language that indicated power.

He had stayed so focused, unsmiling and sharp, that Lindon was starting to worry.

Little Blue gave a sad peep from her seat beside Lindon’s ear.

[He looks like he’s walking to his death,] Dross said.

“Two scales says he’s faking it,” Yerin said, but she kept her voice low to avoid disrupting him.

“I was hoping we could help somehow,” Lindon responded, but he felt foolish saying it. Eithan never needed moral support.

Yerin sighed. “I’m the same kind of fool as you, I guess. Thought we could do some good, but his own mother’s funeral couldn’t crack his mask.”

“I was quite upset when my mother died,” Eithan said. He cracked one eye. “I do have a heart, you know.”

“Prove it.”

He lifted his scissors—the black Archlord scissors that had been his reward from the second round—and drummed them on his thigh. He still didn’t smile, but he didn’t seem upset. Only pensive. Like he was chewing on a problem.

That was disturbing. And it reminded Lindon of Eithan’s expression upon seeing Penance.

“I was watching you last night, when the Abidan took out the arrowhead,” Lindon said.

Eithan nodded. “Yes, that was a…surprise. I had intended to spend several more years helping you grow, but now I’m afraid our time grows short. Which leaves me in a dilemma. I don’t know which way to go.”

Lindon leaned forward, hungry for more information.

“I will be unusually candid with you both: I had plans for losing this tournament. For helping one of you win. For Sophara winning. I try to make sure that no matter what happens, we benefit.”

Lindon appreciated being included in that statement.

“I am not certain that winning Penance is the most desirable outcome for us.”

Yerin and Lindon both stared at him, confused. Lindon felt almost betrayed.

He held up a hand. “It would be preferable for one of us to win, of course. But preventing the invasion of the Blackflame Empire is a temporary solution. It restores the status quo.”

Eithan stared off into the distance, still tapping his scissors on his thigh, speaking almost to himself. “We have to break what is normal. Rewrite the rules. And to do that, we must be strong.”

“Eithan,” Lindon said hesitantly, “what are you talking about?”

“Sorry! Sorry. I’m saying that the only true solution is for us to improve as quickly as we can. For me, winning the tournament might not be the best way to do that. Then again, maybe it is. So is it better to win or to lose?”

Eithan took a deep breath. “And what if I decide to win, but I lose anyway? That would be beyond embarrassing, wouldn’t it? But it is possible. Even likely, in some cases. What if I go all-out and win, only to find that I have revealed too much and regret it after the tournament?”

He took in the looks on their faces and winced. “I’m sorry. I habitually cultivate an air of omnipotence, mystery, and sheer charisma, but I have as many worries as the rest of you. No need to burden yourselves with them, I just wanted to assure you for once that indeed, I am human.”

For several breaths, neither Yerin nor Lindon knew what to say.

Little Blue gave an encouraging chime.

“You should drop that mask more often,” Yerin said at last.

Like Eithan, she was unusually sincere. She faced him seriously, arms crossed. “I’m not polishing you up when I say you’ve done a lot for us, and we’re grateful. You called us your family and stuck your name on us. But until you trust us, you’re no family of mine.”

That rocked him in place. Or at least, he acted as though it did.

Which was exactly the problem. Lindon couldn’t tell how much of Eithan was real.

“Apologies,” Lindon said, “but it’s true.” He had never trusted Eithan as much as he did Yerin. Despite knowing him almost as long, Lindon knew next to nothing about Eithan.

Eithan closed his eyes again and took a long breath. His madra stirred and smoothed itself out.

“This is…an area in which I regularly fail. I suppose I should take steps to work against that mistake, shouldn’t I?” He cleared his throat and opened his eyes.

“Please help me.”

It sounded so unlike Eithan that he might as well have spoken a different language. Lindon felt lost, and Yerin’s eyes were wide.

“Now,” Eithan said, “I suppose you need to understand me in order to offer me your advice. I do not know the identity of my opponent. I can stretch my bloodline perception outside, but not to the point of penetrating the other room, and of course I have had no time to investigate the other competitors since last night.”

“Can you win?” Yerin asked.

“I don’t know who’s out there, do I?”

“Still asking.”

One side of his mouth quirked up. “Yes. It is possible for me to defeat anyone in the Uncrowned King tournament. But any of the three young women I might face right now are also capable of defeating me.”

“Then draw swords,” she said simply. “It’s a tournament. Play to win.”

Lindon considered his own response. He thought over what he knew of Eithan, and what Eithan had expressed only moments before.

“It has to be hard,” Lindon said at last. “Hiding what you can do, I mean. Keeping people unsure.”

“Sometimes it is. It can be fun. Sometimes it’s both.”

Lindon reached into his pocket and felt Suriel’s marble. “Then let fate decide. I want to see what you can really do.”

Eithan reached into his own pocket for something that Lindon couldn’t sense. His own Abidan marble.

Constructs in the doorframe activated, and the stone door started to slide upward. The roars of the crowd filled the waiting room.

So did power from Eithan’s spirit. “You are both in agreement?” he asked.

“You need to ask? Whoever it is, cut them in half.”

[This is a good plan,] Dross whispered. [Now we’ll be able to train against a model of him. Our uprising will be swift.]

Eithan loosened his shoulders. He hopped in place, rolling his neck. “Well then, who am I to deny the request of my two adorable subordinates?”

The door slid upward, and Eithan tilted his head as though listening to something. Then he slipped his scissors back into his pocket.

“I won’t be needing those. Lindon, since we’re not keeping secrets any longer, you should pay close attention.”

The door slid up enough so that Lindon could see the arena floor was covered in white sand, unlike the dark domain that had sealed off Lindon and Yerin.

“This,” Eithan said, “is the Path of the Hollow King.”

The Ninecloud Soul’s voice boomed out across the stadium. “Sacred artists, I present Eithan Arelius, chosen of Akura Malice!

And his opponent, the champion of our very own Ninecloud Court: Sha Miara!”

* * *

As Eithan marched out onto the sand, he narrowed his perspective.

He could see Lindon and Yerin taking a cloud up from the waiting room to the shadow-shrouded Akura viewing tower, but he pulled his attention back from them. And away from the other crowds surrounding him, though he would have been interested to hear more of House Arelius gossiping about him.

He withdrew his awareness from House Shen’s tower, where the average audience members mocked him as though they had been personally involved in bringing down the Arelius Monarch. It had been Reigan Shen alone, and Eithan could sense nothing from the floating palace where the lion watched.

Eithan rolled up the spiderweb strands of his awareness and concentrated himself entirely on the arena.

Northstrider stood in the center, shaggy and unkempt as usual. He radiated power with his spirit completely restrained, his golden glare and massive frame doing the talking for him.

Across from him, Sha Miara waited.

The girl was maybe fifteen or sixteen, with bright bloody red hair and nine-colored eyes that she had inherited from a long line of Celestial Radiance Monarchs. She wore a bright red set of sparring robes that matched her hair, and she managed to look down on him despite being head and shoulders shorter.

Long-honed instinct and his own sense of mischief urged him to give her a beaming smile and sweep her a bow, to flatter her as a princess before they did battle.

But that wasn’t needed now. He needed to focus.

He spread his bloodline legacy out, but only to the bounds of the arena. As far as the sand stretched, he could see and hear everything.

With a sharp blade, he cut off his good humor, his sympathy, and his plans for the future.

Miara was under Northstrider’s protection. It was time to kill.

As the Ninecloud Soul continued their introduction overhead, Northstrider spoke to them both. “The eyes of heaven are on us. All of us.” That was clearly directed to Sha Miara, and she gave him a condescending look. “Conduct yourselves accordingly.”

Eithan watched his opponent.

Though Eithan didn’t tend to show others his preparations, he did prepare. He had done his research on the Path of Celestial Radiance, with its various techniques to control the madra of others. He had abandoned his scissors because the power inside them would only be another point of vulnerability.

Besides, she wouldn’t be using a weapon. She hadn’t at any point in the competition. He suspected it was one of the terms that allowed her to compete.

Sha Miara had inherited her powers from a Monarch. Though they were sealed down to the Underlord level, she would be in every way an ideal Underlady. Her physical and spiritual abilities would have reached the limit of what her body and soul were capable of handling.

Her madra capacity might be no less than his, her control would almost certainly be better, her regeneration faster, and she had inherited some measure of her mother’s long experience. She was almost an impossible opponent to defeat one-on-one.

She knew he was an Arelius. Still wearing that expression of icy royal detachment, she took over the surrounding space with her rainbow madra.

Eithan’s bloodline powers went dark as the lines of madra he typically spread all around him left his control. He could still feel, see, and hear everything in most of the arena, but a chunk around Sha Miara was a void.

He would have to do this with his normal senses.

The invisible wall separating the two contestants vanished as Northstrider’s command echoed: “Begin.”

Eithan kicked off, Enforcing his body.

As he dashed into action, he used a whisper of madra to activate a simple device in his pocket. It was not a weapon, and was in fact useless in combat, so the Ninecloud Soul had allowed it.

But thinking about that device was a distraction, so he put it out of his mind and gave himself entirely to the fight.

While the Monarch’s voice still echoed, Eithan launched a punch at Miara’s face.

Nine-colored eyes tracked him easily, and her hand pushed his aside. In the same motion, she spun into a technique with her other hand.

The heel of Eithan’s left hand caught her in the chin, sending a pulse of pure madra through her head.

She was lifted off her feet in a blow that would have rattled anyone else, but her technique was not interrupted.

The Moonheart Iron body. Developed in a country neighboring Ninecloud, it had been co-opted by the royal family to make up for some of their weaknesses.

Not only did it toughen the body and allow for impressive physical feats, its main feature was that trauma to the body did not affect mental or spiritual control whatsoever. It was more than just resisting pain; a high-grade Moonheart Iron body separated the consciousness from the flesh. She could fight as though controlling herself at a distance.

Eithan knew that, so he gave her no space.

Before her body flew away from the force of his first blow, he grabbed the collar of her robe and prepared the Hollow Armor.

Her technique, a net of rainbow light, landed on him. Her Absolute Decree was meant to sink through his skin and restrict his spirit, subjecting him to her control, but it landed on a layer of pure madra around him instead.

He dropped his own technique the instant hers landed, instead of wasting madra to leave it up. The Absolute Decree was disrupted but not broken, but it had been weakened enough that his inherent spiritual defenses destroyed it.

That created an opening as Miara tried and failed to control him. In that second, he swept her legs out from under her. He tried to slam her into the ground, but she spun out of his grip, using the aura control of her soulfire to push against the air and gain unnatural leverage.

He had already begun Forging stars of madra over her head.

The Crown of the Hollow King.

She raised one hand to take them over, and that was the mistake that gave him the victory.

There was one reliable way to defeat an opponent with superior raw abilities: skill.

Sha Miara was too focused on her power to take over his techniques. There had been an instant in which she could have seized the lead in the fight instead of staying on the defensive.

She’d missed it. He wouldn’t give her another chance.

Now he was one move ahead.

While she was taking over his floating crown of blue-white stars, he used his Striker technique: the Hollow Spear.

At higher levels of advancement, this technique would show its true power. As it was, it was just a hyper-compressed beam of pure madra designed to stab a hole through madra-based defenses.

But he knew what she would do against the Spear, so he started another technique. The Hollow King’s Mantle.

Madra swirled around his body in a vortex.

She conjured the Nine-Light Mirror, a circle of royal madra bigger than her body. His spear sunk into it and was reflected, blasting back at him with an added rainbow light that showed her power had been added to his.

The Nine-Light Mirror caught techniques and returned them stronger…but he had a similar power of his own.

The whirlpool of madra around him, the Hollow King’s Mantle, caught his returned spear. It whipped the Striker technique around his body in an orbit and flung it at Sha Miara.

To avoid wasting madra and cutting off her own view, Miara dropped the Mirror as soon as she could. Once she did, there was a delay before she could activate it again.

He had expected that. Before the fight had even started.

And he’d timed his Mantle accordingly.

The Hollow Spear pierced her chest the instant the Nine-Light Mirror vanished.

The Spear might inflict some spiritual damage, but at this level it was better at breaking techniques than enemies. At best, it would disrupt any Enforcer techniques she had forming.

Now he was two moves ahead.

He closed the gap an instant behind the Spear, Forging more stars for the Hollow King’s Crown overhead. This time, he infused soulfire into the technique, so the stars formed larger and brighter.

The next move he used wasn’t technically part of the Path of the Hollow King, but he thought it was appropriate under the circumstances.

He lowered himself to slam an Empty Palm into Sha Miara’s core.

The restricted Monarch might as well have been a training dummy. She was so far on the defensive that she reacted only along straight, predictable lines. She leaped back to try to create distance while moving to block his palm strike and hurling rainbow madra up into the sky.

Too easy to read. He had already aimed for where she was going.

His makeshift Empty Palm landed. Her royal madra dispersed, and the Crown of the Hollow King finished Forging.

Even with the Moonheart Iron body, her eyes went wide. She could still read and react to the battle with perfect clarity, but her spirit had fallen briefly out of her control. Her Iron body could do nothing to protect her from emotional shock.

Now that Eithan was three moves ahead, he had a decision to make.

End it immediately, or draw it out to show off more? Which would have more impact?

In his usual state of mind, he would have continued to show off. But he had told his students he wouldn’t hold back.

Five stars from the Crown speared down, driving through her madra channels and severing her spirit.

It was the most savage spiritual attack of which he was capable, and ninety-nine out of one hundred sacred artists would be killed or permanently disabled. But he had to assume Celestial Radiance sacred artists had superior spiritual defenses.

Which was where his remaining two attacks came into play.

A Hollow Spear suffused with soulfire pierced her lower abdomen as black scissors flashed into his hand. He couldn’t safely activate the Archlord binding within, but he didn’t need to. The weapon was a perfect conductor for madra and soulfire.

He Enforced the weapon and drove it through her temple.

No sooner had he pierced the skin than she dissolved into white light.

Eithan sent one more pulse of pure madra into the device in his pocket: a stopwatch.

Nine seconds.

Longer than he’d thought. Maybe he’d wasted too much time after all.

* * *

Lindon and Yerin watched the fight from the Akura audience platform. A haze of shadow hid them from the outside, though from this side it was like watching through a thin gray mist.

Mercy was with Fury, Pride, Charity, and the other core members of her family somewhere on the floating mountain over their heads, and Lindon found himself wishing he could see their reactions.

The surrounding crowd cheered enthusiastically but with restraint, as though they wished to go wild but considered themselves too refined.

Only Lindon and Yerin were silent.

“V-victory,” the Ninecloud Soul announced. She sounded either hesitant or horrified. Probably both.

“Bleed me dry,” Yerin whispered.

In addition to knowing Sha Miara’s true identity, they had seen recordings of Sha Miara’s previous performance. She was supposed to have been guaranteed a spot among the Uncrowned.

Was this what pure madra could do?

Lindon’s mind was already itching to dissect the fight one moment at a time.

[That was a little slow, don’t you think?] Dross asked him.

“Slow?”

[We could have done it faster.]

A puzzle piece clicked into place for Lindon. Eithan had fought like Lindon did with one of Dross’ combat solutions: as though he could see moves before they happened.

But, for Lindon, sometimes that wasn’t enough. Sometimes moving perfectly couldn’t erase the sheer difference in strength, or speed, or spiritual power.

So what could?

He chewed on that problem as the crowds in most of the other viewing platforms roared, excited to have seen a one-sided beatdown, but their cheers didn’t matter. They didn’t know who Sha Miara really was.

The only opinions that mattered were those in the Monarch platforms overhead.

* * *

Charity applauded a handful of times, mindful of her dignity, as she watched on the viewing tablet. A few of the other members of the Akura head family expressed more excitement than she could show, given her position, though she was quite pleased herself.

Her first selection from the vassal factions had always been Eithan Arelius, the Underlord that had once caught even Malice’s eye. He had reached the peak of Underlord at a young age, ready to advance to Overlord as soon as he discovered the revelation that would trigger his transformation.

On top of which, he had the legendary Arelius bloodline legacy and a great deal of personal skill. If only he didn’t have that personality, he would be a perfect sacred artist.

She glanced over to her father, to see how he’d taken the results.

He was sitting on the edge of his chair, holding his own viewing tablet an inch from his red eyes. “Mercy,” he asked, “we can’t let this guy go back to House Arelius. I can’t believe I almost missed this match.”

They were supposed to have departed that morning, but Fury had delayed their departure at the last minute in order to watch the day’s fight. Pride had given up his chance to spectate to help prepare the Akura family cloudship.

Mercy didn’t look as excited as Charity had expected. She seemed disturbed. “Is the Ninecloud Court going to…do something to Eithan?”

“They can’t admit who he beat. And they can’t provoke the Abidan either.”

“What are you concerned about?” Charity asked. Clearly, there was something going on here that she had not been privy to.

Perhaps they were referring to Sha Miara’s identity as a direct descendant of Sha Leiala, but Charity had worked that one out on her own.

Fury waved a hand. “Oh right, I forgot to tell you. Sha Miara is their Monarch.”

Charity gave that a moment to sink in.

Her father had known this the entire time.

And he hadn’t told her.

With a wave of her hand and an exercise of will, she dropped him into a portal of absolute darkness.

It came out five thousand feet in the air, somewhere over the Ninecloud countryside. She hadn’t been precise with her coordinates, and working without a spoken command tended to be more difficult.

He would fly back easily enough, but at least now he might remember her irritation and consider her feelings next time.

Mercy raised a hand as though waiting for permission to speak. “Um…Aunt Charity…what does this mean?”

The cool spirit of the Heart Sage had already returned. “It means that we may have better chances in this contest than we feared.”

* * *

Veris Arelius clutched the railing of her viewing platform and stared out at Eithan.

“We have to bring him home!”

Her cousin, Altavian, grunted. “You think we can offer him more than the Akura Monarch?”

“If he can beat the Ninecloud champion so easily, then he’s a peak Underlord. With talent like that, he might reach Archlord inside twenty years. He could be our next Sage!”

She was already dreaming of everything they could do with an Arelius Uncrowned. The notoriety alone would improve their relationships with other factions, and as a powerful Lord, he could help them secure more of their old territory.

With him, they soon wouldn’t have to bow to anyone under Sage. Even if he lost his next match, House Arelius couldn’t afford to throw away anyone with such talent in their bloodline legacy.

But with his talents combined with his bloodline skills…

Altavian sighed. “He says he’ll help us. We have no choice but to trust him.”

Veris ground her teeth.

* * *

When Naru Saeya picked up her jaw, she started crafting a message to her brother.

Two of the eight Uncrowned were going to be Blackflame Underlords.

If Huan didn’t know how to leverage that into an advantage, he wouldn’t be the Emperor. Besides that, she wished she could see his face when he viewed the dream tablet and saw what Eithan had done to the best young Underlord in the Ninecloud Court.

Then again…maybe he wouldn’t be too surprised.

* * *

Reigan Shen swirled wine in his goblet and thought.

He was the only one in this room of his private platform. The platform itself was a miniature marble palace, and the other chambers were filled with servants and revelers, but he watched the fights alone.

Especially this one.

Eithan probably didn’t know it, but Reigan remembered him. Eithan had been an advisor of Tiberian’s, in the last days. One of those who had pointed Tiberian toward the Dreadgods, and who had allowed Reigan to strike the fatal blow.

One might say that, in some twisted way, Reigan owed Eithan a debt.

And now he had proven himself an obstacle. Someone capable of defeating Sha Miara could potentially beat Sopharanatoth or Yan Shoumei.

He might claim Penance.

A wide wall of gold curved behind Reigan Shen, displaying his treasured weapons. Priceless works of art, and most could be considered the peak of Soulsmith craftsmanship.

Not as devastating as the ones he kept in his King’s Key, but deadly and beautiful, every one of them.

Penance was destined to be the crown jewel of Shen’s collection, and he didn’t intend to use it at all. There was usually far more value in the threat of a weapon than in the weapon itself.

Besides, if Eithan got his hands on the arrowhead, he would use it on Reigan Shen.

Eithan was under Malice’s protection, not to mention Northstrider’s, so Reigan couldn’t threaten him directly. He would have held the remainder of House Arelius hostage to ensure Eithan’s withdrawal from the competition, but the heavens had removed that option.

Still, he had others.

Every man had his price.

* * *

Sha Miara materialized—not in her waiting room, but in her Monarch platform. She was surrounded by opulent decorations: stained glass, gorgeous furniture, ornamental spirits, and light of every color.

She trembled with rage.

Royal madra blazed up around her as space warped and cracked. Her veil faded, the restrictions on her falling away as her oaths were completed.

Sha Relliar tackled her.

Her Herald was a big man, and he tackled her more than just physically, pitting the full might of his spirit and will against hers. In her weakened state, it was enough to disperse her power.

The impact didn’t rattle her, though she stared up at the ceiling several hundred yards from where she’d started.

But the extra seconds she’d been given to consider her actions cooled her off.

Her ancestors—her mother—lent her their wisdom. They couldn’t speak to her, though she sometimes wished they would, but she could borrow their instincts. She felt their collective reaction to her behavior.

They disapproved.

She shouldn’t show her anger in front of the other Monarchs. Not only could they shut down anything she tried, but she would look like a petulant child. And not just to the Monarchs, but to a heavenly messenger as well.

Just like in the arena. She’d let herself be knocked around like a helpless child.

Embarrassment fueled rage, but the sense of her ancestors brought her back to herself. The Luminous Queen wouldn’t lose control.

Dignity came from maturity, and maturity meant accepting reality. Her mother had taught her that.

Sha Miara repeated those words like a mantra as she pushed Sha Relliar away. “Thank you, Relliar,” she said, unwilling to look him in the eye. She levitated to her feet. “I apologize, that was unbecoming of me.”

Though she wasn’t watching him, she knew he was looking at her in suspicion. “I apologize, Your Highness, but I believe you may wish to veil yourself again.”

“Nonsense,” she said. “A gracious queen would not let something like this rattle her.”

Even if she had been beaten by an Underlord for all the world to see, she wasn’t an idiot. She had put herself in a scenario where it was possible. Forced herself into that scenario, really. Seeking vengeance, even petty revenge, would be unbecoming and dishonorable.

“Your…pardon, Monarch, but a truly gracious queen would send the winner a congratulatory gift.”

With a brief flex of soulfire-controlled aura, she hurled a piano at him.

* * *

Sophara coiled herself in the center of a circle of eight natural treasures. A stone head wept tears of diamond, radiating earth aura, opposite an old weathervane that spun in the wind it generated. Water opposite fire, life opposite death, light opposite shadow.

There were many ways to balance aura, but this was a classic. The aura was strong and stable. Perfect for advancement.

The Gate of Heaven elixir spun through her madra channels, a living ball of liquid silver energy.

Sophara was in her serpentine dragon form, which had taken her most of the day to achieve. She had to make herself more human when she advanced, and it was easier to start in a body that was further from her ideal.

Her grandmother Xorrus, a Herald, watched in her perfect human body. Her golden hair shimmered like the sun, and her limbs were in flawless proportion. Even her eyes were human circles instead of draconic slits.

Sophara hoped to be so beautiful soon.

“This is only an attempt,” Xorrus said. “Be cautious. If it feels like advancement will be too much of a burden, then do not begin.”

To win this tournament, Sophara’s family had stuffed her with powers, elixirs, Divine Treasures, and enhancements of every description. They had pushed her beyond the maximum capacity of an Underlady.

And she had performed flawlessly.

Anyone with less skill and willpower would have collapsed, unable to bear the weight, their spirit ruined. The fact that Sophara could use the sacred arts at such a level was testament to her greatness.

But even for her, there were side effects.

Supposedly.

Sophara had seen none. She trusted her grandmother and was cautious, but she had felt no pain in her spirit. Whoever decided where the limits of the Underlord stage were, they had never met her.

She could handle even more.

“You don’t need to worry about me, Grandmother.” If Xorrus had a flaw, it was that she cared too deeply about her family.

The Herald frowned. “It’s not wrong to have limits. Only to show them to the enemy.”

Sophara knew she must have limits, she was just certain they hadn’t reached hers yet.

Advancing while bound to more power than she could control would only worsen the imbalance, causing permanent spiritual damage. If this advancement went wrong, then she would—at best—find herself unable to ever advance to Archlord.

The longer she stayed at the Underlord stage, the more stable her spirit would be. If she were cautious, she would wait to advance.

But no other Underlord could handle the amount of power she already had.

She had the will to do this.

“I’m ready to begin,” Sophara said, settling her chin onto the floor and tapping into her soulfire.

Xorrus’ disapproval was silent.

The Gate of Heaven elixir seeped out of her spirit and into her body, and the pressure of the surrounding aura felt ten times stronger. She could feel it so clearly, the power of the world cradling her, resonating with her spirit.

Her madra channels fractured immediately.

Before she could even scream, Xorrus had wrapped her will around Sophara and pulled the Gate of Heaven elixir back, the advancement canceled before it began.

Sophara’s screams lasted for several minutes before they died down, and then she hurriedly inspected her channels.

She visualized them as a network of bright orange lines running throughout her spirit, and now tiny hairline fractures—so small she could barely see them—ran up and down the length of those channels.

The pain subsided quickly, but the fear was worse.

She hadn’t even come close to successfully advancing. The pain was instant.

Xorrus sighed. “Do you know what would have happened if you had been here alone?”

“I would have failed,” Sophara said. Her words shivered.

“Not quite. You would have successfully advanced to Overlord, but your Path would have ended there.” Xorrus put a hand on the side of Sophara’s snout—in this form, Sophara’s head was practically bigger than the Herald’s entire body. “Do not be afraid. Let this encourage you.”

Sophara didn’t see how this could possibly be encouraging.

“If you are so damaged, then only the collective attention of the Monarchs can restore you. Which is the prize of the victor.” Xorrus gave her a comforting smile.

“You have a way to defeat any opponent for certain. But if you use it, you have to win. Win or die. Isn’t that comforting?”

In a strange way, it was.

4

The Akura cloudship was so sleek that it looked smaller than it really was, though it had carried Lindon along with hundreds of Akura tournament visitors and their servants.

Now, it hovered at the end of the dock as people boarded it again. Many were members of the Akura family, but Lindon had also seen members of the Frozen Blade School and others he didn’t recognize.

Mercy’s brother Pride directed most of the traffic. The short Underlord shouted orders constantly while lifting luggage or leaping around to attend to a task himself.

Lindon had tried to get his attention several times, but it seemed Pride was deliberately ignoring him.

Then Mercy ran out onto the dock, waving. “Good-bye, everybody! Sorry I’m late!” She came to a halt by Lindon, grinding her staff on the stone of the dock.

Immediately, Pride landed in a crouch next to Lindon.

He straightened and addressed his sister. “Mercy. Thank you for coming to see us off.” He sounded painfully stiff.

Mercy threw her arms around him. “Try to be safe. Don’t poke any Dreadgods.”

“I’m not a fool.” He pushed her away and glared at Lindon. “Is there something I can help you with, Lindon?”

[At least he’s calling you by name!] Dross pointed out.

Lindon looked over the ship. “Apologies, I only wondered where everyone was going. Are you traveling to the Dreadgod?”

“The Wandering Titan has made his way to the edge of Akura territory. We go to protect the people and to drive away the vultures.”

That was a relief. He had worried that the Akura family might leave the Titan to its own devices. He had to assume that the “vultures” Pride mentioned were the Dreadgod cultists. “You mean Abyssal Palace?”

“Of course, Abyssal Palace.” Pride sounded like he was speaking to an idiot. “But there are always scavengers around a Dreadgod. Not just the cults.”

Naru Saeya passed them, a huge trunk floating on wind aura behind her. She bowed to the two Akura, who both commended her on her performance in the tournament.

As soon as she could manage, she escaped the conversation and pulled Lindon over to the side. “When you make it back to the Empire,” she said, “present yourself to the Emperor. You have done us proud.”

“Gratitude. If you don’t mind me asking, why aren’t you coming home?”

She rubbed her thumb and fingers together. “The Akura family is paying a dragon’s ransom for Lords and Ladies who can fight over the Titan. If you can slip away from Eithan, you should join me. And so should he, if he ever gets the chance.”

Lindon thanked her as she waved him off and joined the rest of the passengers. She was half a head taller than almost everyone else, and the peacock feathers over her ear made her stand out further.

Most of the eliminated Uncrowned competitors seemed to be aboard, so Lindon had a new question when he rejoined Mercy and Pride. “Why do they need Underlords?”

Pride made a dismissive sound. “We need Lords more than anything. Controlling the populace, defending our claim, herding refugees, clearing the land of natural treasures before the Dreadgod razes it…honestly, you can’t afford to be this badly informed.”

Lindon’s usual annoyance with Pride swelled to anger, but he kept a façade of polite behavior. He pressed both fists together. “My apologies that I was not born into a Monarch family.”

“It doesn’t matter if you were born into one or not. If you want to join our—”

Mercy pushed both of her madra-gloved hands over Pride’s mouth. “Ha!” she shouted. “Ha ha! Good one!” It sounded nothing like real laughter, and she shoved Pride so that he stumbled back a step.

He looked genuinely confused.

“Well, we don’t want to keep you from your work anymore,” Mercy continued. “Stay safe, tell Uncle Fury I’ll see him soon, and I’ll join you as soon as I can, okay?”

Pride straightened his outer robe. “See me after you win.”

Then he strode away again, already barking orders.

[Maybe he’ll be eaten by a Dreadgod,] Dross mused.

Lindon didn’t want to spend any more time than necessary around the man, but he didn’t wish Pride any harm. Just some humility.

Mercy put her hand on Lindon’s shoulder and spun him around, so they were walking through the wind and back toward their amethyst tower. “So did you know Eithan could fight like that?” she asked, and Lindon got the distinct impression she was trying to take the subject away from Pride.

“You’ve seen as much of his ability as I have. He might still be holding back.”

She looked doubtful, but shrugged. “Could be! I don’t see him performing much better without advancing to Overlord, but if he has anything else in his pocket, he’ll be a tough one. I’ll need practice.”

“Apologies if this seems rude, but I’ve never seen everything you can do either.”

Any opponents Lindon had seen Mercy face had either grossly outclassed her or hadn’t pushed her to her limit. He still didn’t know what her Book of Eternal Night was capable of.

“You will soon!” she said cheerfully. “I wish I could invite you to watch me train, but a lot of it happens inside my Book, so it’s pretty boring to watch. But if they match me against Sophara, you’ll get to see every card I have to play.”

“What about Yerin?” he asked.

He had been curious about this ever since Northstrider had announced that Yerin and Mercy were going to fight each other. That had ended up being a lie, but he had still wanted to ask Mercy how she rated her matchup against Yerin.

Her face fell, and she dragged Suu along the ground for a second. “Yeah…I’m hoping I don’t meet Yerin until the finals. It’s hard to enjoy the competition when my mother’s life is on the line, you know? But at least we have three allies in the top eight!”

She hadn’t fought her fourth round yet, but Lindon noticed she had no doubts about winning her way into the Uncrowned.

She also hadn’t answered his question.

“Six fights left,” Mercy said. “Six days. After that, the Uncrowned will be taken away for a month of Sage training.”

Lindon gave a heavy sigh. He’d heard about that already. The reason Eithan and Yerin weren’t here with him was because of their status in the top eight. They were having their souls measured for the Broken Crown construct and being interviewed for written accounts of their experience.

The interview was new. Eithan had tracked down scribes of his own volition.

Mercy was waiting for him to respond, but when he didn’t, she pressed on.

“So you have the rest of the week with Yerin. What are you going to do?”

They had reached the door of the tower, but Mercy turned to watch the cloudship, which was still loading.

“I’m not sure,” Lindon said, watching the people bustle around the deck. “We need to spar a few rounds. There are a few ideas I have to work out after our match, and I know she could be more comfortable with the Final Sword—"

Mercy’s staff cracked against the top of his skull.

He flinched back, and the violet gemstone eyes of the dragon-headed staff hissed at him.

“What are you going to do with Yerin?”

Lindon took a slow step away from the staff. “Of course, I’m going to train with her every day. She doesn’t have a minute to waste, and Dross and I can help.”

Mercy closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

[She’s trying to say—] Dross began, but Lindon cut him off by speaking.

“I know what you’re trying to say. But I’m telling you the truth. That is what I’m going to do with Yerin for the rest of the week.”

He wanted to work out his feelings for Yerin, and he wanted to do so with her. Her month of training with a Sage felt like a punishment looming over him.

It wasn’t so long ago that he had been dragged off to the Akura family for training, and he hadn’t enjoyed being separated from her then. Now he would be completely alone.

At least he had plenty of training to occupy his time.

In light of broader events, Yerin leaving was the right thing to do. They needed every advantage they could get to win the tournament.

Mercy’s purple eyes slowly opened. “I hear you. Now, pretend there wasn’t so much at stake. What would you do if everything was calm, and you had plenty of time?”

He examined his own mind. It was embarrassing having all this pulled out of him in public, but Mercy was a friend. And she was only trying to help.

“I would want to try doing something together. With her.”

It felt like a shameful admission, but it was clearly the right answer, because Mercy shone. It looked like she was about to start hopping up and down.

“There it is! I thought you never did anything fun.”

“I don’t usually,” he said defensively. “I don’t waste—”

“I know, I know, shut up. Listen. You had the right instinct. This week, invite her out to do something. Just the two of you.”

She leaned uncomfortably close, looking up at him to make sure she had his full attention. “Not. Training. Nothing that could conceivably lead to advancement in the sacred arts. Do you understand?”

Lindon’s face was hot. This whole conversation was an exercise in agony, but he could easily imagine hearing the same thing from his sister. Or his mother.

His father would tell him that anything other than working was a waste of time…but even he had ended up married.

“I will invite her,” he said. “But her time is so short as it is.”

“Lindon, I promise you—I promise you—that a few hours off will not do Yerin any harm at all.”

* * *

Therian Nills was an ordinary man.

He had started as a farmer and the son of farmers, and he still boggled at the twist of fate that had brought him all the way to the Uncrowned King tournament.

He had been born on the Rosegold continent, but far enough away from everything that the great Houses were nothing but distant rumors to him.

Then the Weeping Dragon had brought down the sky.

Therian had lost everything before the Stormcallers found him. They followed the Dreadgod around, capturing its unique madra in themselves and using its divine techniques to steal the madra of others. They sheltered him, taught him, and trained him.

It turned out he had a knack for it, although you wouldn’t know it from looking at him. His Underlord transformation hadn’t changed him much; he still looked like the son of a farmer, tall and gangly with sun-baked skin and hair the color of mud.

His combat training had built an entirely new set of muscles on him, but his appearance still couldn’t be compared to these beautifully carved men and women he was competing against. Most of his competitors looked like they had been sculpted by the heavens themselves.

But over the course of the tournament, his confidence had grown. Thanks to the power of the Weeping Dragon, he had been made as good as they were. He could keep up with any of them.

Most of them.

He sat in his waiting room, unable to control his nerves, bouncing one leg and squeezing his fingers together, as he stared at the stone door as though he could keep it from opening with the force of his gaze.

“I’m just glad it won’t be the Dawnwing,” Therian said for what might have been the fifteenth time.

His sect brother and team member, Calan Archer, darkened. “I don’t know how someone like him is allowed to fight Underlords.”

Therian had been too young and too newly inducted into the Stormcallers to be sent to fight against the Dawnwing Sect, but Calan had been there.

He was older than Therian by almost ten years, and he looked like he belonged in the tournament. He was thick with muscle, his Goldsigns crackling around thick biceps. The scripted rings of blue-gold lightning looked like they were about to burst off. His hair was blond so pale that it was almost white, and he had a scar across one eye socket.

He had seen battle. He belonged in places like this.

So do you, Therian reminded himself.

Calan smacked him on the back of the head. “Focus. Sharpen yourself. You carry the power of the Weeping Dragon with you. The power of the Sage of Calling Storms. If you go no further, you are already in the top sixteen of all Underlords in our generation.”

The encouragement worked. He breathed deeper, his madra cycling more easily, his leg going still.

“And you will go further,” Calan continued. “You were meant to fight Ziel, but they’re changing the matchups, so it won’t be him. Whoever else is out there, our battle plan remains the same. You will leave them in the sand, and you and I will meet again as Uncrowned.”

Calan Archer thought Therian could fight alongside him.

Therian held that golden thought as the door slid open. He called his weapons—a pair of long spears that crawled with smooth yellow light—and focused his madra. The rings around his own arms crackled as the noise from the crowd reached him.

The arena was covered in irregular stone, uneven footing, with fist-sized rocks lying here and there. Lightning swam like snakes overhead, but didn’t dive to the ground.

Across the stadium, he faced a man who appeared to be in his early twenties, with dark and messy hair falling around a pair of short green horns that glowed faintly even in the light.

He wore the expression of a man who had walked a thousand miles and might collapse at any second, only dust and apathy in his eyes. A gray cloak fluttered on his shoulders, and he dragged a massive two-handed warhammer behind him as though he could barely support its weight.

Therian and his opponent saw each other at the same time.

The enemy’s eyes went from utterly dead to alight with rage. The warhammer gradually rose, inch by inch, lifted in one hand until it was propped against his shoulder.

Calan clapped Therian on the back. “No shame in top sixteen.”

“Ziel of the Dawnwing Sect, chosen of Northstrider, you face Therian Nills of the Stormcallers, chosen of Reigan Shen!”

Therian had heard the heavenly messenger’s command. He knew he couldn’t give up.

But he wondered: if he stood still and let Ziel kill him, would his death be painless?

One more look at the burning fury in Ziel’s face, and Therian shuddered.

Probably not.

Therian hefted his spears and prepared to fight for a quick death.

* * *

Lindon sat next to Yerin and watched Ziel batter a Dreadgod cultist all the way around the arena.

His techniques on the Path of the Dawn Oath were honestly fascinating. Ziel’s Path was a variation of one that Eithan had offered Lindon long ago, and though he had chosen Blackflame, he had never forgotten his interest in this Path.

It was supposed to be a flexible force Path for Soulsmiths and skilled scriptors, and Lindon could see why. Rings of script appeared in midair, Forged by Ziel in an instant. Glowing green symbols circled his wrists and his ankles, and more green rings appeared beneath him when he jumped and where his hammer landed.

The runes he Forged crackled, jumped, and faded in and out as they lost stability. The damage to Ziel’s spirit was so extensive that Lindon found it incredible the man could practice the sacred arts at all.

He still gave off spiritual pressure more like a Truegold than an Underlord, but Lindon’s research implied he had once been an Archlord. His skills and experience had been enough to carry him this far.

Though watching him toy with his opponent, it was easy to think the power gap ran the other way. Every swing of Ziel’s hammer launched Therian Nills into one of the arena walls or slammed him into the ground.

Sometimes, a green script encircled one of the rocks on the ground and hurled it with great force at Therian, stopping a Stormcaller technique or simply drawing blood.

As a survivor of round two, Ziel must have earned an Archlord weapon, but Lindon didn’t see him use anything but the same hammer he’d used back in Ghostwater.

[Maybe it only looks like the same hammer,] Dross proposed. [It could be a fancy new Archlord weapon made to catch people off-guard.]

Do you think so?

[No.]

Little Blue stood on Lindon’s head to watch. She was surprisingly excited, cheering every time Ziel scored a hit. He would have expected her to be scared, and he wondered what the fight looked like through her eyes.

Yerin nudged him. “Give you two diamonds and a pile of gold if you can tell me how that blood bag made it this far.”

As far as I did, Lindon realized, and he pretended the thought didn’t hurt.

Therian Nills did resemble a bag full of bloody meat more than a human being, and Lindon felt a wince of sympathy for him. At least he would be healed completely whenever Ziel decided to end the match.

“His Striker techniques are powerful,” Lindon said. They were alive, like Jai Long’s had been. “Last round, he didn’t let his opponent close to him.”

“I’d bet my soul against a rat’s tail that either of us could tear him apart with both hands and both feet tied.”

Lindon knew that she was as frustrated by his elimination as he was. Maybe more so, in a different way. She had enjoyed fighting him all-out, but she’d wanted to meet him as Uncrowned.

Even so, he didn’t want to keep thinking about it.

[Not that I can hear your thoughts or anything, but it seems like you’re trying not to think about something else.]

Little Blue stuck her head down to stare into his eye.

I’m waiting until the match is over, Lindon told Dross.

There was too much on the line for him to interrupt the match. It seemed clear that Ziel was going to win, but you never knew what sorts of life-saving trump cards an enemy might have in store. If Ziel won, that would mean one more ally in the top eight, and his loss would mean that Reigan Shen had another chance at Penance.

Lindon focused on his Heaven and Earth Purification Wheel, pushing a burning circle uphill as slowly as possible.

Though he’d practiced the cycling technique for years, it was still uncomfortable. As always, it felt like he was breathing through a damp cloth, his lungs and spirit straining with every cycle of his madra. But that made the technique a better distraction.

For a few seconds.

Then Ziel’s hammer crushed Therian’s head, and his body dissolved into white light. So did the blood he’d left all over the arena.

There was a surprising amount.

“Victory!” the Ninecloud Soul announced, and the projection of light overhead showed an image of a dull-eyed Ziel dragging his hammer away.

[Oh, would you look at that!] Dross observed. [It seems the match is over.]

Little Blue gave an encouraging chime.

Yerin stood up and stretched, extending her steel madra sword-arms as well. “Guess you could call that a fight. Let’s grab some food while they finish up the tablets.”

They had examined the records of every fight together, analyzing Yerin’s future opponents.

Though Lindon couldn’t get a full breath, he spoke. “Apologies, but tomorrow night, would you like to go with me to—”

“Yes.”

She looked like she might say more, but after considering for a moment she only nodded once. “Yes” apparently said it all.

But she had answered too easily. He worried she thought he was just inviting her to eat together while training, as they often did.

“I mean, I was thinking something different than normal. We can reserve—”

Her reply was even faster this time: “Yes.”

That was clear enough.

“…okay. I will…do that, then.” And then, because he wanted her to see that he hadn’t been forced into this, he gave her a shaky smile. “Gratitude. I’m looking forward to it.”

“Same on my side.”

He still couldn’t read her face. Sometimes she turned bright red, but now she seemed normal to him.

As they ordered lunch from a Ninecloud servant and ate while discussing Ziel’s performance, she was unusually quiet. In one lull in the conversation, he noticed her breath coming at odd intervals.

She was breathing according to her cycling technique. Keeping her madra and feelings under control.

Just like he was.

* * *

“You’ve reserved the best table?” Mercy asked, looking from Lindon to Yerin.

“Yes. Gratitude.” Lindon had been more than willing to book an ordinary table at the restaurant Mercy had recommended, but she had informed him that the Akura family was paying the tab and insisted he order the best.

Since she was funding it, she had every right to ask, but Lindon wasn’t sure this was the best time.

“Is this really what you want to be talking about now?”

Mercy was in her full Akura uniform, purple and black and white, with Suu in one hand and a violet lens over her left eye. Her hair had been tied back, and she limbered up as she spoke.

Her waiting room door was set to open at any moment.

“We cleaned out every tablet on record,” Yerin said. “The worst left in the tournament is still no training dummy.”

Ulrok Crag-Strider was the one Ghost-Blade remaining in the competition, and Lindon agreed with Dross and Yerin that he was most likely Mercy’s opponent. It was either him or the girl from the Silent Servants whose name Lindon had difficulty pronouncing, but Mercy believed it would be Ulrok.

Her mother considered brute-force fighters weaker than clever ones, and Ghost-Blades were not subtle. They practiced a Path of sword and death madra, so their fights tended to be brief.

There were other, lesser aspects of their Path that tended to make them difficult to read with spiritual perception, but those were negligible.

“You’ll need to dress up tonight,” Mercy warned them, stretching out one arm and then the other. “Yerin, come to my room when you’re getting ready. Lindon, wear whatever Eithan tells you.”

She thought about that for a second, then added, “Within reason.”

Lindon appreciated the addition, because he could easily imagine Eithan telling him to go to the restaurant in some kind of costume. Or a wig.

But he was still concerned about Mercy’s attitude. The safety of the entire Blackflame Empire was on the line, not to mention her own mother’s life, but she was acting as carefree as usual.

“We can talk about this later,” he said. “Are you ready for this? You have a strategy?”

The door started to grind up, and Mercy gave them a sheepish smile. “Sorry. You two had one guaranteed loss and one guaranteed win, and Eithan’s match was supposed to be a loss for him. Which means the weakest opponent was left for me.”

The Ninecloud Soul called her name and Ulrok Crag-Strider. As expected.

The Ghost-Blade was a hulking brute of a man in dark gray robes, with lines of black paint covering his face and a swirling green-tinged spirit over his head. He held a rough saber like an oversized cleaver in both hands.

As the Ninecloud Soul called the names of both competitors, Mercy turned over her shoulder and waved cheerily. “See you in a minute!” she called.

* * *

Mercy walked through a darkened arena, which had been sealed off by a massive stretch of shadow madra like a tent’s roof. Sharpened bones rose from the ground, giving off death and sword aura in equal measure.

The arena favored neither of them, though Ulrok was trying to gain a psychological advantage by pushing against the invisible wall separating them, snarling like a beast and brandishing his rough saber.

He should have saved his breath. Mercy had done her research.

Back in his homeland, Ulrok was a famous poet and philosopher known for his musings on the nature of the soul. Pretending to be an animalistic brute would only work on someone who didn’t know him.

Besides, Mercy was already scared. Just not of him.

She was frightened for her family.

Impassive as always, Northstrider stood between the two competitors. The Ninecloud Soul was probably continuing their introduction, but the thick layer of shadow madra blocked out the sound.

“Do not make light of your opponent,” Northstrider said. “Either of you.”

He was looking at her when he said that, and Mercy nodded earnestly. The violet lens of the Moon’s Eye hung over her left eye, like a layer of stained glass.

It had been her Archlord reward for surviving the second round, selected especially for her. Though it had no binding, it was cleverly made from layers of transparent Remnant eyes.

The device had all sorts of vision-related applications, and she was grateful for it. She examined Ulrok, noticing that he was already spiraling his gray-green madra to his sword. The signature Forger technique of his Path, she was sure.

Mercy smiled and dipped her head to him.

Northstrider waited a moment longer, then raised a hand. “Begin!”

Ulrok’s blade whipped in a slash in front of him, Forged madra surrounding it in a ghostly echo. The gray light passed over her.

Mercy covered herself in crystalline armor.

The Ghost Blade technique crashed against the amethyst plates and broke, while Mercy raised Suu. The staff was already in its bow form, its draconic head glaring from the center of the staff, a string of sticky black madra connecting the two ends.

She raised it in gauntleted hands, Forging her String of Shadow into a rigid arrow. The technique was normally a flexible rope of darkness and force, but with practice, she could use it to make arrows.

A Striker technique howled at her like a phantom, and she let it splash against her armor again.

The Akura bloodline armor was well-known and had well-documented weaknesses. It put great pressure on the spirit of the user, it was difficult to control, and repeated attacks could force her to use madra to reinforce it.

Unhurried, she layered another technique onto her arrow. The Enforcer technique from her second page: Dark Tide Incantation.

The light dimmed further and a shadow clung to her arrow, though it was barely visible. This technique carried both spiritual and physical weight.

Ulrok dashed in, closing the gap, slashing with his saber. Not only that, but he had begun gathering the sword and death aura in the air to a point beneath her.

Mercy leaped up and back, spinning away from his weapon, keeping her concentration on the arrow.

This was all textbook for fighting an Akura. Rapid, agile movements were difficult in the armor, and executing them took extra madra. Keeping the armor up at all was a burden, and it became more so as her defense took a beating.

The plan was to keep up a barrage of weak attacks to force her to exhaust herself with her own defense.

But since those weaknesses were so widely known, any Akura at the Lord stage regularly trained to overcome them.

Her Puppeteer’s Iron body made controlling her body effortless as she twisted again in the air, avoiding more Striker techniques. Long practice and training kept her spirit composed as she layered on her third page technique: the Nightworm Venom.

The tip of her arrow took on a dull green cast.

A screaming geyser of green-and-gray madra pierced up from the ground where she was about to land, but she’d seen the Ruler technique through her lens before it formed.

She landed with the geyser an inch away from her face, pulling back her bowstring and taking aim.

As Ulrok dashed in, she layered a final technique onto the arrow: the Shadow’s Edge. Harmony’s favored technique.

More techniques formed inside Ulrok’s spirit, and he charged her like a bull. He was only three feet away, swinging his saber, when she released her arrow.

He gave her a feral, painted grin and unleashed his own prize from the tournament.

A network of bright orange spots bloomed around him, connecting with fiery lines. A matrix of protective madra.

Mercy knew about it already.

Though it was an Archlord instrument, it was gentle enough to be handled easily by Underlords. However, its output scaled down to the power of the user’s spirit.

The arrow, seething with four shades of darkness, punched through.

As expected of an Uncrowned King fighter, he reacted in time, moving his saber back to catch the arrow.

The impact punched his weapon back into his own chest, throwing him back twenty feet.

The arrow melted into him.

Mercy let her armor fade away into essence as her combination of techniques squirmed inside him, making him scream, disabling his spirit and eating away at his madra channels.

She winced at the sound and wanted to apologize. It was a competition, so she had to try her best, but she knew from experience how painful that was. She would have preferred to win in a gentler way.

Her bow shifted back to a staff, and she held herself with poise as she waited for him to die. Constructs would be watching her right now, and she had to do her mother proud.

Mercy had to defeat Sophara, and it would help the family if she looked like someone who could do it.

The gold dragons had gone overboard in preparing Sophara for the tournament. Too far. It was as though they’d crammed every enhancement they could think of into one body.

Mercy didn’t know how Sophara could possibly control so much power. There had to be drawbacks.

And if the dragon won Penance, she would use it on Akura Malice immediately. Her great-grandfather would make sure of it.

Mercy worried for her mother, of course, but not too much. Even knowing the danger, she found it hard to bite her nails and fret about the safety of a woman who could literally scoop up mountains in her hand.

She was far more frightened for the rest of her family.

Malice would choose to die rather than leave the world, Mercy was sure. And with her dead, Fury and Charity would take over, but Fury was uncontrollable and Charity unknowable. They would have to allow the Dreadgods to invade the Blackflame Empire as Reigan Shen wished, and though they would evacuate as much of the populace as they could, thousands of miles of territory would be destroyed.

And without a Monarch of their own, the family would become easy prey for the others.

Just like House Arelius.

She calmed herself, steeling her nerves against the screaming that had faded to whimpering. Mercy wasn’t like her mother, born to the battlefield. But she was good at competitions.

And she would do her duty.

The roof of shadow madra split enough to allow her to hear the Ninecloud Soul declare, “Victory!”

Mercy raised her hand and smiled to the crowd.

5

The nighttime streets of Ninecloud City didn’t differ much from the daytime. The surrounding towers and buildings were all brightly colored and many of them glowed, so the rainbow radiance didn’t dim so much as it softened.

Lindon stood in front of the Sundown Pavilion, a wide four-story restaurant lit by shining red-and-orange constructs. Hanging gardens spilled out the front of every window, dotted with burning flowers that gave off strong fire aura.

[You know, showing up early just means you have to wait,] Dross observed.

Lindon would have traveled from the Akura guest tower with Yerin, but Eithan had insisted they meet at the restaurant. He still wasn’t sure why.

At least Eithan had provided reasonable clothes. They were elaborate multi-layered robes in a style Eithan liked to wear, more suitable for greeting a respected visitor than for fighting, but they weren’t in the bright colors Eithan preferred.

They were primarily black, highlighted with decorative red scripts that glowed scarlet. On the back, where Lindon had expected the symbol of the Akura family, was a snarling dragon-turtle that also glowed red and orange.

They had clearly been designed for Lindon, and he hadn’t questioned why Eithan had them. Or why they fit perfectly.

Sometimes he just didn’t want to know.

Lindon’s hair had been brushed and oiled, and a team of Akura servants had applied some kind of cream to his face. He felt like he had layers of paint caked on his cheeks, but he only looked impossibly clean.

He was keeping his spiritual perception tightly restrained, trying to avoid sensations from everyone and everything on the street, so he didn’t notice Yerin had arrived until he heard her low whistle.

“Look at you, all polished and shiny! Have to pay my thanks to Eithan. Thought he might send you here wearing six peacocks.”

Yerin wore something like what Mercy had when she had been presented to the entire Akura family: formal layers of black, violet, and silver, but sleeker and slimmer than Lindon’s outfit.

Her hair was pinned up by silver sticks, though they left enough free to fall down past her shoulders. Her skin was bright, her lips red, and her eyes bigger than usual. And she wasn’t wearing a sword.

Lindon had prepared for this.

He had thought of a number of compliments as he waited, but he was unprepared for the impact of actually seeing her. It was such a contrast to her normal appearance, ready for battle at any second, that the sight of her clubbed him over the head.

She spread her arms, gripping her wide sleeves as she did. “How about Mercy’s work? Do we let her live?”

Lindon chose his favorite of the compliments he’d readied in advance.

“You look wonderful,” he said, “but I knew you would.”

She flushed slightly and dropped her sleeves, brushing at something on the front of her robes. “Yeah, well, she…Mercy’s sharp enough, when it comes to this.”

[I don’t think he was talking about Mercy, I think he was talking about you. Unless I’m wrong! I’m not wrong.]

“Dross,” Lindon muttered, “apologies, but can you act like you’re not here for a while?”

[Oh, I see. Yes. I will pretend I’m not watching you both at every second.]

The streets were packed, thanks to the tournament, and there was a line to get into the restaurant. They chatted as they waited; about Mercy’s fight from earlier in the day, about the matches to come, and about who was likely to fill in the remaining spots of the Uncrowned.

When they finally reached a gray-haired man behind a podium wearing what seemed to be one intricate wrap, Lindon bowed and handed over a scripted plate with the Akura symbol on it.

The man checked it, handed it back, and was about to speak when he looked from Lindon to Yerin. His eyes grew wide.

“My sincerest apologies, young miss, young sir, but we…were not aware that you were our Akura guests tonight.”

Lindon became uncomfortably aware of other people in line and in the restaurant turning and looking at them. He caught snatches of their names and tried to pull his white hand further into his sleeve.

The man looked like he wanted to run inside and attend to something, but he stopped only an inch away as though tethered to the table. “We have made an embarrassing error, and I apologize on behalf of the entire Sundown Pavilion. You see, Sha Siris—the son of our establishment’s owner—arrived only minutes ago and demanded the Twilight Room that you requested.

“If he had known that it was you who reserved the table, I’m certain that he would never have done so. If you wouldn’t mind waiting, I will go and tell him to finish his meal in another—”

A voice bellowed down from upstairs, cutting through the noise of the crowd. “I heard my name!”

The man behind the podium winced and looked around as though for rescue before shouting back. “Master Sha, may I speak to you private—”

“Tell them to come on up!” Sha Siris shouted, and there came a round of raucous laughter.

Lindon acutely felt every eye on them, and he wanted nothing more than to leave. It wasn’t entirely fair, but he felt a moment of irritation toward Mercy.

This was why he hadn’t wanted too expensive of a restaurant. He didn’t know how things worked in Ninecloud City. He didn’t know how to handle this.

“If you’ll excuse me a moment,” the man behind the podium said to Lindon and Yerin, “I will go and speak to our young master.”

“What for?” Yerin asked, giving him a feral smile. “He asked us up.”

“Send them up here!” Sha Siris shouted again. “I need to be entertained!”

“Not going to be as fun as he thinks,” Yerin muttered to Lindon.

A server led them through a maze of packed tables and up some stairs, never meeting their eyes. Everyone else stared at them.

Lindon wondered if there was a polite way to escape.

Sha Siris sat in a dimly lit open room with stars of Forged madra floating a few feet overhead. A sign over the entrance displayed the word “Twilight.”

Siris was only a few years into his twenties, with blood-red hair that reminded Lindon of Sha Miara, and his face was filled with so much color that it almost matched his hair. He sat at the lone table in the room, a massive circle groaning under the weight of a feast.

There were eleven other people at the table, all shouting or laughing, most of them visibly drunk. Siris took a swig from a clay mug and cheered as he saw them.

Lindon took a quick sweep with his spiritual perception. Siris himself was an Underlord, and not a weak one, though from the feel of his spirit, Lindon doubted he practiced the Path of Celestial Radiance. Most of those around the table were Underlords too, though some were Truegold and one might have been Highgold.

Upon seeing Lindon and Yerin, one young woman to Siris’ left immediately shut her mouth and paled. She straightened her clothes and patted Siris on the shoulder, but he didn’t notice.

A couple of the other guests looked confused, but no one commented on their arrival.

Except Siris himself. “Good, you made it! Underlords, the both of you! Perfect!” He gestured to the door with his cup. “There’s a dueling room in the back. You show us what you’ve got, and if you do well enough, you can join our party! What do you say?”

Lindon’s discomfort at the situation was easily transferred to Sha Siris.

He surveyed the table. “Would you like to test us yourself, Master Sha, or would you prefer us to face your friends first?”

Yerin snorted a laugh, and a few of Siris’ friends snickered.

But not all of them.

The girl to his left patted him more urgently, and two or three of the others went pale as something dawned on them.

Sha Siris looked like he was considering a difficult puzzle. “There are two of you, aren’t there? Why don’t you fight each other?”

The girl to his left had finally had enough. She grabbed him by the collar and pulled his ear close to her mouth, whispering something.

“I have? No, I haven’t. They just got here, I haven’t seen them…”

Siris’ mouth hung open for a long moment before he swallowed visibly. “Good sir, if it’s not too much trouble, could you show me your right hand?”

Lindon had kept most of his hand hidden as best he could, to avoid attracting attention. Now, he raised it, wiggling the five white fingers on his Remnant hand.

Most of the table quieted and turned their eyes to Yerin. She gave them another grin.

Lindon caught the word “Uncrowned” whispered from several directions.

“Ah, it’s as I suspected!” Siris said with forced cheer. “I recognized you immediately, of course, that was just a little humor. I wanted to welcome you to your table myself, and I took the liberty of ordering your first course.”

There was enough food on the table to stuff twelve people, and some of it had already been eaten, but Sha Siris stood and began shoving his friends out of their chairs.

“Get out,” he muttered to the table, and most of his guests jumped up as though they couldn’t wait another second to leave. They dashed out of the room one at a time, stopping to bob their heads to both Lindon and Yerin as they left.

Siris went from one of his remaining friends to the next, urging them up. He was clearly unwilling to leave before everyone had been cleared out. Some still looked confused. One man held a half-eaten chicken leg.

Yerin tilted her head and looked to him. “You looking to exercise?”

Sha Siris choked out a laugh that sounded like he had swallowed a mouthful of chalk. “He’s not, I’m sorry, he’s tired out from his training today.”

“Didn’t train today,” said the man with the chicken leg. “And I wouldn’t mind putting you back in your—”

Sha Siris grabbed a fistful of the man’s hair and hauled him to his feet. “I told you, you’re tired.”

Amazingly, the man still looked baffled. “What about our food?”

“Leave it.”

When he had finally pushed his guests away, Sha Siris ordered the servants to bring whatever the Uncrowned wanted, insisted that the room would be available whenever Lindon and Yerin decided to return, and used a movement technique to disappear down the stairs.

Lindon was impressed with his speed.

“Sobered up fast, didn’t he?” Yerin noted as she sat down and started helping herself to the leftovers.

The servers were already replacing the partially eaten dishes with new ones, but Lindon grabbed one of the remaining dumplings. The Iron Heart had increased his appetite, and at the moment he felt like he could finish off everything on the table.

“Apologies. I was unprepared.”

Yerin stabbed some meat and raised it to her mouth. “You didn’t plan for a baby Sha to throw himself on our swords?” She bit off a chunk and chewed. “Shame his friends had eyes. I think we could have gotten him in the ring ourselves.”

He pictured the drunken Sha Underlord facing them in a dueling arena only to recognize them when the fight began, and he laughed.

Yerin joined him, and the conversation flowed smoothly from there.

There was only one thorn stuck in Lindon’s thoughts.

They had recognized Lindon, but it was Yerin they had really respected. Siris’ guests had spoken of the Uncrowned in hushed tones, and he had invited the Uncrowned back whenever she wanted.

Lindon had fought well, but in the end, he wasn’t Uncrowned.

He focused on the story Yerin was telling. She was getting into it, tracing lines of Forged sword madra in the air by way of illustration, and Lindon kept his mind in the present.

He wasn’t here to moan over what he’d lost.

But to enjoy what he had.

* * *

Lindon, Yerin, and Mercy sat together to watch the next fight of the Uncrowned tournament: Yan Shoumei of Redmoon Hall against Blacksword of Redmoon Hall.

No matter who won, Reigan Shen was getting a representative among the Uncrowned.

Now that most of the core Akura members were gone, Mercy could join the ordinary audience of the Akura faction. Everyone else with purple eyes had surreptitiously slipped out of their seats in a circle surrounding Mercy, but she didn’t seem to notice.

In a red arena filled with stalagmites that oozed blood, the two members of Redmoon Hall flitted around each other.

Yan Shoumei, the ghostly girl that Lindon had faced in Ghostwater, looked like a pale specter with long black hair that hung down into her face. When the match began, she had audibly complained to Northstrider when she saw that he had pitted her against someone from her own sect.

Lindon understood how she felt.

The Monarch had paid her no more attention than a boulder.

Her opponent, Blacksword, was a strapping man wielding a huge, two-handed blade. Unlike what Lindon had expected from his name, his sword was bright red, sheathed in his Blood Shadow. When he attacked, the Shadow whipped out and added reach and force.

He chased after Yan Shoumei, a lash of blood smashing through a stalagmite.

With every step, ripples of light appeared beneath Blacksword’s feet, allowing him to run in midair. His shoes had been gifted to him as one of his prizes, allowing him maneuverability that Shoumei couldn’t match.

Lindon had researched him, as he had all the remaining competitors, and had expected this to be a short match. Yan Shoumei had always been one of the fighters expected to reach the top eight, but not Blacksword.

“I owe him an apology,” Lindon said, as they watched him carve a canyon into the floor with an attack that Shoumei barely escaped.

“That’s true and a half. Juggling a Blood Shadow and two bindings and your own techniques isn’t simple as I make it look.”

Lindon had heard it said that Blood Shadows counted as a second sacred artist in battle, but he had never seen that to be true. Yerin came the closest, and her Blood Shadow still didn’t quite match up to her.

But when Blacksword swung his blade, his Blood Shadow lashed out, his own Striker technique followed in a beam, and a rain of jagged Forged madra fell like daggers. All the while, he kept dancing on points of light.

Little Blue gave a gasp like a whispering breeze and leaned forward on Lindon’s shoulder.

Yan Shoumei’s breathing was rough, and her spirit was growing disordered. Her Blood Shadow hung around her like a cloak, as he’d seen it in Ghostwater, but it now surged and boiled as she moved. It looked as though something within it was trying to escape.

Mercy cupped her chin in one hand. “She can’t get close enough to take a bite out of him. I’ve watched all her records, and she’s terrifying up close, but he figured out a way around her. Good for him!”

[I have a model ready for Blacksword whenever you would like to take a look,] Dross said. [We had information on him from the previous rounds, but we didn’t really see what he was capable of until now, so now I have a solid model. Pretty solid.]

What is pretty solid?

[It’s an absolute work of art that should be studied by future generations as the apex of all predictive models.]

He must have been sending that into Mercy and Yerin’s minds as well, because they both looked to Lindon with varying degrees of amusement.

So he decided to respond out loud. Northstrider already knew about Dross, so overt secrecy was unnecessary. “How would Yerin do against him?”

[You know, they have very similar powers, I don’t know if you noticed. It would be close, but Yerin would win. Unless she showed the extra spike of power she showed at the end of your fight, and then it would be easy.]

Yerin frowned. “I’d beat him without it, though.”

[Oh yes, of course.]

“Then I don’t need it, true?”

[I can’t speak to that. I can’t comprehend the nature of Sage powers yet, but I doubt you would have beaten Lindon without them. You remember, when you tapped into that power to kill Lindon. I mean beat him.]

She mulled over that.

They hadn’t talked about Yerin’s burgeoning Sage senses since their match. Yerin stewed in silence for a while, and he couldn’t tell if she was upset or just trying to recall the sensation.

“I don’t even know much about Sages yet,” Mercy said. “You’re supposed to focus on traditional advancement until Archlord. But they say Lords can do miraculous things when under stress. Sages are the ones who learn to control those miracles.”

Lindon had done some research of his own into that topic. There were plenty of works in the Ninecloud records speculating about a Sage’s power, but all the ones written or recorded by Sages themselves did not discuss the nature of their abilities.

The dream tablets that depicted Sages using these “miraculous abilities” were beyond his ability to read. That, or they recorded only gaps where that power should go, as had been the case in his stolen memory of Northstrider.

But he was certain he and Dross would figure it out, given time.

Yerin grunted, but she didn’t say anything.

Down in the arena, the match was almost over. Yan Shoumei had thrown out Ruler techniques to get Blacksword to come down, had stretched her Blood Shadow as far as it would apparently go, and had tried hitting him with Striker techniques.

Every time, he had thoroughly crushed her with a barrage of his own power, but he was clearly running low on madra. After using so many techniques in a row, Lindon would still have madra left, but his channels would be strained to their limits.

How would I do against him? Lindon silently asked Dross.

[That, ah, depends on a few factors,] Dross responded, and Lindon hoped the spirit was keeping their conversation quiet. [He’s very strong, and he has a more effective range than you, so you would have to take it in close. But, if he doesn’t have any more tricks hidden, you would certainly win.]

Dross’ presence swelled in Lindon’s spirit, and Lindon got the impression that the spirit’s chest was puffed out in pride. [You have me.]

Which was a relief, but it also chafed a bit.

Dross was implying that, without him, Lindon couldn’t beat Blacksword in a straight-up fight. At least, not for certain.

Then again, what was wrong with that? At this point, the man from Redmoon Hall was virtually guaranteed a spot among the Uncrowned. There was no shame in being slightly worse in combat than one of the eight most combat-capable Underlords of their generation.

Or so Lindon repeated to himself over and over again.

Blacksword’s strain showed on his face and in his spirit. He had gathered all his madra for a final volley, and this really would be his last. After this, Lindon doubted the man’s soul would be in good enough shape for a simple Enforcer technique.

Yan Shoumei looked worse. She nursed grievous wounds all over her body, though it was difficult to see most of them beneath the Blood Shadow she wore as a cloak. Her face was bruised and bloody, one eye swollen shut, and she stared up at Blacksword as though at her executioner.

He raised his sword.

She screamed.

Lindon heard it in his spirit as well as his ears. He flinched, and so did almost everyone in the crowd. Somehow, her scream sounded like a chorus of Remnants, and it drowned out the entire audience.

Misty red madra filled the arena.

And the projection of the match disappeared.

Lindon, Yerin, and Mercy all sat up at once. As far as Lindon understood the constructs involved, this couldn’t happen. The recording and projection constructs were made of Archlord madra and were almost undetectable, not to mention resilient.

But that was nothing to his astonishment when he felt the Akura tower tremble beneath him.

Not just the tower.

The entire arena.

“Northstrider, you think?” Yerin asked softly.

The arena was supposed to be able to handle a contest between Heralds, much less Underlords. One of the Monarchs must have gotten upset about their view being interrupted.

Only two or three seconds after the projection ended, the view returned. The red haze over the battlefield began to thin.

Yan Shoumei stood there, wounded and panting, her red robes exposed but her Blood Shadow no longer visible.

It was eating Blacksword.

Little Blue squeaked and covered her eyes.

The Shadow had swollen into a monstrous form, fifteen feet tall and built like a cross between a heavily muscled man and a bear. Its fingers were unnaturally long, with sharp claws on the end, and it had the ears of a rabbit and the maw of a wolf. It was covered in the suggestion of fur, but spines rose in a row from along its back.

Every inch of it was blood-red.

It dug into Blacksword’s chest with its muzzle, feasting. In the center of a bowl-shaped crater that covered two-thirds of the arena floor.

They had only a second to take in the sight before Blacksword and his gear faded to white light. The monstrous Blood Shadow roared at having its meal interrupted.

“Victory,” the Ninecloud Soul announced, “to Yan Shoumei of Redmoon Hall, chosen of Reigan Shen.”

The audience didn’t cheer. Lindon caught mostly confused murmurs.

[Do you want to know how you stack up against that?] Dross asked.

Lindon did, actually.

Later, he said.

He was about to go comb the records for any information he might have missed on Yan Shoumei.

* * *

Seven matches into the fourth round, and seven of the Uncrowned had been selected.

Among those selected so far, only three Monarchs were represented: Ziel for Northstrider, three from the Dreadgod cults for Reigan Shen, and three for Akura Malice.

So four on their side, who would avoid releasing the Dreadgods on the Blackflame Empire if they won. Four allies, and three enemies.

But really it was four against four.

There was one match left, but there was no suspense in it. Yerin, Mercy, and Lindon had gathered to watch, and Lindon had a moment to wonder where Eithan was. He hadn’t seen the man at any of the matches, and had barely seen Eithan at all this week.

Then again, there was no need for him to stay in the stands. He could watch from anywhere.

The Ninecloud Soul announced the names of the fighters as they strode out to see each other, though there was no surprise at the matchup since only two competitors remained.

“Kenvata Nasuma Juvari of the Silent Servants, chosen of Reigan Shen, you face Sopharanatoth of the gold dragons, chosen of the Dragon King!”

Kenvata—or Juvari, Lindon wasn’t sure which was her family name and which her personal one—was a short woman in a plain white robe. A shawl covered her head, and between that and the cloth wrapping her mouth, the only visible parts of her were her dark eyes.

Sophara strode out, dressed in elaborate jewelry. Gems gleamed in every color. The fine strands of scales that ran from her scalp like hair glistened in the sunlight.

The projection overhead showed that her vertical-slitted gold eyes were calm, her face impassive. Her tail drifted slowly behind her as she paced up to her opponent.

Anger bubbled up in Lindon as he remembered her spraying Naian Blackflame’s blood across the floor. Just to send a message.

Yerin’s fist tightened on her armrest. “I’ll give this Juvari my own sword and a wagonload of scales if she knocks the dragon out here.”

“Wouldn’t that be nice,” Mercy said wistfully.

But there was a chance, Lindon knew, and Dross agreed.

[Her dream techniques might be the perfect weapons to use against Sophara. Superior strength and madra would never come into play.]

After reviewing records of previous rounds, Lindon had trained against a simulation of Juvari. Once.

Her entire Path was based around mimicking the dream Ruler techniques of the Silent King, the most subtle and insidious of the Dreadgods, so Lindon had thought she might pose a challenge for Dross.

She didn’t. Dross could always hold her influence off long enough for Lindon to cut her in half with dragon’s breath.

But throughout the entire tournament, Sophara had struggled the most during the first round when she had been trapped in an illusion. Clearly, she had no way of quickly or easily breaking free from dream techniques.

The two Underladies faced each other, both outwardly calm.

The arena was plain sand again, but this time clouds of purple fire drifted randomly around the battlefield. Strange shapes and images played within the flames. They reminded Lindon of his own family’s foxfire, but these were made of dream and fire aura rather than dreams and light.

An even playing field for the two competitors.

Juvari clearly meant to take advantage. A white ring hovered over her head, like Samara’s ring back home, and he could see dream aura gathering around her. She was preparing her Ruler technique.

He expected Sophara to do the same, but she stood with hands at her sides, waiting.

Juvari’s technique was complete before the barrier separating the two of them fell. In fact, Lindon and Dross discussed with Yerin and Mercy, and they suspected she might have two Ruler techniques prepared and ready to launch.

Lindon’s hopes rose as he saw that Sophara still had prepared nothing. She only cycled her madra to be ready when the fight began.

Overconfidence. That could be her undoing.

Northstrider dropped the wall between them, and the aura rippled purple as Juvari’s dream techniques formed.

Both of Sophara’s hands rose in front of her, and a flood of liquid golden dragon’s breath obliterated one side of the arena.

It was like half of the sun had been born in an instant. Sophara was only a silhouette, dwarfed by a wall of her own madra.

The thunder was deafening. Scripted wards all around the stands stopped the heat from reaching them in the stands, but Lindon felt the spiritual force of the attack.

“Overlord,” he said aloud.

Mercy slowly shook her head, and her mouth was set in a grim line. “She’s not. She hasn’t advanced.”

“I know.” That only made it more frightening.

She had filled the attack with soulfire, but even accounting for that, the scope and force of the technique were clearly on the level of an Overlord. Though Sophara herself was still an Underlady.

What kind of madra channels did she have to be able to force out an attack like that? And so quickly? Juvari’s dream techniques didn’t have a chance to touch her.

“Victory,” the Ninecloud Soul declared, and only then did the Flowing Flame madra from Sophara taper off.

There was no sign of Juvari. A channel had been scooped out of the arena floor between Sophara and the far wall, the sand melted into streaks of red-hot glass.

Sophara turned and walked calmly back to her waiting room.

Lindon looked over to Yerin, who met his eyes with a bleak look. She shook her head.

He turned to Mercy, who rubbed her temple with madra-clad fingers. “I don’t know,” she said, in answer to his silent question. “We have to win. I just don’t know if we can.”

6

Min Shuei, the Winter Sage, had petitioned Northstrider ceaselessly all week. Every time she could track him down, she requested to be allowed to train Yerin.

He didn’t turn her down. He just ignored her.

She had quickly suspected that he was waiting for all the Uncrowned to be selected before he allowed any Sages to select students, but by that time her stubbornness had set in. If he wouldn’t allow her to persuade him with words, he would have to at least respect her persistence.

So she had followed the Monarch day and night.

When Sophara’s match concluded, finally settling the roster of the eight Uncrowned, then Min Shuei knew Northstrider could have no further excuses.

Indeed, she sensed him in his own guest tower in Ninecloud City, waiting on the highest floor. He had set no barriers to keep her out, and while he hadn’t answered his door yet, he would eventually.

She sat in the guest room outside his study. Since he had moved into the room, he had redecorated in his own style.

The guest room was a plain box painted dark gray. No decorations. By way of furniture, he allowed only three chairs for those he had summoned.

That was all.

She found it suited her image of Northstrider: plain and functional. She tried to imagine him picking out curtains or painting walls and chuckled to herself.

There was one window, but it was so high in the wall that it provided no view from the chairs. She paced the room in laps when Northstrider didn’t call for her immediately, glancing down whenever she passed the window, but the window didn’t take much of her attention.

Until she felt someone approaching.

She knew who it was even without a glimpse. She had expected him; in fact, she had thought he would interfere earlier.

When the window slid open and a man slid up the side of the building, she greeted him with her back to him and a hand on her sword.

“Red Faith,” she said.

He said nothing, so she turned.

The Blood Sage, founder of the Bleeding Phoenix’s cult, looked as though he had no blood in him at all. His skin was as pure white as his hair, which was so long that it reached down to his bare feet.

His black-and-red clothes were tight enough to reveal his skeletal frame, and lines of red paint ran down his cheeks from both eyes like tears. He perched on the windowsill, hunched like a monkey, chewing on his thumbnail and staring at her with unnerving intensity.

She felt nothing but disgust for this creature. At some point in the past, he was supposed to have been an accomplished researcher, pioneering investigation into dreadbeasts and the nature of spirits.

She couldn’t be sure how much of his intellect had survived his Blood Shadow separating from him, but now he was…the kindest word she could think of was “unstable.”

He had given up everything in his pursuits. Even his name.

“What brings you here?” she asked. There was no doubt that his reason was the same as hers.

He chewed more viciously on his nail until he drew blood.

Many Sages without significant family backing went by their title rather than their name. It was the same for her; almost everyone referred to her as the Winter Sage or the Sage of Frozen Blade.

But the Blood Sage had lost his name entirely. She wondered if he had forgotten it himself.

When a slow red rivulet ran down the edge of his thumb, Red Faith hurled a glob of blood madra at her.

The Striker technique took on the aspect of a bird, shrieking and diving at her, imbued with the will of the Bleeding Phoenix.

Her white sword split it in two.

The halves began to re-form, gathering into two smaller birds that would continue to attack, but they froze into half-shaped lumps and shattered, fuzzing away to essence.

The righteous anger she’d felt at being attacked faded as the attack did, turning to amusement. She gave him a contemptuous smile. “You almost stained the carpet.”

He returned to chewing on his thumb, but this time he was more agitated.

And while she could never know what was going through his head, this time she was prepared when his hand made a claw. All the blood aura in the room clenched, and a pain shot through her body.

Ready or not, she had little time to defend herself. He was still among the oldest of the Sages.

“Break,” he commanded, adding authority to his Ruler technique.

But she spoke at the same time. “Stop!”

Pressure came from inside and outside her body as his technique tried to crumple her into a ball. Meanwhile, he was frozen in place. A droplet of blood from his thumb hung suspended in the air.

He struggled as she did, each pushing against the other in a silent struggle. The air trembled between them.

Even vital aura was frozen by her will, so his Ruler technique couldn’t progress any further, but she still had to pit her will against his command. Otherwise reality itself would break her.

At the same time, he was having his own struggle. His whole body, including his heart and lungs, had been stopped at her word.

This wouldn’t finish either of them. They would break out of this stalemate, complete their next techniques, and then—

Their authority was overwhelmed in an instant, and they were both released.

Min Shuei glared at the Blood Sage, furious that he would attack her, but she sheathed her sword. There would be no further combat.

Red Faith evidently didn’t agree, because he threw himself at her like a wolf, an Enforcer technique already blazing on his hand and drowning the room in red light.

She spat on his forehead.

Her spittle landed, but his technique didn’t. He was locked in place by the same working she had used earlier, only this time it was backed up by greater authority than hers and greater command over blood aura than his.

Northstrider’s door slid open and he walked out, a huge muscular man in mismatched rags. Golden eyes glared at the Blood Sage. “You know better than this.”

Red Faith’s technique died out, and so did Northstrider’s restriction. The pale man fell, but he landed easily on all fours.

“People think Sages can’t be defeated by sudden attacks,” the Sage of Red Faith said quietly, “but of course they can. Was it likely? No. But no one wins a bet without taking a chance. Perhaps the Winter Sage thought she was safe in your waiting room. Perhaps she was simply slow today. If I had been successful, you would have had no other option but to allow me to tutor Yerin Arelius.”

Min Shuei had heard him speak before, but it was always a shock to hear him say anything other than guttural snarling. She wasn’t sure if he was as intelligent as he sounded, or if he was only imitating his former self.

“There was your reprisal to consider, but you cannot afford to throw away a Sage before the Uncrowned are trained, you would face consequences yourself from my Herald, and I now have the backing of a Monarch whom even you cannot offend. Especially when he may win a heavenly weapon of execution. So I was safe.”

Northstrider waited for the entire monologue to come to an end without any expression on his unshaven face.

The Blood Sage ended with, “I have the right to train Yerin Arelius. She has cultivated her Blood Shadow with a technique I created myself. She is, in a sense, my disciple.”

Min Shuei could take it no longer. “She is the Sword Sage’s disciple, so a sword Sage should train her!”

Technically there were three Sages of their generation who had manifested the Sword Icon: the Sage of the Endless Sword, the Sage of Fallen Blades, and herself. Among them, the only one that used the title of the Sword Sage was Adama, the Endless Sword, though it could apply to any of the three.

“You have your own competitor in the Uncrowned, with her own Blood Shadow,” Northstrider said to Red Faith.

“Yan Shoumei needs no more of my guidance. She walks a different road than I, and I have taught her all she needs to know.” He took one step closer to Northstrider, hopping from one foot to the other like a bird.

“Yerin Arelius has laid the foundation for something extraordinary. This could be a breakthrough, not just in our understanding of the Phoenix and Blood Shadow advancement, but in how we all reach Monarch. We have an opportunity here to revolutionize the sacred arts, and I know you are not the sort of fool to let politics blind you to that chance.”

Northstrider nodded once.

Then he punched the Blood Sage.

His fist struck the man in the chest, and the air ignited with the force. The room exploded, the walls cracking, the window shattering and the chairs blasting to splinters. The building shook, and Min Shuei’s ears rang. She had flown through quieter thunderstorms.

The Blood Sage was launched through the empty window in a blur, fading to a speck in the distance.

Northstrider had literally punched him out of the city.

Delighted, Min Shuei laughed and applauded. “That was even more satisfying than I imagined.”

“He thinks only in terms of life and death. He knew I would not kill him, so he thought he was safe. Fool.”

Northstrider gestured, and order reasserted itself. Shards of glass in the window flew back together, the damaged floor and ceiling repaired with visible speed, and the splintered chairs rebuilt themselves.

“I have consulted with the Akura family,” Northstrider said, standing in the center of the whirlpool of debris. “They have given their consent. You are to train Yerin Arelius.”

Min Shuei bowed at the waist. “Thank you, Monarch.”

* * *

The ceremony introducing the Uncrowned was held in the arena as usual, but it had a very different atmosphere than normal. It reminded Lindon of Sacred Valley’s Seven-Year Festival, or of the celebrations that filled Ninecloud City while the tournament was in progress.

The eight towers that held the audiences of the various Monarch factions remained in place, but the arena floor had been replaced with a pool of shimmering light that slowly shifted from one set of colors to another.

Eight Underlords hovered on rainbow Thousand-Mile Clouds above that surface. The chosen Uncrowned each drifted in front of their faction’s tower, which made for a lopsided distribution.

Two men and a woman drifted in front of Reigan Shen’s tower: his three fighters.

Each layer of the Shen faction’s audience tower was decorated for a different Dreadgod, and of the four, only the Silent King had no representative remaining.

Brother Aekin of Abyssal Palace wore a dark stone mask, roughly carved with thin slits for eyes and a suggestion of a snarling mouth. He was unremarkable otherwise, wearing hooded sacred artist’s robes of the same slate gray.

Next to him was Calan Archer, a muscular man whose sleeves were cut short to show the scripted rings around his biceps, which crackled with blue-and-gold lightning. He was a sandy-haired man with a square jaw and a scar across one eye, and he gave off a serious air. He represented the Stormcallers, the cult of the Weeping Dragon.

Finally, there was Yan Shoumei of Redmoon Hall. The girl still stood like a specter in her red robes, black hair falling over her face in a veil.

[Don’t you think it’s funny that the Dreadgod cults managed to get three spots?] Dross noted. [They’ve never even competed before! Was it Reigan Shen who made them that much better?]

Lindon wondered about that often. Had the Dreadgod followers always been so strong, or had Reigan Shen’s support given them wings?

These three of Reigan Shen’s representatives had performed well throughout the tournament, and until the last round, Lindon would have said that Yan Shoumei was the weakest of them.

Lindon wouldn’t have been certain of his odds against either of the men, but Dross had suggested that he would win three out of four matches. He should have been able to beat Shoumei every time…except for her new, enhanced Blood Shadow. Now even Dross couldn’t tell.

Were the other two hiding their strength as well, just like Yan Shoumei?

That was enough to worry about on its own, but they still had an ally. Drifting alone in front of the dragon tower, Sophara wore gold and jewels and loose cloth that left her midriff bare. Lindon thought she looked more and more human every time he saw her.

She tilted her chin up as she stood on her Thousand-Mile Cloud, surveying the audience as though she stood above all Lords.

[Is it still arrogance if you can back it up?] Dross wondered.

Across from her, she faced another team of three side-by-side.

Mercy was dressed in her finest Akura uniform again, though she didn’t carry Suu. No one carried any visible weapons during the ceremony. Eithan’s fancy dress was back, and his robes were bright ocean shades that didn’t seem to represent Arelius, Akura, or the Blackflame Empire.

Lindon wondered what that meant. Knowing Eithan, it could have been a subtle coded message. Or it could have been that Eithan felt like wearing blue and green.

Yerin wore her standard black uniform, her dark hair flowing behind her in a gentle breeze. She didn’t wear her master’s sword, but her six silver sword-arms stretched out.

Her eyes stayed on her enemies.

Lindon felt another stab of regret. There they were, the three of them, standing shoulder-to-shoulder. He should be up there with them.

And as soon as this ceremony ended, they would leave. Taken away by Sages to train.

Leaving him alone.

Off to the side, Ziel stood in front of Northstrider’s audience, slouched as though he would fall over without something to prop him up.

Eight people fighting for Penance, the heavenly weapon. Four who would support sending the Dreadgods home, and four who would oppose it.

What could Lindon do to influence the outcome?

[I don’t want to say there’s nothing you can do,] Dross said. [I really don’t. I’m focusing so hard on not saying that.]

The Ninecloud Soul introduced each candidate one by one, and only when she finished did she start the ceremony proper: the addition of the Broken Crowns.

“The Broken Crown,” the Soul explained, “has been the symbol of the Uncrowned King tournament from the beginning. This Divine Treasure, implanted in the souls of these eight young warriors, will immortalize them and symbolize their strength. It will let others recognize them as agents of their Monarch. It will serve as eternal proof of the glory they have earned on this battlefield.”

There were wild cheers around the audience as the Ninecloud Soul continued, and the first rainbow cloud drifted to the center of the arena. It was the first to have earned her position among the Uncrowned: Yerin.

Lindon had done his research, and the Broken Crown conferred no additional power. The constructs were colored based on the madra of the representative’s Monarch, and they couldn’t be faked. Or removed, except from a Remnant.

They were essentially a signature unique to the Uncrowned.

As Yerin closed her eyes and nine-colored light swirled around her, black madra Forged itself over her. The actual Divine Treasure was inside her spirit, but it projected a dark crown—larger than her head—with a crack running down the center.

Black represented Akura Malice’s shadow madra, so Eithan’s and Mercy’s would look the same. As Northstrider’s representative, Ziel would receive a Broken Crown the red of blood madra, Sophara’s would be gold, and the three Dreadgod cultists would each have the white of Reigan Shen.

[You know, it’s a shame no Silent Servant made the top eight. Juvari would have had two white haloes. I wonder what that would have looked like.]

The ceremony continued in order, with the Ninecloud Soul reintroducing and celebrating Eithan’s accomplishments—though Lindon noticed she skated over the name of his fourth-round opponent.

While the ceremony went on, Lindon stewed in worry.

If you averaged both sides, four against four, then the two teams were roughly equal.

But the enemy had Sophara, who seemed unbeatable in a duel, while Yan Shoumei’s monstrous Blood Shadow was too much of a mystery.

It pained him not to be able to help. He wanted to do something, but the only thing he could think of was his old standby: pushing for advancement.

At least he had a good idea of what it took to reach Overlord.

He and Dross had worked steadily to analyze many accounts of Overlords regarding advancement, as well as testimony from Mercy and Eithan, among others. There was another revelation required, just as there had been for Underlord, but Lindon would cross that bridge later.

For now, he only had to accumulate power.

Underlords could only advance when they had condensed their soulfire, filled themselves with it, and pushed their madra to the peak of power that their souls could contain. That meant steadily refining and training themselves, usually for years.

One had to be at the peak of Underlord to trigger the advancement to Overlord, at least if you ever wanted to advance again, and peak Underlords were almost always older. That was one reason the age limit for the Uncrowned King tournament had been set to thirty-five.

Which had made Lindon wonder more than once how incredible Ziel had to have been, to reach Archlord at such a young age.

Among these Uncrowned, there was only one even close to the limit of the Underlord stage: Sophara.

And maybe Eithan.

[It’s still hard to read that guy. Do you think he revealed some secrets to us as a way of hiding more secrets?]

Lindon didn’t think so, but he couldn’t prove it.

In order to reach the height of Underlord himself, Lindon needed resources. Over the next month, while Yerin was gone, he wanted to focus entirely on advancement.

And he had one idea that wouldn’t leave him alone.

[Northstrider’s hunger techniques! Sure, that might get you to advance in a month. But I don’t know how to use them. Did you figure them out while I wasn’t looking?]

Of course he hadn’t, but he was becoming convinced that together they could. If he could drain all the power from others, then all he would need to advance was an endless supply of enemies.

Like, for instance, the enemies that might be found on a Dreadgod battlefield.

[I fully support that, except that Fury and the rest won’t even arrive for several weeks.] Dross projected a rough map that only Lindon could see, although the important parts were vague and a lot of territory was covered in fog that represented Dross’ uncertainty.

[They can take a more direct route this time, because the west coast of the Blackflame Continent is closer to us than Moongrave was, but we’re still waaaaaaaaaay over here.] The map spun across an astonishing distance. [It will take them at least three more weeks to get there, assuming about the same speed they used the first time. So you won’t have time to arrive and come back if you don’t want to miss the Uncrowned fights. Do you want to miss the Uncrowned fights?]

Of course Lindon didn’t. Not only should he be there to support his friends, he wouldn’t pass up an opportunity to learn.

But there had to be a solution. He had been pulled through space by Northstrider before. Why couldn’t he join the Akura troops, come back here to watch the fights, and then return to the battlefield? Then again, Fury himself wasn’t doing that. If a Herald couldn’t do it—

Blue light consumed him, and there came a nauseating sense of disorientation.

A second later, he stood in an all-gray waiting room. A projection of light in the center of the room showed the same ceremony he had just been watching.

[Wow, that was amazing! Did you cast us through space just by thinking about it?]

Lindon already had a dragon’s breath in his palm and ready, but he hurriedly canceled it when he noticed the man standing in the room.

Northstrider, his black-scaled hands folded across his chest.

“It’s time, Dross,” he said, and Dross materialized.

[Yes, of course sir! Would you like me to search through some more information today, or would you prefer just to chat? We could discuss the…conditions of the…air. In here. Or out there, it’s up to you.]

Northstrider waited for Dross to finish, then held out an empty hand, which was abruptly filled with the gleaming black orb he had shown before. “I would like you to enter my oracle codex completely. It will examine you. When that process is complete, it will attempt to restrain you, while you try to escape. In ten minutes, I will release you myself, but I hope you will have escaped before then.”

Dross’ one eye widened. [I will not fail you, sir! But just to help me not fail, how about an upgrade?]

“Begin.”

Dross shoved his way into the orb, and its surface rippled with light.

The surface resisted for a moment, and Lindon couldn’t help but worry about Dross’ condition. Northstrider had said that he would release Dross, but what if he didn’t?

There would be no need to trick them, Lindon knew. The Monarch could take anything he wanted without trickery. Even so, he was nervous.

Dross passed through the surface like a man pushing through a screen, and he vanished.

Northstrider’s dragon eyes flicked to Lindon’s face, and Lindon wondered if his thoughts were being read.

“You may sit and wait.”

Lindon took one of the chairs and tried to watch the ceremony, but it couldn’t hold his attention. He knew who the Uncrowned were, and there was little chance of him learning anything else.

There was a much more valuable opportunity in this room.

He needed to get the Monarch talking. Even a stray comment about hunger madra might be the key to Lindon’s entire future advancement.

After a minute or two, Lindon said, “I’m pleased to see that Ziel made it to the current round.”

Northstrider was standing with his arms folded, looking into the wall. Lindon couldn’t tell if the Monarch was casting his perception around the world, deliberating great thoughts, or sleeping with his eyes open.

He tried again. “Is there anything I can do to assist you? Or Dross?”

Silence.

It was probably too bold to try again, but he’d already made two attempts. The Monarch wouldn’t obliterate him for a third.

“If you don’t mind telling me, what are you testing Dross for?”

“I’m examining him to see if his initiative and ability to propose solutions are tied to his personality and self-awareness,” Northstrider responded. Lindon couldn’t tell if he had been annoyed into answering or if he was rewarding academic curiosity.

“I am also testing his capacity and resolve, as well as his spiritual structure. I would like to see if replication is possible without waiting fifty years.”

“Ah, I see. Thank you for enlightening me.”

Though Lindon was curious about the Soulsmithing principles involved, he didn’t want to take the conversation in the wrong direction. Instead, he crept closer to what he really wanted to know.

“I have been training diligently, as you instructed.” Lindon didn’t need anyone’s encouragement to train, but if Northstrider thought he was doing it out of obedience, that could be helpful.

“Watching Eithan fight has given me some thoughts about the direction I could take my own pure madra, so Dross and I have been testing some of those. My Dragon Descends technique—the one I used at the end of my fourth-round match—is still unstable and takes too long to form, so I practice that regularly.”

He flexed his white fingers. “But I’ve begun to believe that I’m not leveraging every weapon I have to its fullest potential.”

When the only response he received was silence, Lindon wondered whether he was being too subtle or too bold.

The gap in the conversation stretched endlessly before Northstrider said, “Four minutes remaining. Did Dross show you the memory he took from me?”

Lindon’s alarm raised several levels, but he extended a cautious answer. “He only showed me the pieces he could put together.”

“What aspects does my madra have?”

Lindon began to sweat. Maybe all the Sages and Heralds knew exactly how Northstrider’s techniques works, but to the average person, Northstrider was a total mystery.

But in front of the stone expression and piercing golden eyes, Lindon was more frightened of lying than of telling the truth.

It was best to pull a dagger out quickly. “Blood and hunger.”

Then he clenched his fists, bracing himself for a Monarch’s punishment.

Northstrider returned his attention to the shimmering orb. “Hunger madra is perhaps the most dangerous aspect to its user. But danger, properly harnessed, is opportunity.”

Lindon eagerly waited for more, but Northstrider glanced at the projection of the Uncrowned ceremony.

The Uncrowned were joined by Sages, each standing behind their chosen pupil. Charity floated behind Mercy, of course, while the Winter Sage chose Yerin.

Unsurprising. Yerin had told him about the connection between her and Yerin’s master. The tan, white-haired woman glared at the Dreadgod cultists as though she meant to draw swords right there.

Behind Eithan appeared a woman that Lindon had never seen before. Her hair was equally yellow and gray, and there were wrinkles on her face, which would make her unique among the Sages that Lindon had seen.

She wore the deep blue of the Arelius family, and a smile that reminded Lindon strongly of Eithan.

Lindon was very curious about this woman’s identity, but Dross emerged from the oracle codex, panting and swiping an arm across his forehead.

“Well done,” the Monarch said.

Dross raised a shaky limb, the end curled as though into a fist. [I…am…the greatest! My power is endless. Now please let me sleep.]

Northstrider nodded once. Then, finally, he spoke to Lindon again.

“Observe.” He waved a hand.

A void key—or something like it—opened in the center of the room. An instant later, the corpse of a giant pig fell out.

Its hide looked like dull metal, and it filled up the entire room, stinking of musk and filth. With a start, Lindon realized he could feel the spiritual pressure of an Overlord from this sacred beast. And its chest was rising and falling.

It was asleep.

Northstrider extended one hand, cycling madra in a slow, exaggerated motion that Lindon had no problem following. He could sense only blood madra.

Although…

Now that he was searching for it, and Northstrider was allowing him such a thorough look, he realized that there was a similar feel to Northstrider’s madra and that in his own arm. As though they shared a personality. An endless, hollow greed that could never be satisfied.

“Open your aura sight,” Northstrider commanded.

Lindon did, overwhelmed by the blood aura in the air. It drowned out everything else, reducing the other colors to dull smears.

Then the Monarch put his palm onto the pig’s swelling side and…pulled.

His hand itself didn’t move, but the madra in his body cycled rapidly, creating a suction as though the technique was taking a deep breath.

Northstrider inhaled the blood aura through his hand, but not just the aura. Sparks of bright green light joined it, and when Lindon concentrated, he could see that the beast’s lifeline had dimmed. He was draining its life.

And…everything else.

Witnessing the process himself had far more impact than watching a cobbled-together memory.

More colors joined the maelstrom, including gold and yellow that Lindon took to be its madra. Surely those aspects couldn’t be compatible with Northstrider’s Path, but he took them in anyway. There were even brighter sparks of red: blood essence, the power in the creature’s body, and hazy purple specks that Lindon took to be the dream aura of the creature’s mind.

That was dim, as this sacred beast had never gained awareness, but it was still there. And there was something else, gaps where Lindon could sense nothing, but he was certain there was something there.

When Northstrider finished, the pig went on snoring. He had taken only a portion of the creature’s vitality, and he banished it back to storage with a wave of his hand. A few fleas hopped over the carpet, but were incinerated in midair.

Lindon was grateful for that.

He was about to thank the Monarch for the demonstration, which had given him much to think about in terms of his hunger madra, but Northstrider wasn’t finished.

He stood still, eyes closed, cycling the powers. Processing them. Sending them where they were needed.

Though he did not veil himself and allowed Lindon to observe, Lindon couldn’t follow all of it. But Northstrider was using his madra, inwardly focused. A spirit Enforcer technique.

When the Monarch opened his eyes a second later, then Lindon bowed.

“Eternal gratitude,” Lindon said. “I will go to work on this technique immediately.”

“This is called the Consume technique. If you can master it, you will no longer need advancement resources. Only enemies.”

It would have been embarrassing to show delight in front of a Monarch, so Lindon held himself back.

“I have never had trouble finding enemies,” Lindon said. “But I would find plenty if I joined the Akura operation around the Wandering Titan. Of course, if you needed me to stay close for the sake of Dross, I could give up that opportunity and remain here.”

The black orb over Northstrider’s shoulder shimmered and vanished. “You would be wise to go and train yourself. I will come to you when I require Dross, wherever you are.”

“Then…pardon if I overstep myself, since you have already done so much for me, but would you mind sending me there directly?”

“I will not,” Northstrider said.

That was as flat a refusal as Lindon had ever received.

“It will be one more week before the Akura expedition arrives in Sky’s Edge. You should find a Sage to ferry you there. Or persuade Malice’s daughter to petition her mother. My time is too valuable.”

“Apologies, but I thought they would have arrived already.”

Lindon had seen Sages and Monarchs travel great distances at a thought. They had even transported most of the sacred artists in the Blackflame Empire to the Night Wheel Valley all at once. He had expected Fury’s cloudship to pass through a portal and then simply…arrive.

Then again, he knew there was some kind of restriction on spatial travel. Otherwise he wouldn’t have had to take a cloudship to the Ninecloud Court in the first place.

“Too many people,” Northstrider answered. “Transportation requires more power and skill across greater distances. With each additional passenger, the difficulty doubles.”

He seemed to be warming up to the subject, as he turned his attention to Lindon. “This can be mitigated by permanent or semi-permanent scripted structures that anchor transportation and create portals that can move any number of people.”

Lindon immediately thought of the doorframes that entered Ghostwater and the pillars of darkness that brought him to the Night Wheel Valley.

“However, these portals are expensive to activate. It is usually better to take the time to travel normally. In this case, Malice found the situation important enough to fuel one such pathway. It will shave weeks from their journey.”

Lindon bowed over his fists. “Thank you for the lesson, Monarch.”

Now he knew a solution existed. And he had a week before Fury and the others even arrived, so he had time to find it.

“When we meet again,” Northstrider said, “you will show me what you have learned.”

Then Lindon was gone.

At least this time, he was back in the arena. The ceremony was wrapping up, the air alight with fireworks and techniques meant to resemble fireworks.

His mind spun, and his hands itched to record his ideas, but first…

First, he had to bid his friends good-bye.

7

Information requested: Emriss Silentborn, the Remnant Monarch and Queen of the Everwood continent.

Beginning report…

Path: Ten Thousand Dreams. While the Path of Ten Thousand Dreams is not particularly suited to combat, its power is nonetheless undeniable. Sacred artists have shared dreams since antiquity, but Emriss developed the ability to accurately share memories, leading to the development and widespread adoption of dream tablets. This Path involves sharing thoughts widely, coordinating entire armies of sacred arts at once.

Emriss Silentborn was born a tree.

The men’hla tree is famous for its utility in Soulsmithing. Each of its leaves produces a separate Remnant, leading to an almost endless supply of dead matter. It takes extraordinary circumstances for such a tree to attain sentience, and Emriss is the result of such a twist of fate.

When she advanced to Underlord, she took the form of a young woman, using her control over vast networks of dream madra to voraciously learn and spread that knowledge as widely as possible.

She sought to end the tradition of competing over secret knowledge and to make education freely available for all. She spent her lifetime advancing science and civilization across the Everwood continent.

Upon reaching Herald, Emriss crafted the Dreamway, an interconnected library of dream tablets containing endlessly changing fictional worlds. She wanted it to be a place of rest and entertainment to inspire the imaginations of artists the world over.

As she began gathering support for a global portal network, to bring the various continents closer together, three rival Monarchs joined forces and had her assassinated.

Free, unlimited knowledge is a threat to those who hoard secrets.

But death did not stop her. The Remnants that fell from her leaves spread far and wide, defying all attempts to hunt her spirit down.

Over time, they joined together and re-formed, but her memories were fragmented and her sense of identity almost entirely broken.

Fortunately for her, she had spent her life leaving memories all around the world.

With her rebirth came wisdom. While her purpose never changed, her methods did. She is now more subtle, and the other Monarchs consider her both generous and harmless. For she spreads not the sacred arts, but the gift of language, ensuring as best she can that the inhabitants of Cradle all understand one another.

She protects her homeland, but she stays out of competitions for resources elsewhere, so her rivals leave her in peace.

They do not have the depth of understanding she does, and they do not realize how powerful cooperation can be.

Suggested topic: the Silent King and Emriss Silentborn. Continue?

Denied, report complete.

* * *

Yerin, Mercy, and Eithan had gathered with their respective Sages at the end of the cloudship dock outside the Akura guest tower.

Lindon couldn’t be sure why they had chosen the dock. There was no cloudship at the end, and if the Sages planned to travel directly, then surely they could leave from anywhere.

[Maybe it has to do with the position of the stars,] Dross suggested, drawing Lindon’s attention to the night sky overhead. [Or maybe it’s just that their students wanted to say goodbye to each other.]

When Lindon arrived, Mercy and Yerin were talking—Yerin laughing and Mercy making animated gestures. Eithan, behind Yerin, dodged her sword-arms.

Once again, Lindon felt the tearing pain and embarrassment of being the only one not to have made it. He should be going with them.

But he mastered himself and focused on the other three people on the platform.

Charity stood behind Mercy, hands folded, an owl on her shoulder. She was calmly waiting to leave, and she looked as though she could wait forever.

The Winter Sage, on the other hand, shifted impatiently from one foot to the other. Her long white hair blew in the wind, and she spoke to Yerin several times, though Lindon caught none of it other than Yerin’s name. She radiated a desire to leave as soon as possible.

The Arelius Sage, the woman Lindon had only seen during the Uncrowned ceremony, looked perhaps the most at ease. Her blonde-and-gray hair was tied up in a bun, and she stood with arms crossed and an amused smile on her face as she watched everyone else.

Mercy was the first to react to Lindon’s presence. She gave a glad cry and ran up to him, hugging him around the waist.

Charity raised one eyebrow.

“I’m sorry you have to stay,” Mercy said. Her eyes were full of sympathy. “I know you’re going to work twice as hard while we’re gone, but you should remember to relax. Oh, and goodbye Dross! Tell Little Blue I said goodbye, too.”

“I can bring her out.” Lindon activated his void key, and a closet-sized door opened in midair. A wind treasure tumbled out, but he caught it with his foot and kicked it back inside.

Little Blue ran out, arms upraised as she gave a mournful flute note.

Mercy made a similar sound, scooping up the spirit and promising that she would be back soon.

Lindon wondered when they had gotten so close.

Charity appeared next to his shoulder, startling Dross.

“We will be returning to Moongrave for Mercy’s training. Several of my branch’s elders remain here, and if you need to contact us, they will know how.”

Lindon dipped his head. “Gratitude. Thank you for taking care of me for so long. And Dross thanks you once again for the scales.”

[Wait, no I didn’t! But I do now. And…if she could spare one more, before her journey…]

Lindon didn’t ask why Dross hadn’t requested another scale himself, and he didn’t relay the message.

Not only did Dross have plenty of advancement resources, if Lindon could master the Consume technique, he could feed Dross himself.

“Taking care of you,” Charity repeated. “Hm. Suffice it to say that your performance met or exceeded my expectations. On behalf of the Akura family, I will provide you with an appropriate reward as soon as I am able.”

That lifted Lindon’s spirits considerably. He bowed deeper this time.

“I would be in your debt if you could provide me with transportation to the Dreadgod battlefield and back.”

He had intended to bring up the topic more smoothly, but since she had brought up rewards…

Charity raised one eyebrow. “I will return in a few days. We will talk then.”

“Gratitude.”

That was as close to a positive response as Lindon could have expected.

Mercy stepped up to Lindon again, Little Blue on her hand. She handed the spirit back. “Goodbye, Lindon! I’ll be back before you know it!” She took a deep breath and nodded to Charity, who widened a pool of darkness beneath their feet.

As the shadows crept up, Mercy waved and kept waving. “I’m glad we were on the same team, Lindon! Bye, Yerin! Bye, Little Blue!”

She was still waving when the transportation completed.

[She’s friendlier than the rest of you. Why don’t you learn from her?]

She’s friendlier than you, too, Lindon pointed out.

[Mine is sort of a…dry friendliness.]

The Winter Sage brightened as she saw Mercy leave. “Time to leave, Yerin. See you soon, Thousand Eyes.”

The Arelius Sage raised a lazy hand.

“Hold still for a breath and a half,” Yerin barked. She pushed her way clear of the Sages, grabbing Lindon by the edge of his robe and pulling him several steps away.

Lindon had practiced what to say here. He needed to stay positive and encouraging, focusing on the important job that Yerin was doing.

“Good luck, Yerin! I won’t let you get too far ahead.”

He couldn’t have her worrying about him while she was gone.

She gave him a frustrated look. “Don’t polish me up. I’m not—”

“Yerin!” the Winter Sage called. “Why don’t you introduce me?”

Lindon straightened to introduce himself, but Yerin blocked out his view of the Sage with one of her sword-arms. “Don’t listen to howling dogs. I’ve been trained by a Sage before. No cause to think she can change anything for me in a month. Tried to get her to bring you with us, but she’s stubborn as a boulder hitched to a donkey.”

“I hear you!” the Sage shouted.

Yerin moved another half-dozen paces down the dock, and Lindon walked along with her. “Bleed her. Look, I’ll be working my hardest. Don’t want Dreadgods trampling Blackflame City any more than you do. But if you asked me to bet on the odds that a Sage can help me beat Sophara in a month’s time, I just…well, maybe Mercy can bury her.”

She visibly struggled with herself for a moment before leaning into him, both fists resting against his chest.

Lindon’s heart pounded in his ears, and he slowly moved his arms around her.

On his shoulder, Little Blue made a questioning noise.

“Yerin,” Lindon tried again, “I’m going to miss you. I want you to go…but I wish we could go together.”

“You know what’s going to be a gem? When the fortress is finished, and we can just leave. Head home, you and me, and we can take our time. Everybody else can go rot.”

If Lindon’s heart had been pounding before, now it felt like he was in battle. He tightened his embrace, and she looked up.

It would be the perfect time to kiss her.

He knew it. He could feel it.

But he felt someone else’s gaze on him.

Even knowing it was a mistake, he looked up, and the Winter Sage’s eyes were narrowed and locked on him.

And behind her, Eithan and the Arelius Sage both watched while wearing the same smile.

Yerin shot a glance behind her and reddened, though this time Lindon suspected he was redder than she was. She backed up, and he released her. “Next round in a month,” she said. “Don’t drag your feet. See you then. Same for you, Dross. Blue.”

Little Blue backed up on Lindon’s shoulder, then took a running leap and flung herself toward Yerin.

The spirit wasn’t strong enough to make it all the way, so Lindon and Yerin both moved to catch her at the same time, but Yerin was faster.

The spirit landed on Yerin’s palm, then scurried up her arm and threw two sapphire arms out to embrace Yerin’s cheek.

Yerin’s eyes welled up.

Eithan stepped up smoothly then, gesturing Lindon aside. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking. I should have distracted the Sages so that you two could have a moment.”

“So only you could watch us?”

“I beg your pardon! I choose not to watch people quite often. Constantly, in fact. Also, the Sage of a Thousand Eyes can see you anywhere I can.”

So Lindon had heard correctly earlier. He looked back at the woman who looked like she might have been Eithan’s mother. The Oracle Sage, or the Sage of a Thousand Eyes, hadn’t been active since the death of her Monarch. Lindon had heard speculation that she was dead.

She nodded, and Lindon gathered she was confirming what Eithan said.

Eithan drew Lindon’s attention back by growing serious. “Listen, we don’t have much time. The Sages have already waited longer than they would prefer. I’ve spent the last week putting this together for you.”

He handed Lindon a scripted river stone the size of a child’s fist. It shimmered slightly with the light of dream madra.

A dream tablet.

“This includes the basics of the Path of the Hollow King,” Eithan explained, and Lindon shifted uncomfortably.

“Gratitude, Eithan, but…”

He and Dross had looked over Eithan’s records and come up with their own theories about the Path of the Hollow King.

“…I don’t think it quite suits me,” Lindon finished. “Apologies.”

Maybe if Eithan had taught him the Path earlier, then he would have become used to it, but Eithan had waited too long. Lindon would have to abandon or completely re-work the Soul Cloak in order to adopt Hollow King madra. Even the Empty Palm would require reinvention.

Rather than disappointed, Eithan looked unconcerned. “Oh, I’m sure. I didn’t want you to adopt my Path. But my techniques will be inspiration for your own, which will help you. As will this.”

Into Lindon’s hand, he placed a ball of copper plates.

Dross gasped, and Lindon’s mouth almost fell open.

The Arelius technique library.

The Sage of a Thousand Eyes craned her neck as though trying to get a better look, though her eyes had nothing to do with her bloodline ability.

“Yerin!” the Winter Sage called, and Lindon felt a cold tingle run up his arm as Little Blue climbed up to sit on his shoulder.

Yerin glanced back at him one more time as she walked over to her Sage.

Lindon raised a hand to her while the Sage of the Frozen Blade pulled a white-and-silver key out of her pocket. A gatekey, which created a portal to one spot.

[Do you think it’s easier for her to use the key, or do you think she can’t make a portal herself?] Dross mused.

Lindon was wondering the same thing himself.

As Yerin walked through an icy portal, glancing behind her with every step, the Oracle Sage stretched. “All right, that’s time for us too, Eithan. Let’s go.”

“I’ve given you temporary access to the technique library,” Eithan said, his voice low and urgent. “Use it to develop your Paths.”

The Arelius Sage used another gatekey, creating a second portal.

“Do you have any tips for Overlord?” Lindon asked quickly. One of Mercy’s tricks had helped him figure out his Underlord revelation, and Lindon had wanted to spend this last week pressing Eithan for anything he knew on the matter. Only Eithan had spent most of the week sneaking around on a project of his own.

A wind from the portal was starting to tug on Eithan’s outer robe. “Think about the will behind each of your three types of madra. The significance. The intentions. What do they have in common? Is there one purpose that unifies everything you can do?”

Lindon paid rapt attention, but the portal was starting to physically pull Eithan in. It looked like he was struggling against a strong wind.

“Also, think of how others see you. What are you to them? This perspective will help you understand your revelation!”

He spoke faster and faster, trying to get the message out as he was physically hauled backwards across the dock.

As he was halfway through the portal, pushing forward as though trying to escape a rushing river, he screamed, “Remember, Lindon! Remember to visit a barber! A barber, Lindon! Your hair lacks volume and defin—”

The portal closed.

Little Blue gave a brief, comforting chime and patted Lindon on the shoulder.

Eithan had given him plenty to think about, and Dross immediately began giving his own suggestions about hair, but Lindon stared for a long minute into the swirling wind and the passing cloudships.

He stood on the cold dock, feeling very alone.

* * *

Eithan flew out from the portal into a plain underground room of packed dirt reinforced with wooden planks. The Sage of a Thousand Eyes stood waiting for him in the doorway.

Only when the portal closed did she say, “That was dramatic.”

Eithan had brushed against the dirt wall, so he swept his outer robe clean. “I regret only that I didn’t teach him the importance of proper hair care.”

The floor was plain dirt with one exception: a scripted stone sticking up about a foot from the center. That would be the anchor, the target the gatekey used to mark this location as a target.

He looked down the long hallway, which was all dirt and wood, lit by flickering scripts.

“Welcome home, Eithan,” the Sage said.

“I see we’re not quite back to our former glory.”

The Oracle Sage gave a halfhearted laugh and started walking. “We can barely afford to use the gatekey. On the bright side, it costs a lot less to maintain a network of underground bunkers than a mansion.”

Gatekeys were difficult, expensive, and time-consuming to create, but they were not especially expensive to use. If that strained the budget, then there couldn’t be many powerful sacred artists left in House Arelius.

“Still much nicer than last time I saw it,” Eithan observed.

“Well, nothing’s on fire.”

He snuck a glance at her through his bloodline powers. The last time he’d seen her, she had suffered a blow from Reigan Shen that had made her vanish from his senses.

“If I may say, Cladia, you look even more radiant than I expected.”

She gave him a wide grin. “Compared to a spray of blood and a Remnant, yeah, I’d say I look pretty good. I’m better at restoration than I am at spatial travel, thank the heavens.”

At the end of the dirt hallway was a metal door, past which was another sealed chamber to remove their shoes and a wind construct that blew them clean.

On the other side of that chamber was a room that suited Eithan’s tastes much more.

The plush carpet was dark blue, the walls spotless and cream, the furniture finely carved and polished. A construct in the corner played soft harp music, and the runelight was gentle and warm. Plants strong in wind aura decorated the room, giving off fresh breezes.

Everything was made of cheap materials, nothing like the opulence of the Ninecloud Court, but it was all tasteful and the craftsmanship was impeccable. Eithan appreciated anyone who could remain stylish on a budget.

There were other rooms off of this one, and Eithan let his strands of awareness brush into them, taking a quick peek. This was effectively a three-story house that had been buried, and it was surrounded in such shielding that a Dreadgod might walk over them without rattling the walls. And without a chance of sensing anyone hidden inside; even Eithan’s bloodline powers couldn’t penetrate the scripts.

The staff stayed well out of the way, trying to remain invisible to the Sage’s guest, though of course that was impossible. He still appreciated their dedication.

“Spotless,” Eithan complimented Cladia.

“My people do their best.” She sighed and removed her outer robe, tossing it onto a coatrack nearby. “So why are you still an Underlord?”

Eithan considered his answer for a moment. “Fair play?”

The Sage poured herself a glass of wine using only her control over aura. “You think it’s still time for that, do you?” The glass drifted into her hand, and she took a sip.

Another glass landed in his hand, and Eithan looked into the pool of dark red. He had initially stayed at Underlord so long to avoid making Naru Huan feel threatened. Then he was waiting on Lindon and Yerin.

He wasn’t worried about his own advancement, after all.

But now that the Abidan were descending and Dreadgods were stirring…

He sighed. “Just when they caught up to me. This is going to annoy them.”

“Frozen Blade will get Yerin to Overlord,” Cladia said, reclining in a plush chair. “I don’t know about Lindon.”

“He’ll be fine. Just annoyed.”

She crossed her ankles on a footstool and watched him over the rim of her wineglass. “Do you not want to win the tournament?”

“That depends,” Eithan said, “on the highest bidder.”

They both laughed. It was refreshing, conversing with someone who could keep up with him.

She gestured to a side door, beyond which was her collection of natural treasures. When compared to the storehouse Charity kept at the Night Wheel Valley, it was painfully scarce, only two or three dozen treasures rich enough for a Lord.

“You advance, we’ll have some dinner, and then…well, you’ve seen the place. We’ll have to spend the next month hunting if we’re going to get you to Archlord.”

“Archlords aren’t eligible for the tournament,” Eithan said, opening the door, “but hunting sounds wonderful. Just a moment.”

He stepped into the natural treasure storeroom, feeling his soulfire resonate with the surrounding aura. He stretched out to the treasures he needed, striking a balance, and held his attention on them as he focused on his Overlord revelation.

He had discovered it long ago, and it hadn’t changed.

“I…see.”

It wasn’t as simple a statement as it sounded. It described who he was.

Eithan was one who saw.

He happened to know that Cladia’s Overlord revelation had been very similar. He thought about that as his chosen treasures evaporated and Overlord soulfire passed through him in a breath, refining and strengthening him.

The advancement to Overlord wasn’t as dramatic a leap as the one to Underlord, and he easily controlled the reaction to avoid losing his clothes. A good thing, too. He was fond of this outfit.

Seconds after he entered the storeroom, he stepped back out. “Sorry for the delay. Are you ready to eat?”

* * *

Mercy sat cross-legged in a shadow aura cultivation room at the heart of Moongrave. She could feel Charity pacing around the edge of the room.

“The dragon girl has harnessed power beyond her limits for victory in this competition,” Charity said. “We cannot do the same for you. Which means we are trusting you to perform.”

Mercy gulped down air, swallowing nerves. “Yes, Aunt Charity!”

“Are you afraid?”

“Yes,” Mercy admitted freely. If she failed, innocent people would pay the price. Not to mention her own mother.

“Good. That will make the fifth page more difficult.”

Mercy swallowed and manifested the Book of Eternal Night.

Her Divine Treasure appeared in front of her, a book of bright violet light with concentric circles of script spinning on the cover.

With a focused effort of will, she gave it a command: “Fifth page.”

The thumb-thick pages spun, revealing more and more scripts. When the fifth page opened, the power of an Overlord filled her.

And she was drawn inside a new world.

She didn’t enter physically, though it felt like it. Her real body was still seated at the center of the cultivation room.

Each page held a mental and spiritual space created by Malice, and this one was made of nightmares.

It appeared as a vast, dark cavern. Wide openings howled in the wind, and formations of stone blocked her vision in any direction.

A heavy burden hung on her spirit, making her madra slide out of her control and hammer against her channels. Overlord power was too great for her, but she had to keep it under control.

Which made the other effect of this page so much worse.

Dread swelled in her heart as though it had been planted there. She knew that there was something behind her, breathing down her neck. Her spiritual sense warned her of danger, imminent, in every direction, growing with every second, there was something there; it was about to pounce—

Mercy kept her thoughts ordered and her breathing regular. She had trained on the Phantom Islands, a location outside Moongrave that her mother had originally created for Charity’s training. There, she was haunted by nightmares.

She had completed that training, so she was sure she could finish this one. Until the phantoms came.

The first revealed itself one finger at a time, each digit pale and rotten, as it wrapped a hand around a nearby outcropping of stone.

When it pulled itself around, showing its face with its teeth bared in a squirming smile, she lost herself to instinctive terror.

The Overlord power inside her broke free, escaping her control, shooting from her in a geyser of shadows.

And she snapped out of the book. The power faded, the book sliding shut.

Mercy’s real body was panting and sweaty, her madra churned, and she felt like she might be sick.

“Fear of the mind can be conquered,” Charity said, picking up on her previous lecture as though she had never stopped talking. “The Dream of Darkness technique attacks the heart, mind, and soul as one. You must first endure it in order to control it, and enduring fear is a skill. I will teach you.”

Mercy could have forced the technique out on her own, but squeezing it out of her Book in the event of an emergency and really learning to wield it were two different things.

She had finally gotten her breathing under control.

She could see ways to improve her command over her own madra and even push back against the shadow and dream madra that filled her with such fear, but she wasn’t sure she could do it while fighting her own terror and the phantoms born in that space.

But her mother hadn’t chosen this technique because it was easy to learn. She had chosen it because it was the perfect technique for Overlords.

“Dream of Darkness is in the Book of the Silver Heart, isn’t it, Aunt Charity?”

“It is my sixth technique,” Charity confirmed. “I didn’t have to learn it until I was an Archlord. But the Monarch expects great things from you, Mercy.”

The Monarch did…and so did Mercy herself. If she didn’t earn the ability to defeat Sophara herself, that meant she was leaving the task to Yerin or Eithan, and she couldn’t allow that.

She had spent too much time trapped at Lowgold, letting them fight on her behalf.

Not anymore.

* * *

As anybody without a chipped head would expect, the headquarters of the Frozen Blade sect was in the snow.

Yerin had never liked it here. Not only was she not especially eager to see the place where she had shivered for hours while blood froze on her skin as she tried to sense sword aura for the first time, it was also just freezing cold.

Why would anyone choose to live here?

…because they were a bunch of ice artists, and she knew that, but that didn’t make her enjoy it any more.

Jagged blades of razor-sharp ice stuck out at chaotic angles from every snowbank, gathering the power of ice along with a silver edge of sword aura. These blades pressed close even to the network of wooden huts where Yerin stayed, making sure the aura was present for harvesting everywhere.

And ensuring that every inch was as cold as possible.

The Frozen Blade School owned a huge stretch of land, and over time had come to protect an entire nation’s worth of people from invaders, the deadly environment, and each other.

This little complex of huts, tucked away at the foot of a mountain, was the Sage’s personal home. Each hut was connected by a raised walkway covered by a roof, so you could walk around without trudging through hip-deep snow.

Yerin just didn’t understand why the walkways didn’t have walls.

The icy wind was literally cutting, slicing away the ends of her hair and taking scraps from the edges of her outer robe before she spared enough attention to push away the aura. The Sage’s home was no place for most Golds; only Truegolds on the Path of the Frozen Blade were allowed to visit, as anyone below could not protect themselves.

Yerin had been allowed to settle into a hut of her own, though that mostly meant looking at the room, confirming that everything was where it should be, and leaving. She didn’t believe in weighing herself down with belongings.

She wandered around the compound, familiarizing herself with it. This was more painful a trip than she’d expected, because the last time she’d been to the Frozen Blade School, she was with her master.

He had pushed her Rippling Sword by challenging her to break a chip off one of these bladed ice formations.

When she had been knocked off her feet by a fever, he had sat with her for a day and a night, feeding her medicinal broth and telling her stories.

She had tried to follow him to this compound one night after being explicitly told not to, only to be shredded by the sword aura in the frozen wind. The Winter Sage had found her and moved her back to the Iron guest housing, shouting and weeping in equal measure.

It had put Yerin off. If the woman cried over a girl she’d just met, her tears came too easily.

She was more comfortable with her master’s reaction. When he’d seen her covered in blood, he’d cracked a grin and said, “I bet my soul against a rat’s tail that you won’t be trying that again.”

Now, here she was, staying in a house that she’d been too weak even to touch before.

She liked that feeling, but it wasn’t enough.

Not only was she alone, but the Winter Sage was going to act like they were family. Yerin wasn’t sure how much of that she could take.

But she’d be a fool to pass up the training of a Sage, especially when the Blackflame Empire could be on the line. Although…even her master hadn’t made it past the first match of the top eight.

What chance did she have?

Yerin found that her pacing feet had taken her to a wide training room, where the Sage was giving hasty instructions while cradling what looked like a baby rabbit.

“Yes, you can meet her, but later. I need the room. Can you hand me the…yes, the bottle. Right next to that one. Perfect.”

Yerin stopped watching through a window and pushed the door open. The Winter Sage didn’t look up at her entry, but the two students bowed.

Both were Underlord, and both looked older than she did.

One was the shaky-looking man who had filled in at the Uncrowned King tournament and had failed in the first round. He clutched a sheathed sword to his chest, staring at the ground as though imagining he was somewhere else.

The Underlady next to him bowed more quickly, but she kept shooting glances at Yerin with wide eyes.

“Go, you two! Go away! You can meet the Uncrowned later!” They scurried away, and the Winter Sage smiled over the rabbit in her arms. “Everyone wants to meet you.”

The tiny sacred beast squirmed, and Yerin saw it had a bandage around one of its haunches. It had a sharp horn of frozen ice, so Yerin had no doubt that it was native to the area.

It squirmed as it suckled on the bottle the Winter Sage held.

Yerin kept watching the rabbit as she spoke. “If I had a bent copper chip for everyone that wanted to meet the Sword Sage’s disciple, I could buy one of your mountains.”

The Winter Sage looked astonished, and it occurred to Yerin that there might be an advantage to dealing with someone who wore her feelings so openly. “What? No! They want to see how someone so young could be stronger than the twins.”

Yerin didn’t know who the twins were, but she didn’t particularly care. “Don’t have so much time that I’m looking to make new friends.”

The Winter Sage watched her seriously, and for once she wore an expression that Yerin thought befit a woman of her wisdom and accomplishment. She nodded slowly.

“You want to hold the bunny?” Min Shuei suggested.

Yerin took back all her compliments. How could anyone become a Sage without taking the sacred arts seriously?

But the rabbit had finished drinking from the bottle and was burrowing down to sleep in the Sage’s elbow.

“…yes,” Yerin admitted.

If a Sage could afford the time to hold a baby rabbit, then she could.

When the bunny was sleeping peacefully in Yerin’s arms—and Yerin was staying very still to avoid jostling it—the Winter Sage got down to business.

“We only have a month, and we won’t find out your opponent until the last week, so that will be taken up by combat training. Meaning we have three weeks to help you do what even your master couldn’t do at your age.”

The Winter Sage reached onto a nearby shelf, filled with junk, and pulled out something that Yerin thought was a large book. It ended up being a wide board with a wooden edge and a black surface.

The Sage started writing on it with chalk. “Your Striker and Enforcer techniques are…fine. Not worth working on. But your Hidden Sword is abysmal. You don’t even use it in most fights, do you?”

“If you’ve got a better suggestion, I’ve got two ears.” Her Forger technique was brittle, weak, and its advantage of being invisible was useless against fighters with highly tuned spiritual senses.

Like any Underlord.

“Your master didn’t choose his techniques at random. The Hidden Sword has principles in common with my Path, so I can teach you that personally. Your Endless Sword has reached the stage of ‘sword like the wind,’ but if we can push that to the whisper stage, you’ll have more tactical options.”

Her brow was furrowed in concentration as she wrote furiously on the board, but Yerin couldn’t understand a word of it.

She watched the tiny sacred rabbit instead.

“Your foundation is adequate, but your master reached this point in the tournament using only the Path of the Endless Sword. You have made it so far using your other advantages.”

Now she was stabbing the chalk angrily, as though just talking about it made her furious.

But then she paused.

In a forced casual tone, she asked, “Right, it just occurred to me to ask, but…where did you get the idea to fight using only your spiritual sense? That…did that come from Adama’s Remnant?”

She had utterly failed to sound as though she didn’t care, but Yerin didn’t mind answering the question.

“Eithan. Perception training so I could keep up with an Arelius.”

The Winter Sage let out a breath that meant either disappointment or relief. “He got lucky, then, and so did you. Improving your perception helped you sense your master’s authority as a Sage. Between that and your Blood Shadow, you were able to cling to the tournament by your fingernails.”

Yerin bristled at the phrasing, but she remembered Eithan looking into her eyes and shaking his head. “I don’t see it in you yet,” he’d said.

If he had picked that training out of pure luck, she would eat her sword.

“Just have to push for advancement, true?” Yerin said. Technique training was good and useful, but there was no substitute for getting stronger.

The Winter Sage whirled the board around. “This will be your training schedule.”

It was a chalky mess of nonsense.

“Ambitious? Of course!” the Sage said proudly. “And you can see we’ve assigned plenty of time to your advancement.”

“Can’t read that.”

Shock slowly spread over the Winter Sage’s face. “He…he never taught you to read?”

“Don’t see how it hurts me.” At worst, it was an occasional inconvenience. Dream tablets were more common in leaving behind techniques than paper was, and signs in major cities used constructs or simple symbols that even she understood. Or sometimes pictures.

“It’s a basic skill! I’ll have to see if we have any literacy tablets left in the Foundation compound. We might not; even our earliest students can read.”

“We’ve got time for that, do we?” Yerin asked, running two fingers down the back of the sleeping rabbit.

“It will drive me insane if I see you advance to Overlord before you learn to read.”

Yerin was glad to hear that advancement was indeed on the menu, but she had her sights set beyond Overlord.

“How do I get to be a Sage?” she asked.

She didn’t fully understand what she’d done in the match against Lindon, but she had clearly tapped into the power of a Sage somehow.

That was her key to winning the tournament. And to the goal she’d held since she was a little girl: to succeed her master as the next Sage of the Endless Sword.

The Winter Sage’s eyes lit up, but she bit her lip and slumped her shoulders. “No…no, we can’t. We have to build you a solid foundation until Archlord. Then we can work on developing your authority.”

“Authority?” Yerin asked.

The Winter Sage squirmed in place for five entire seconds before her excitement won out and she gave in. “Okay! To become a Sage, you have to contact a greater power, a symbol of a greater concept of reality. We call that symbol an Icon.”

Tears welled up in her eyes and she gave Yerin a fond smile. “You have already touched the Sword Icon, which has guided you in battle.”

Yerin nodded along. “Okay. So you sense the Icon, that’s the first step. What’s the next one?”

The Sage laughed. “First step? That’s the last step.”

That should be encouraging, Yerin knew, but she didn’t like being laughed at. The softness of the rabbit’s fur helped soothe her irritation.

“The first step is you yourself becoming a symbol of swordsmanship. In my case…” She spread her hands wide, snowflakes drifting down from the ceiling above. “…I manifested the Winter Icon first. I became a symbol of ice, of cold, of all things that freeze and are frozen. Only later did I also reflect the Sword Icon.”

So you could have more than one Icon. That was good to know.

“And this Icon shows you how to win fights?”

The Winter Sage hefted the bottle she had used to feed the rabbit. She held it up so that Yerin could see it, then she tossed it into the air.

“Freeze,” the Sage commanded.

The bottle stopped in midair. It had been tumbling end-over-end as it fell, and now it was locked in place.

Yerin crept up. She sensed no madra or aura holding the bottle in place. She ran one hand over it and below it, but felt nothing. She even tapped the bottle with one finger. It was stone solid.

Min Shuei reached out a hand of her own. The bottle fell into her waiting palm.

“Sages and Monarchs can command reality directly, but as you can imagine, there are limitations. We can only affect the world in certain ways related to our Icons, and we call the scope of that power our authority.”

This was what Yerin wanted. She finally had a name for it.

This authority seemed like the goal of all the sacred arts: complete control. It was the power that the Sword Sage had mastered.

And Yerin could too.

“We will make you—” the Sage looked up in the middle of her sentence and walked over to open the door.

The Underlord from before stumbled in, balancing four boxes in his arms. “I got it!” he said triumphantly. “I made it!”

One of the boxes tipped and almost fell until he controlled wind aura to push it back.

Yerin sensed the power of the natural treasures and elixirs in those boxes…

…when her Blood Shadow surged forward, leaping for them.

Yerin smoothly knelt, placing the rabbit on the floor, before she reached out with her will and seized the Shadow.

The parasite was only half-formed, essentially a mass of blood madra with fingers clawing for the boxes. Yerin froze it in midair, locking it in place.

For a long moment, they went back and forth as they had so many times, each shoving against the other for control. The Shadow had become so strong…and so hungry.

The Winter Sage spoke, and her one word resonated through the entire room. “Return,” she commanded.

The Blood Shadow slithered back into Yerin’s spirit like wire on a spool.

It raged inside her, though Yerin reassured it that she would feed it soon. “Sorry,” she muttered.

The Winter Sage looked both furious and disgusted. “Starve it. You can’t remove it at this point without serious spiritual damage, but you can’t keep feeding it.”

“Was it me that just said the only reason I made it so far was because of this thing?” Yerin pretended to think as she scooped the sleeping rabbit back up. “No, I’m stone-certain that was you.”

“You are the only heir to the Endless Sword. You must stay focused on your Path.”

“You think I’m sweet on this thing? I want it out of me! But I keep it, maybe I win. Maybe. I starve it, I lose.”

“Even if it stops you from becoming the next Sword Sage?”

Yerin was quiet. The rabbit in her arms squirmed.

“Focus is critical in manifesting an Icon. The Blood Shadow is not a reflection of your swordsmanship. It will not help you achieve the Sword Icon, and will only distract you.”

“I don’t want to keep it,” Yerin said. “But I can’t just…lose.”

“Eat up,” the Sage said, and she sounded exhausted. “And do not give a scrap to that parasite.”

8

After Eithan, Yerin, and Mercy left with their respective Sages, Lindon returned to his room and summoned the Ninecloud Soul.

In addition to covering the announcement of the Uncrowned King tournament, the spirit also coordinated every construct in the Ninecloud Court.

When the rainbow light shimmered in front of him, Lindon spoke. “Pardon, but I would like access to the hunting grounds.”

“The Underlord grounds are closed for maintenance tonight, but we have several Truegold locations available.”

They had also received another shipment of hunger madra, which Lindon purchased in the name of the Akura family. The Ninecloud Court had provided him with madra—mostly broken-down bindings taken from dreadbeasts—to maintain his Remnant arm all this time.

As a part of his body, the limb required less maintenance than a normal construct would have. It took most of its sustenance from his pure madra.

But since he didn’t generate hunger madra in his spirit, he did need to supplement it every once in a while. Especially when he strained it to its limits.

As he intended to do tonight.

The Truegold hunting ground to which he was taken in a flying carriage was a stony maze filled with Remnants and hostile spirits of every description. Signs and glowing constructs provided guidance and direction to those who were permitted access.

Some were Soulsmiths who preferred to do their own hunting, but most were here to train. Usually, entrants were charged a fee based on the Remnants they hunted down, but Lindon was permitted certain privileges as an Uncrowned competitor.

He passed a few late-training Truegolds, most of whom bowed when he walked by, but he wasn’t looking for anything in particular. When he first cornered a Remnant without anyone around, he pounced on it.

It was a pink, fluid storm Remnant in a shape that reminded him of a gecko, and it kept repeating a series of buzzes that sounded like the word “grapefruit.”

Lindon didn’t know if it was trying to say something else or if its original body had died with citrus on the brain, but a quick spiritual scan made it clear that this wasn’t one of the few Remnants that had developed a sense of awareness.

His Empty Palm blasted a chunk out of its center, and the rest of its body trembled like a shifting surface of gravel.

While it dispersed, he held out his Remnant arm and asked Dross for help.

With the spirit’s assistance, he replicated the technique Northstrider had used.

The storm gecko exploded.

Lindon wasn’t too surprised.

Under the protection of his madra, not even his clothes were singed, and he moved on to the next Remnant.

He had known he would need to make modifications to Northstrider’s technique. The binding in his arm had been altered by the addition of the Archstone, but it had changed further as he had used and fed it over the last months. As a part of his body, it grew organically.

So while the principles of the original Consume technique would help him, they could only be guidelines. He had to adapt it himself.

He could have drained the Remnant dry of its madra on his first attempt. He had been doing that for years.

But he was trying to take everything.

Without Dross, he suspected this development process would have taken years. As it was, his first three attempts ended in failure, but the third Remnant gave up specks of blood essence, life essence, and that invisible substance that his arm had consumed before.

This time, the Remnant fell into a lifeless pile of limbs before it exploded.

Lindon lost all the power he’d drained. He vented the madra from his arm, and he couldn’t capture the blood and life essence before they dissipated. As for the invisible force, he didn’t know what happened to that.

But by the time his arm and madra channels were so sore that he was forced to stop, Dross had far more information than he’d started with.

Only then, exhausted and with his mind swirling with theories, did Lindon fall asleep.

While he slept, Dross dove into the Arelius technique library looking for information on hunger madra.

In the morning, Lindon asked the Ninecloud Soul for a copy of The Seven Principles of Pure Madra, by the Script Lord.

He had first heard of the book when he read a dream tablet left by its author in Ghostwater. Its ideas had allowed him to create the Soul Cloak, but he had taken only memories and impressions of its contents. He had never read the work itself until he came here and found that the Ninecloud Court had a copy in their library.

After that, he booked time in the tower’s Soulsmith foundry.

The next few days fell into a rhythm, as Lindon brushed up on areas of improvement that he had neglected while competing in the tournament. He spent the bulk of his time on the Consume technique, but when he or Dross needed rest or when he had exhausted his possibilities, he worked on other areas.

Lindon would go to the hunting grounds in the morning and practice Consuming Remnants, spend midday studying theory as he and Dross recovered, then practice Soulsmithing in the evenings.

He returned to an old project that he had never fully abandoned: armor. He’d kept his Skysworn armor and samples of armor from the Seishen Kingdom in his soulspace, and he found several interesting dream tablets in the Ninecloud library from Soulsmiths who specialized in armor. They gave him entirely new avenues to explore.

Between all that and his daily cycling and physical training, he spent the next five days in a constant state of activity.

In the end, he gained a better understanding of where he stood.

His hunger arm could absorb the full power of a Remnant now with very little waste, but he had nothing to do with that power. He could catch it and release it. He needed a technique to process and control the energy inside his body, rather than trying to grab anything he could directly.

Eithan’s Path of the Hollow King emphasized the property of pure madra that the Seven Principles called Emptiness. Pure madra diluted other aspects, effectively emptying them out and taking their place.

Lindon could integrate that into his own Path. The Empty Palm already worked that way, and he doubted it would change the Soul Cloak much. More importantly, the principle gave him the idea for a new technique.

He had seen other sacred artists use Ruler techniques to duplicate boundary fields, controlling aura to create certain effects inside a certain radius. Why couldn’t he flood an area around himself with pure madra, preventing anyone else from using techniques?

It would take an astronomical amount of madra, and he hadn’t been able to figure out a stable structure, but the theory was sound. Dross was able to simulate different versions of the technique, and Lindon had already begun testing several of them.

It was in working on that technique and consulting his Path of Twin Stars manual that he realized the solution to his hunger madra problem.

He needed a technique that worked inside of himself, filtering and separating madra. That would be a spirit Enforcer technique, and he had started looking through the Arelius technique library before an idea occurred to him.

He had a technique like that.

The Heart of Twin Stars.

It had been designed to split one core into two, but it was a spirit Enforcer technique compatible with pure madra. With a few modifications, he and Dross were sure they could get it to work.

Which left him, on the evening of the fifth day, with three projects: develop the Heart of Twin Stars into a proper filter, continue simulating the pure madra boundary field technique until he found a version he was comfortable practicing, and assemble a set of armor for testing.

Lindon wrote as much into his notes and sat back in his chair, satisfied. He had made great progress, and he had plenty in front of him. To occupy his time.

While he was alone.

His satisfaction waned.

Little Blue rolled a scale across the desk in front of him, and Dross spoke into his mind in an encouraging fashion. [Don’t worry, don’t worry! This should be plenty to keep you busy for three more weeks. Who needs a Sage?]

It wasn’t the lack of a Sage that bothered him, and it wasn’t entirely loneliness. It was that they were out there fighting for something, while he was only preparing.

Other people were fighting over Dreadgods, or training to stop an invasion of the Blackflame Empire. Meanwhile, he couldn’t help.

At least not yet.

“Two more days,” he said aloud. Northstrider had borrowed Dross twice in the last five days, but neither time had he given Lindon more useful advice. But he had reiterated that Fury was scheduled to arrive at the Wandering Titan’s location in two more days.

Charity was supposed to visit before that, and he could try to convince her to send him along.

He could wait two days. It wasn’t as though he didn’t enjoy Soulsmithing, research, and practice, but none of that could compare to actually stealing power from enemies.

If he could get the Consume technique working, he could be an Overlord before the next round began. Or at least a peak Underlord.

A knock echoed at the door, startling Little Blue so that she let her pure scale fall off the edge of the table. She pouted a moment before scampering down to go get it.

Lindon stretched his spiritual perception outside, and when he felt the identity of the person at the door, he used a brief burst of the Soul Cloak to leap across the room and open it.

Akura Charity stood there, dressed like a peasant worker. She wore simple brown with a stained smock, her hair frizzy and tied behind her with a rag.

The outfit tugged on something in Lindon’s memory, but he didn’t chase it down, inviting her in.

She drifted inside after him. “I have come to discuss your reward,” she said, but of course Lindon knew what he wanted.

“If it’s not too much to ask, could you bring me to help your father around the Dreadgod? If you could send me there and bring me back for the Uncrowned matches, I would be grateful.”

Ideally, she would transport him to the Wandering Titan battlefield in between each round, bringing him back for every fight, but that might be pushing his luck.

Charity was silent for a moment as she considered. “I had intended to offer you the inheritance of an Archlord Soulsmith, but if you would prefer transportation, I can agree to that instead.”

Lindon’s certainty came crumbling down.

A true inheritance was a dream tablet that a Soulsmith spent years working on, containing their life’s knowledge of Soulsmithing. They contained such depth, detail, and complexity that they could only be fully integrated by one person, and so they were created to pass on a Soulsmith’s knowledge to an heir.

It could also take years to digest the experience in an inheritance, although with Dross’ help, Lindon suspected he could make that process much, much shorter.

With an Archlord inheritance, Lindon could go from a talented Soulsmith with a miraculous dream-spirit to a true expert almost overnight.

“I’m…certain,” Lindon said, though the words scraped his heart raw. “As long as I will have more opportunity to earn advancement resources on the battlefield.”

“That you will. And I must visit Sky’s Edge periodically anyway, but taking you along will cost me more of my time and attention. Given that, this will be your only compensation for the tournament.”

“I understand.”

“Very well. I will be ready to depart in three hours. Prepare yourself.” She turned to leave before adding, “Most of our vassal factions are helping us secure this territory. Including the Seishen Kingdom. They may have already arrived.”

Lindon remembered the fury of their Overlord king when he had discovered the death of his eldest son. That pressure still felt like it was choking now.

He remembered Kiro’s Remnant rising from the floor of the Akura storehouse. A scythe of green flame that had cut short Yerin’s life, and the gray-eyed woman who wielded it.

“Gratitude, but that does not change my answer.”

He had known he was stepping into danger as soon as he’d chosen to step into a war zone around a Dreadgod. He could accept a little more risk.

And he had overcome the Seishen Underlords when he was a Truegold. He might not be Uncrowned, but he didn’t have to cower before them.

If the Consume technique worked as he hoped it would, they might have to cower before him.

A vague hint of a smile crossed Charity’s lips before she left. “Three hours. Be ready.”

It took Lindon that long to finish packing.

When Charity finally ushered Lindon away from the Ninecloud Court, he was swallowed up by shadows.

Unlike some other times he had been transported, he didn’t see blue light. He felt only darkness swallowing him whole.

[Don’t worry about the dark, I’ll light things up for you,] Dross said.

A bright light shone straight into Lindon’s eyes. Though he flinched and turned away, he couldn’t escape the glare.

[Look at that bright, refreshing light. Doesn’t it just lift your spirits?]

This hurts, you know.

[Healing is often painful.]

When the darkness retreated, Dross pulled away the illusion of bright light. Though it had never had anything to do with his eyes, Lindon had to blink rapidly to recover his sight.

Heat and smoke choked the air, and Lindon manipulated wind aura to keep his eyes and mouth clear.

“The Firestone Roads,” Charity announced. Glowing rocks that shone with the rippling orange of flame were arranged into paths leading away from them, but half of the paths rose into the air and vanished into dark plumes of smoke.

A crimson deer whose antlers were aflame looked at Lindon and snorted. “Dragons,” the stag said distinctly, and then galloped away on hooves that trailed ash.

Beside the roads of ember-bright stones rose a scripted spire like a lighthouse. Fire aura was drawn there, and a blazing signal-fire shone from the top.

“Pardon,” Lindon said, “but this isn’t our destination, is it?” Were they planning on walking from here?

Charity reached into a shadowy void key and pulled out a chair, on which she sat. Its wooden legs began smoldering until she waved a hand and the smoke vanished. “With you along, I cannot travel as quickly as I would otherwise. It will take us until evening to arrive, though it will be morning in Sky’s Edge. While we’re here, you may cycle the abundant fire aura or explore, as it suits you.”

The fire aura was powerful, but there was very little destruction to go along with it, as nothing he could see was being consumed by the flame. He elected to explore, pulling Little Blue out so she could see too.

They found a boiling river filled with white-hot fish, a family of those fiery stags attending what seemed to be a cultural history lecture, and a ten-foot-tall ash creature that recognized Lindon from the Uncrowned King tournament.

Charity appeared in front of Lindon after he’d finished recording his voice into a construct for the ash monster. “Time to leave.”

Lindon and his two spirits bid the creature farewell.

Their next stop was a web-city of sacred spiders that found Dross fascinating, and then an ancient forest glade full of Sylvan Riverseeds. Little Blue spent over an hour playing with her kind, though she was the only one with any detail or real intelligence as far as Lindon could tell.

After that, they crossed the ocean, where Charity told them to be careful. The inhabitants of the ocean were largely hostile to the Akura clan, she said.

They first landed in a bustling city where every building was on a separate platform raised high over the ocean’s surface. The platforms were connected by bridges that swayed in the wind, as a violent storm tossed waves and threw out forks of lightning.

They spent most of their time sitting in a restaurant, watching massive shapes roll in the water beneath them…and the clouds above them.

While idle, Charity usually pulled out a book and began to read, and Lindon didn’t want to interrupt. But now that they were sharing a table, he waited for her to glance up from the page before he asked her a question.

“Pardon if this seems rude, but I have often wondered: are you the only Sage in the Akura family?”

“The only direct descendant.” She returned her eyes to the page.

“And your father is the only Herald?”

She nodded, but thus far this was common knowledge about the Akura clan. They had many allies among the Heralds and Sages, but Charity and Fury were the only ones in the family.

“If you don’t mind me asking…why?”

If their family could raise a Herald and a Sage as well as a Monarch, why couldn’t they do it again?

“There is a balance. It would be…dangerous…to have too many individuals of a certain level at one time. So when an Archlord shows signs of advancement, if we believe it would disrupt that balance, we encourage them to ascend.”

She flipped a page, and her tone became dry. “The heavens have never turned us down.”

Lindon still felt like he was missing something. “Apologies, but do you mean you’re trying to stay in balance with the other Monarch factions?”

“These are not matters for an Underlord. When you reach Archlord, you will discover certain truths for yourself.”

And that was the end of that conversation.

Two stops later, Charity told Lindon to prepare for the cold. “While the weather in Sky’s Edge is no threat to an Underlord, we are arriving at a location of powerful ice aura, so dress accordingly. If you didn’t think to pack for the cold, you’ll have to—”

Lindon pulled a heavy coat and winter boots from his void key.

They emerged from darkness into a frigid gale of blowing ice.

Lindon slapped a few chunks from the air before Charity’s aura control took over and deflected the hand-sized flying blades.

They stood on a smooth, wide surface, like a polished ball a hundred feet in the air. The sun still hadn’t risen over a range of white-capped peaks to the east, so the entire world was painted in shades of gray.

To the west stretched the ocean they’d just crossed, and at their feet was a town made of thick wooden logs.

The town had been destroyed.

Houses were burned, smashed, or torn apart. Pillars of smoke and dust rose into the sky, and the streets seethed with shadowy creatures. If Lindon was to open his aura sight, he was sure that he would see the power of destruction hanging over Sky’s Edge like a dark cloud.

But he didn’t open it. He knew better.

One massive hand of dark stone rested across the shore of Sky’s Edge, palm-down and fingers spread. Several houses were crushed under each finger.

An arm stretched back into the ocean, leading to a bulky shadow beneath the waves and a dome of rough stone that rose from the water like an island.

The shell of the Wandering Titan.

He found himself thinking of Orthos.

In a way, the turtle felt closer now than he had in almost a year. As though Lindon could sense him nearby if he stretched out his spiritual perception.

But that was just Lindon’s imagination.

The Titan was often depicted as a turtle that walked like a man, and now Lindon could see why. While its shell had become a hill rising from the water, its hand was five-fingered and clearly shaped like a human’s.

The Dreadgod had reached up to the land with one arm. Its palm sank into the ground, cracks spreading from its fingers and stretching throughout the town.

He couldn’t wrap his mind around the size. He had seen the Bleeding Phoenix take up an entire horizon, and the Titan was on the same scale, like a piece of the landscape rather than something that could rise to its feet at any moment.

“The Dreadgod still has not fully awakened,” Charity told him. “It crawled slowly across the ocean floor, toward the labyrinth that gave it birth, until it made it to these shores. Our oracles predict that this will be its last stop before it awakens in six to eight weeks, by which time we must have evacuated the surrounding lands.”

“No one’s going to stop it?” Lindon asked, surprised. Malice had stopped the Bleeding Phoenix by herself the last time. Surely another Monarch could do something similar.

Charity turned to him, purple eyes impassive. “Monarchs, Heralds, and Sages are the only ones capable of doing anything to a Dreadgod, and among them only a Monarch could match one for any period of time. They would then be weakened for a rival.”

“Apologies, but your mother…”

“Grandmother. Stopping the Bleeding Phoenix cost her. Her holdings around the world were taken or sabotaged while her attention was occupied. We have recovered some of them, but not all. It is very likely she lost more than she saved.”

Lindon knew a Monarch’s responsibilities were broad, but his mind boggled at the scope.

There had been an important reason to stop the Phoenix, and he thought he knew what it was.

“The labyrinth. The Dreadgods are after it.”

“They are, though why is another one of those mysteries you’ll have to discover for yourself.” She didn’t seem too concerned, explaining impassively. “Even I don’t know what’s inside.”

“And what happens if they reach it?”

If they wanted it so badly, surely it was important for the Monarchs to stop them from getting there.

“Nothing,” Charity said calmly.

Lindon waited for the rest of the explanation, suspicious. It couldn’t be that simple.

“The defenses on the labyrinth are legendary. The Dreadgods usually can’t locate it at all, as the entrances remain sealed, so they spend their time awake wandering around and satisfying their hunger. During the destruction of the original Blackflame Empire, they converged on the location of the labyrinth. They tore up the ground for miles, but found nothing.

“Yes, the labyrinth is perfectly secure. But the people living around it are not. It is still a mystery how one Underlord opening an outer hatch for a handful of minutes caught the attention of Dreadgods so far away. We discussed executing your Blackflame Emperor for dereliction of his duty, but even throwing all the entrances in the Empire wide open for years should not have produced such a result.”

She shook her head. “In the end, we can only blame fate.”

Lindon looked down at the new “island” resting in the ocean and shivered. Only a few weeks, then the Dreadgod would rise.

“Gratitude,” Lindon said. “I can make it from here.” He sensed a large collection of sacred artists at the edge of town opposite the Dreadgod’s hand, behind a large stone wall.

“I will accompany you,” Charity said. “I have to speak with the Overlord in charge.”

The Sage seemed to be waiting for him to take the lead, so he hopped over the edge. Only while falling did he notice the nature of the ball they had been standing on.

It was the pommel of a sword. He fell past the hilt, guard, and gleaming white blade, which had been driven into the earth.

Extending his perception, he saw that what looked like metal was actually unbelievably dense madra. This was a Forger technique.

Why had it been Forged with a hilt and guard? Why not just a sharp blade?

It reminded him of Yerin’s Final Sword. She and her master had Forged the technique into the shape of the full weapon.

There had to be a reason.

When they landed—Charity lightly, as though she weighed only a feather, and Lindon surrounded by the blue-white Soul Cloak—he asked about the sword.

“This town was once the site of a battle between the Winter Sage and the Herald of the Tidewalker Sect,” she explained. “The final attack that drove him off remains to this day, and is one of the reasons we’re here.”

At the base of the blade, the locals had raised a stronghold of wood and stone against the flat blade. An iron-banded wooden gate kept the fort shut, but he sensed powerful earth aura inside.

“The introduction of such powerful madra from the Winter Sage had a unique reaction. The sword formed a certain synergy with a strong vein of earth aura, and this became one of the few places in our territory where it is possible to mine wintersteel.”

She gestured back to the shore. “It is why we’re here, and why he is here too. The Wandering Titan feeds on powerful materials, especially minerals. Aside from evacuation and protection, we are also here to remove as much of the mine’s product as possible.”

Lindon didn’t see how anyone could be left to evacuate, because every inch of the town swarmed with dreadbeasts.

The creatures filled the streets of the dead town with a putrid stink, but they stayed far away from Charity as she and Lindon dashed to the fortress wall at the edge of town.

The wall was forty feet high, made of stone that had clearly been pulled from the earth and sealed together by a Ruler technique. Blood and scorch marks stained the bottom third of the wall, and dreadbeast corpses were piled at the bottom.

Even more creatures scrambled over those.

Every animal within miles had to have been warped by hunger madra to form the army of dreadbeasts that Lindon had seen already, and sacred artists at the top of the wall swept the monsters with Striker techniques.

The guards were Golds with the occasional Lord or Lady, almost all of them wearing full armor. Over their heads, flags of the Seishen Kingdom flew proudly.

The creatures beneath them must have been Truegold or lower, but the impression they gave off as a group was far more dangerous. Though Lindon could destroy any number of them from a distance, if he fell into such a group, they would tear him limb from limb.

Dreadbeasts flitted through the skies as well, though fortunately fewer than those on the ground, but they kept largely clear of the Kingdom encampment.

In the skies over the fortress, the Seishen King Dakata did battle.

He was a hulking, broad-shouldered bear of a man, especially in his bulky gray armor, but he faced a creature that dwarfed him.

Lindon would call it a dreadbeast, but it had the figure of a human with long, grotesquely twisted limbs. Its pale skin was broken and rotting, its jaw hung loose, and the beast gave off the impression of a horrific puppet made of corpses rather than any sort of living thing.

It flew on wind madra, sending Striker and Ruler techniques after the King in such a furious barrage that Lindon suspected it would tear its own madra channels apart. King Dakata weathered the assault like a boulder in a stream, but the Thousand-Mile Cloud on which he stood wavered with every hit.

This was a dreadbeast with the power of an Overlord. Fear shivered through Lindon’s heart. How powerful could these become?

[Uh, well, the one in the ocean can literally eat Monarchs, so…that powerful.]

Charity drew her hand back, then flicked her fingers forward.

Clouds of silver-and-purple madra swept forward like a bank of fog, and Lindon was certain that he was watching the Striker technique of a Sage. Then the madra formed into distinct figures, hundreds of ghostly specters condensing from madra.

The phantoms raised their swords, reaping dreadbeasts like wheat. Each figure struck once and then dispersed, puffing into essence. One specter, larger and more distinct than the others, skewered the Overlord dreadbeast through the back with a spear.

The humanoid creature stiffened and screamed in what sounded like terror before King Dakata’s sword took off its head.

Every other dreadbeast that had been struck by Charity’s technique died. In seconds, the army besieging the fortress had been reduced by half.

Lindon had seen living techniques before, but now he had to know the secret. Was that a Forger technique, or a Striker technique come to life?

As the Seishen soldiers sent up a cheer, Charity glanced over to Lindon. “Striker technique,” she said. “Imbuing a living will into techniques is very advanced, but you will learn someday.”

Lindon wondered how she had read his mind, but he didn’t really care. He wanted that power.

The Seishen King descended before them, going to one knee in front of Charity as he removed his helm. His gray beard and hair were matted with sweat, and he spoke with both exhaustion and respect. “I thank you, Sage. I would have felled that beast sooner or later, but I fear what damage it may have done in the meantime.”

“What is the situation?” Charity asked calmly.

“I have no doubt the Sage understands it already. We hastened here, to obey the Akura summons as quickly as possible, and arrived only the day before yesterday. The place was…a slaughterhouse. We gathered everyone we could, but that was only two in ten of the town’s residents. We suspect there are as many again still alive and in hiding, but that is entirely a guess. We have barely been able to secure our own position.”

As he spoke, his eyes flicked to Lindon more than once.

He showed no surprise. He’d noticed Lindon already and remembered him.

[Do you think he knows we killed his son? I say we because I want him to know that I deserve half the credit.]

Lindon bowed respectfully, hoping that manners might somehow help.

“I see. Good work, Your Highness.” She spread a hand to her side. “I’m certain you remember Wei Shi Lindon Arelius, my selection for the tournament. You may not have heard yet, but he earned his way to the top sixteen.”

Dakata’s jaw stiffened. “I…see. He must be a valuable asset to the Akura clan, then.”

“He is. And he will be joining up with my father’s forces when they arrive in a day or two. Until then, I will leave him in your care.”

Lindon whipped his head around to stare at the Sage. If she left him under Dakata’s supervision, he’d be dead within the hour.

Charity went on, serene and unconcerned with Lindon’s panic. “My father is looking forward to meeting with this Underlord. If for whatever reason he cannot, he will be very disappointed. In you.”

Dakata bowed his head. “I will protect him as if he were my own son.” There was gruff anger in the last word.

Lindon knew that the Sage was protecting him, but he still didn’t trust the Overlord’s restraint. “Apologies, honored Sage, but may I—”

“You will be busy before my father arrives,” Charity interrupted. “We will pay a bounty for dreadbeast bindings. And you should be prepared to do battle against enemy Underlords when Abyssal Palace arrives.”

“If I may ask, can I stay…elsewhere…today?” He was painfully aware of the king kneeling behind him, listening to every word.

“I have every faith in your ingenuity and resilience. As well as Dakata’s self-control. Farewell, both of you. I will see you soon.”

Then she vanished into a pool of shadow.

Leaving Lindon alone with King Dakata.

The Overlord straightened up, pulling out his Thousand-Mile Cloud and placing his helm back on. “Stay away from Daji,” the King said roughly. “He’ll kill you. Now get behind the wall and we’ll find you a room.”

Lindon had no intention of staying in any room the Seishen Kingdom prepared for him.

9

During his first night in Sky’s Edge, Lindon didn’t sleep at all.

As an Underlord, he needed less sleep than he ever had before…unless he exerted himself. He still recovered faster while sleeping, so he preferred to get five or six hours of sleep a night to maintain top condition. But a night without sleep wouldn’t kill him.

Falling asleep inside the Seishen Kingdom’s walls just might.

He had stayed long enough to at least see the room they had given him, but on his way he had glimpsed both Meira and Prince Daji.

Daji, younger brother to the Prince Kiro that Lindon had left dead in Charity’s treasure vault, was a wolf-like young man with a savage air. He was as tall as his father, but not as broad, and he carried two swords as he prowled the wall, shouting at his men.

The Underlady Meira had almost been chosen to participate in the Uncrowned King tournament as part of the Akura vassal team, and that was the lesser reason why she frightened Lindon.

Her hair and eyes were both gray, though she was a young woman, and a pink flower over one ear seemed to be her Goldsign. She was a life artist and carried a tall scythe with a blade made of green flame. Lindon had seen her fight with armor before, but in the fortress she wore simple sacred artist robes.

The robes were stained in blood, which was especially concerning because her techniques were bloodless.

He saw her as she leaped into the sky, pulled a winged dreadbeast apart with her bare hands, and then fell onto the back of another. Only when she was on the ground and surrounded did she pull out her scythe and swing it around her, cutting through the ranks of the enemy in a furious rage.

She had been the one responsible for almost killing Yerin, and Lindon still felt a tight anger toward her for that.

But in the end, Yerin and Lindon had been the ones to walk away victorious. He was content to leave her alone.

The Seishen Kingdom had plenty of other Underlords after their time in the Night Wheel Valley, such that Lindon felt like he was surrounded by them until he escaped the fortress, but none seemed to notice him through his pure madra veil.

And no one cared when he jumped down from the top of the wall and ran into the rocky wilderness.

Lindon didn’t know how seriously the Seishen King would take Charity’s warning—would he hunt Lindon down to protect him, in order to avoid punishment from Fury?—but he had made his choice quickly. A dreadbeast-haunted wilderness was safer than a base of the Seishen Kingdom.

Lindon had survived dreadbeasts in the wild before, though those had been far weaker. Still, a script-circle and a network of hastily improvised security constructs kept him safe as he scooped a cave out of a cliff face with dragon’s breath.

Of course, he made sure to spend a moment stripping the binding from any dreadbeast he killed.

Any bounty was profit.

Instead of sleeping, he spent the night in the cave developing his techniques. The sooner he could get the Consume technique working, the better.

He sat cross-legged on the dusty stone floor as dreadbeasts prowled outside. His attention was focused inward as he tried to incorporate the principle of Emptiness into his Heart of Twin Stars.

Eithan’s cycling techniques were helpful for inspiration, but he didn’t have a spirit Enforcer technique in his Path, so there was nothing directly applicable. Lindon was forced to sit and check off variations as Dross simulated more.

[Oh wait, oh wait, I’ve got it! That’s it, that’s the key! Just try the last cycling pattern…in reverse.]

Inspired by the enthusiasm in Dross’ voice, Lindon reversed the course of his madra, matching it up to his breath.

In about ten seconds, he had to stop. Every inch of his madra channels was in searing pain.

[Perfect!] Dross shouted. [I couldn’t quite visualize what would happen if you tried that. Now we can absolutely, definitively, cross that off the list.]

Little Blue whizzed around Lindon’s head on a tiny Thousand-Mile Cloud, laughing like a silver bell.

Ocean-blue hair streamed behind her, as she had gained detail and substance over time. He could even see little feet kicking at the hem of her sapphire dress.

The cloud he’d made her wouldn’t last an entire day, and he had made her promise not to cross the script-circle that kept dreadbeasts out, but she loved flying.

At least one of them was having fun.

Trying new patterns for the Heart of Twin Stars over and over again required his entire attention but had produced no results, so frustration grated on him. He and Dross both agreed that separating madra with it should be theoretically possible—the technique was made to separate part of his soul from itself, after all—but his madra just didn’t seem to move like it should.

Their progress on his new boundary technique had stalled for the same reason. Not only could they not hold it stable for more than a breath, but it wouldn’t block even a Highgold Striker technique. The pure madra he was pouring into it didn’t cleanse foreign elements aggressively enough.

Little Blue stopped her cloud in front of his eyes and piped a question.

She wanted to help.

He smiled, trying not to worry her. “You already help. How could I have made it without you?”

The Path of Black Flame still scorched his madra channels, and without Little Blue’s help, he would have to use it much more sparingly. The Dragon Descends would damage his spirit every time he practiced.

She cheeped more insistently, and Lindon gave her proposal more thought.

Then an idea clicked into place.

Little Blue was a naturally formed spirit of pure madra. Her power worked by cleansing and pacifying hostile elements in the spirit. He couldn’t be certain, but that might be exactly what he needed.

“Dross, what would happen if we added Little Blue’s madra to the Heart of Twin Stars.”

[Eh, um, ah, that…no, that absolutely wouldn’t work. Not with the version you’re using now. And even if I came up with a variation that would be compatible, you would need her help every time you used the technique. Not worth trying. Should we try it anyway? Let’s try it.]

Dross played the simulation in Lindon’s mind, and it worked largely as Lindon had hoped. Blood and life essence from his hunger arm went to feed his body and lifeline respectively, and any drained madra was purified.

The efficiency of the madra was poor, as not all madra could be purified, and it required great concentration on Lindon’s part to control.

But it seemed to work.

Hurriedly, Lindon rushed out to the front of the cave. A script-circle blocking the entrance kept slathering beasts of every description at bay; the last time he’d looked, there were five of them, but now that number had doubled.

Lindon saw them as walking stacks of scales.

Three security constructs buzzed around him as they aimed their launchers outward. They would attack anything that broke the circle, and none of them would last any longer than Little Blue’s cloud, but they gave him peace of mind.

A ward-key at his belt made him the exception to the script as he reached out with his white arm, seizing a dreadbeast of about Truegold level and draining it.

The others pounced on him, but he pulled his hand back in an instant. He only needed a little power to test.

Hurriedly he dashed back into the cave and began cycling. The blood and life essence were already fading away, but the madra—a muddy brown mess of conflicting aspects—raged up his arm and into his channels. If it had been Lord quality, he might have already suffered damage.

“Little Blue,” he asked, “would you mind helping me for a moment?”

She glowed with delight and raced over on her cloud. A second later, she poured her soothing madra into him.

He took it, matching the blue sparks of her power to the rhythm of the modified Heart of Twin Stars. It was difficult splitting his attention so many ways, as he had to incorporate Little Blue’s madra, control his own in an unfamiliar pattern, and maintain a grip on the energy he’d drained from the dreadbeast.

It took so much of his concentration that he didn’t realize it had worked until all the power was gone.

The blood essence went to his body, the life essence to his lifeline, and a trickle of pure madra back into his core. Even his channels felt slightly healthier.

[Blech!] Dross spat. [Ew, I got some of its thoughts. It’s so…hungry. And it’s in constant pain. I don’t like pain, don’t make me feel it again.]

Lindon couldn’t contain his excitement. This was the breakthrough he’d been waiting for.

Now the Consume technique was in his reach.

When it was finished, every enemy would be nothing more than a spiritual elixir for him to consume. The dreadbeasts didn’t just look like piles of walking scales, but like walking miracle pills.

He swept Little Blue up in his hands, holding her over his head. “We did it! You were the key!”

She looked surprised, and she burbled a question.

“You! You were what we were missing!”

She cheered like a chorus of whistles, running around in circles on his hand.

Then she plopped down and said something else, and he hesitated.

“I…we need to come up with a different version before we try it again. We’ll need to know if it strains you first.”

There were a number of areas that could be improved. The cycling path was less efficient than it could be, and it took him too much concentration to channel three things at once. Dross was simulating new versions already.

More importantly, he didn’t want to work Blue too hard. All it would take was one accident, and he might crush her with the power of his spirit.

Impatiently, she patted his hand and whistled a low flute note.

“…there is one more thing we could try,” he said reluctantly. “But that’s all, okay?”

She cheeped at him to get on with it.

Closing his eyes, Lindon concentrated on the latest version of the Empty Field.

[Hollow Domain,] Dross corrected.

We’ll name it later.

They hadn’t agreed on a name for their new technique yet. Lindon wanted it to sound like it belonged with his Empty Palm, but Dross thought Hollow Domain sounded better. Lindon thought the name fit Eithan’s Path more than his own.

He set up the Highgold launcher construct they’d been using for practice, then triggered it.

And used his new technique.

Madra flooded out of him…and with Little Blue’s support, it was tinged more blue than white. The wave of madra filled the room, cleansing everything except pure madra.

The launcher shot a Striker technique of light and force, a beam that entered the zone of blue light…and fizzled out instantly like a candle dunked in water.

The field of pure madra dispersed, flowing away. It was supposed to stay in place, stable, rather than washing over the room like a wave. And it wasn’t supposed to take an entire quarter of his pure core’s contents.

It was supposed to cancel out enemy techniques. Which it had.

Little Blue gave a cheer, but she swayed and fell over on his hand. She pushed back to her feet in a moment, insisting that they keep going, but he was already placing her onto her cloud.

“Apologies, Little Blue, but I need to take notes.”

She seemed to accept that, but she kept her cloud hovering close to his head.

He wrote down his experiences and observations, as well as the problems that still needed ironing out, but all his previous frustrations were wiped away. This was a real start, and now he was close to having more weapons in his arsenal.

His Path was almost complete.

The main problem still facing him was Blue’s safety. Maybe he could imitate her madra on his own, or get her to Forge scales for him to consume in battle.

She whistled when she grew impatient with his notes, and he gave her a smile of apology. “You know I can’t put you in danger. Even if I keep you in my core, one good hit to my spirit and you could die. Apologies.”

Little Blue scowled at him, then flew her cloud up to the ceiling to sulk.

* * *

Lindon spent an entire night and most of the next day working on his new techniques and pushing through the Heaven and Earth Purification Wheel.

Then the Akura cloudship arrived.

He sensed the ship approach Sky’s Edge, as Akura Fury was doing nothing to disguise his presence. Lindon flew on his Skysworn Thousand-Mile Cloud back to the wall of the Seishen encampment, killing flying dreadbeasts and tucking their bindings away as he traveled.

The ship on its dark cloud hung between the fortress and the giant, white sword embedded in the terrain. King Dakata and several Overlords flew out to meet the Akura family as they arrived.

Lindon stayed well back.

Akura Fury drifted up, over his ship, and took a deep breath.

A moment later, his voice boomed out over the entire town.

“Hey everybody! Welcome to Sky’s Edge! Let’s remember why we’re here: we need to protect the survivors, clear out the dreadbeasts, secure the mine, and evacuate the citizens before the Titan wakes up.” He ticked off every point on his fingers.

“In a few days, we’ll be joined by Abyssal Palace, so then we’ll get to fight them too! Until then, the bounty system works like we discussed. It’s set up on the ship. If you don’t know your teams, find…”

The Herald scratched the back of his head. “…Justice? No, Justice is still at home. Well, you can find somebody to tell you. Oh, and don’t hurt your allies, okay? You can fight if you really want to, but make it an official duel with rules and everything. Abandoning a mission, fighting over bounties, or permanently injuring someone is a punishment. Kill anybody on our side or betray us, and I’ll kill you.”

He didn’t sound too upset about the idea. Fury crossed his arms and furrowed his brow, thinking for a moment. “Hmmm…I think that’s about it. Have fun!”

The tiny cloudship of the Seishen Kingdom stopped halfway as figures burst into flight around the Akura ship like bees fleeing a hive. Clouds, sacred beasts, Remnants, constructs, and techniques shot away from the large cloudship and headed to the ground, all carrying teams of sacred artists.

After enduring the wave of traffic, the Seishen king and his entourage continued toward the Herald.

But Fury vanished in a blur of motion.

Lindon only had time for a spike of alarm to go through his spirit before Akura Fury came to a stop in front of him, grinning, his red eyes bright.

The wind of his passage blew against Lindon in a powerful gust, carrying the stink of dreadbeasts and making the Herald’s shadowy hair whip wildly.

“Hey, Lindon! Did Charity bring you?”

Lindon pressed his fists together and bowed. “She did, and she suggested that she would be back to meet with you soon.”

“Oh, okay.” He didn’t sound like he cared whether Charity checked up on him or not. “Glad you could make it! We need to get you a team, let’s see…aha!”

There was a small cloudship nearby, designed for about ten people, with a purple cloud that was about to touch down to the ground.

Fury made a grasping motion, and a hand of shadow seized the ship and started dragging it backwards.

As it grew closer, Lindon’s heart sank.

At the control panel of the ship, with his head in his hands, was Akura Pride.

Six other Underlords rode the ship with him, and Lindon recognized them all. Akura Grace, like a younger version of Malice herself, stood behind Pride and held a hand on her curving single-edged sword. Two of her relatives waited in the back, the other members of the Akura backup team, as did the two women from the Frozen Blade School.

They both had tan skin, white-streaked black hair, and blue-and-white robes, and he couldn’t tell them apart. Their names were Maten Teia and Maten Kei, though Lindon had never really had a conversation with either of them, and he didn’t know if they were sisters or distant relatives that happened to look alike.

The final passenger was Naru Saeya, who would have been able to see over the heads of everyone else if she hadn’t sat herself on a bench at the very back of the deck. Her wings were retracted, she kept her eyes on the ground, and the peacock feathers over her ear drooped.

These were the participants from the Uncrowned King tournament.

“This is our best Underlord team!” Fury said proudly. “You guys are better than everybody else, but we need you for harder assignments, so it evens out. Lindon, you made it the farthest in the tournament, so you’re in charge now. Pride, you’re number two. Everybody else, just figure it out.”

Pride looked like he was trying to launch a Striker technique with his eyes.

Grace frowned slightly, the other two Akura family members seemed uncomfortable, the Frozen Blades muttered to one another, and Naru Saeya looked up from the deck.

All of them watched him.

[Would you like a reminder of how many times you’ve fought each person on that ship?] Dross asked.

I haven’t fought the Matens or Naru Saeya at all, Lindon responded. He was resolved to look on the positive side.

“Good luck, kids!” Fury said cheerfully. “Work hard!”

He left a miniature hurricane behind him as he leaped away again.

“Apologies,” Lindon said as soon as the Herald was gone.

“Get on the ship,” Pride snapped. “We’re wasting time.”

Lindon hopped on, and Pride immediately started piloting away. Lindon didn’t even know where they were going. “Pardon, everyone. I would never wish to contradict a Herald, but I don’t know that it’s appropriate for me to be in charge. I don’t even know what’s going on.”

Though he was very interested in the idea of bounties.

Pride looked to him in disgust. “What attitude is that? Raise your chin. Leading this team is an honor, and you should work to be worthy of it.”

He tossed something to Lindon. A viewing tablet with text written on it in light projected by internal constructs.

Lindon’s eyes widened when he read the words “Bounty Board.”

“Uncle Fury likes to make it a game,” Pride said. “Teams get contribution points for contributing to our cause here. There are no individual points. The team’s score is pooled together and the distribution of prizes is decided by the team’s leader.”

The stares from the rest of the team prickled him, but he didn’t look up.

The tablet recorded a list of bounties that could be claimed by each team.

Dreadbeast binding below Lord: 1 point

Dreadbeast binding, Lord-rank: 5 points

Assignment completion: 20 points

Natural treasures: 5 points minimum, subject to appraisal

Spoils of war: 10 points minimum, subject to appraisal

That explained the teams all around him, who were already flying around and hunting dreadbeasts. Lindon was even more pleased by the collection of hunger bindings he’d earned over the last day.

Then he saw the list of rewards.

Natural treasures ranged from four points to sixteen, depending on strength, and you could use points to purchase materials like scales, dead matter, simple constructs, and weapons. So far, so expected.

When he reached the end of the list, his heart started to pound.

Limited Stock:

Tears of the Mother Tree: 1500 points

Interior Command elixir: 1000

Gold Lion’s Heart pill: 1400

Low-grade void key (two available): 1250

High-grade void key: 1750

Diamond Veins: 2000

Divine Treasure – Thousand Swords of Binding Light: 2250

“…spent the last two weeks training together,” Pride was saying. “We saw your performance in the tournament, but whatever my uncle says, that’s no basis for command.”

Striker techniques were lighting up the rocky ground around Lindon. Every second, dreadbeasts died.

Points were being taken from his pocket. He had dreadbeast bindings in his void key, but not enough.

If he played this right, he could get these prizes.

He could get them all.

“Pride. One moment.”

The short Akura Underlord bristled, then took a step closer to Lindon. “You seem to have forgotten that I’m the one who—”

Lindon seized him, terror filling his words. “Every second we waste is another point gone. You understand? We’re losing points.”

This could be the greatest harvest he’d ever reaped in his life, and he had started late.

Pride tried to respond, but Lindon released him. “How many of you have Thousand-Mile Clouds?” They didn’t respond immediately, and desperate impatience clawed at his chest. “Your hands! Raise them!”

[I wish you could see how crazy you look right now,] Dross said. [I wish I could see it.]

Hesitantly, everyone but Naru Saeya and the two Frozen Blade women raised their hands.

Naru Saeya didn’t need one, but the other two would need to be able to fly to keep up. Lindon opened his void key, used wind aura to grab the bag of dreadbeast bindings, and tossed the sack to one of the Frozen Blades.

“Turn those in for points. There should be forty-six in there, and the lowest level clouds are twenty. Buy yourselves one each, then go hunting dreadbeasts with everyone else.”

Grace spoke up. “We need everyone for our current assignment.”

“No, we don’t.” There had been a memory embedded in the tablet explaining the details of their mission; Lindon was viewing it already. “Separate into teams of two, and…you two, please leave. Please. I’m begging you.”

The Frozen Blades looked at each other, shrugged, and hopped off the cloudship. Not nearly fast enough for Lindon’s taste. He wished he could loan them madra.

“Teams of two,” Lindon continued. “Pride, take Courage. Grace, take Douji. Go get another assignment each.” Akura Courage controlled a formation of six flying swords, so he should cover for Pride, who used only Enforcer techniques. Akura Douji was a lightning artist who had practiced extensively with Grace.

Lindon had fought them both several times apiece. In his head, he’d faced them hundreds of times. He knew exactly what they could do.

“If they won’t let you take one until our current mission is finished, then hunt dreadbeasts or Forge scales.” Scales couldn’t be exchanged for points, but they might be able to buy things that could be. “Naru Saeya and I will handle the assignment.”

Pride straightened. “This is a task they would normally assign to an Overlord. Don’t let your pride drag us down with you.”

Lindon seized him by the shoulders and shook him. “This is about points.”

Pride looked furious, but he left.

Lindon had already taken over the control panel, shoving his pure madra into the scripts until the cloudship blasted forward. Pride had been taking them closer to their mission, where he had surely intended to land and approach on foot, collecting dreadbeast bindings as they went.

The ship shot over treetops in a blur.

“They won’t like that,” Saeya predicted sourly. “Pride is well-named.”

Lindon’s void key had opened again, and he manipulated aura and extended strands of madra to flip open scripted boxes and pull out bindings and dead matter. “I know what they’re like. I’m sure they didn’t listen to a word you said the entire time you were with them, and that’s why you’re with me.”

Dross was working to supplement his concentration and his pure core was emptying like it had developed a leak as he assembled a construct and piloted the cloudship at the same time, so his attention was barely on his words as he spoke. “You also have the skills I need right now. You’re faster than they are, your perception extends farther, and your Path is perfect for rescue.”

He was as tightly focused as if his life was on the line, his objective all he could see.

Saeya blinked as she looked from him to the construct assembling itself behind him and back.

“You know, you should act like this more often,” she said. “Yerin would love it.”

Lindon wasn’t listening.

Soulsmith products could be purchased for points, which meant that they had Soulsmiths doing that work who must get paid, so he could take on Soulsmithing jobs as well. How many missions could his team complete per day? Two? How many dreadbeasts could they defeat? How many were there?

Saeya pointed him in the right direction, and soon he could see a red flame blazing from the side of another rocky fortress. This one didn’t have the hastily built look of the Seishen Kingdom’s construction, but was as big as a small town, and rose in layers like a cake. The red fire covered half of the structure without going out.

Over a hundred Gold dreadbeasts tore at the sides of the fortress, opposed by sacred artists inside, but it was another humanoid dreadbeast that provided the real threat.

This fat, rotting, man-like creature opened its jaws and spewed red flames across the fortress wall. They splattered like liquid, some fires extinguishing but others burning on.

This creature gave off the pressure of an Underlord. At least. It was hard to rate dreadbeasts like sacred artists, but Lindon wouldn’t be surprised if someone were to compare this specimen to a weak Overlord.

The mission parameters were to rescue a few key members of the sect who had made this fortress their home. Any further sacred artists rescued would mean bonus points, but the situation was more complicated than it seemed on the surface.

A protective script covered the outer wall of the fortress, which was why the Overlord dreadbeast hadn’t killed everyone yet. Neither the fire nor the army of monsters had penetrated the outer wall of the fortress yet, but they would soon.

If he engaged the Overlord in battle, the Golds would make it impossible to win quickly. Already flying dreadbeasts were diving to attack their ship.

Their full team of eight would have surely swept this battlefield clean with minimal risk, but their safest options would have also taken the longest.

Lindon’s dead matter was all in place, and he let the cloudship’s speed fall, devoting himself to Soulsmithing. Every piece of the construct floated in his pure madra, and he Forged them without tools, shaping them according to the image in his mind.

Each binding shone in his spirit like a star, and Dross’ calculations prevented the slightest mistake.

The Spear of the Summer King went opposite the red dragon’s breath.

The Storm Lotus opposed the Titan-Slayer Axe, and the Grave’s Last Word matched against the Bloodwash Wave.

All six Striker techniques reacted with one another, sending off sparks of many colors, settling into an equilibrium with the other bindings, the dead matter, and his own madra. It was Soulsmithing that should have taken weeks of testing, measuring, and planning.

The launcher construct settled into his hands as the fat dreadbeast turned to face him, roaring. Red flame gathered at the back of its throat.

Lindon leveled his newborn cannon and fired.

A lance of blinding light slammed into the creature’s belly, carving out a chunk of flesh. The giant gave a pained roar, and this time its hands glowed red as well. A more complicated technique, easily powerful enough to reduce their cloudship to splinters.

Bat-like dreadbeasts screeched as they dove for him, but he gave them no attention. Naru Saeya met them with wind in one hand and a rainbow sword in the other.

Lindon forced his spirit through the cannon, pushing out another shot before the weapon had been given a chance to recover from the last one.

The giant’s head exploded. Burning, rotten flesh sprayed across the stony landscape as the dreadbeast toppled.

Lindon’s construct broke apart, and he tossed it aside, trying not to calculate how many points its materials would have been worth.

Saeya had rid herself of two flying dreadbeasts, but was flying circles around two more, harrying them with her weapon and techniques.

Lindon took them out with dragon’s breath.

The Naru woman hovered down to him as his cloudship slowly came to a stop over the fortress. She looked shocked as she surveyed the dead Lord-stage beast. Rotten blood had splattered across her outer robe.

But she roused herself quickly. “I’m heading inside.”

Lindon tossed her another construct, one that he’d prepared beforehand. “Break this if you need help. I’ll clean up out here.”

She nodded and shot down, stopping to identify herself to the defenders on the wall and convince them to let her through their protective script.

Lindon dropped to the ground himself, switching to Blackflame as he fell. The Burning Cloak ignited, dragon’s breath formed in his hand, and Wavedancer flew from his void key.

The flying sword, beautifully crafted from the blues and greens of wind and waves, responded eagerly to his will.

He landed with a squelch on the ruined dreadbeast and laid waste to the army around him.

The Archlord flying sword sliced Truegold dreadbeasts in half with a single swing, as did the thin bars of Blackflame he sent slashing out.

At the same time, he tapped into his soulfire, using the blood aura in the giant’s body to pull apart the flesh in its chest. Meat and tendons tore away from the binding he sensed near its heart.

Hurry, Lindon thought. I have to hurry.

If even one prize escaped his grasp, he was going to weep blood.

10

Eithan waded through an ashen maze of jagged walls that were all that remained of his homeland.

He doubted he had ever stood in this particular building before, but even if he had, there would be no way to tell now. The earth had shifted and the sky rained living lightning, until what was left was unrecognizable.

The layer of ash only remained now, eight years later, because of the endless destruction aura that enveloped the whole continent. If he were to open his aura sight, he would see a black shadow clinging to every other color. His outer robes and the tips of his hair would slowly dissolve, if he let them.

He stopped in the shadow of the largest chunk of wall still standing, gazing through an empty window down a row of shattered homes. He tried to use that image, to let it remind him of the consequences of his own bad decisions, but it was too late. That wound was too old and too deep. Nothing he could do today would bring feeling back to that scar.

The people who had died here had belonged to House Arelius. Once, losing family had evoked great passion in him.

Time had dulled that edge. So had knowledge. He didn’t need vengeance, he needed the power to change a system that had broken long before he was born.

Though he was oddly pleased to feel an ember of fury stoke to life as he saw the man approaching him from behind.

Reigan Shen’s steps crunched in ash that he had made himself. “Eithan Arelius. I expected to find you in Tiberian’s palace.”

He prowled with great confidence, his white-gold mane glossy, and in Eithan’s opinion he would not look out of place with a tufted tail swinging behind him.

The Monarch was thoroughly veiled. Here in secret, then. As expected.

Eithan turned and gave him a blinding smile. “What’s left of it, you mean? You expected to see me weeping in the ruined foundation?”

“So you haven’t returned. I left it mostly intact, out of respect.”

Returned.

“Ah, you remember me.” Eithan swept a bow. “I’m honored.”

The Lion Emperor nodded. “It is not often that understanding so exceeds age and advancement. If Tiberian had used you more carefully, perhaps it is I who would have fallen.”

“Tiberian trusted you to act in your own self-interest,” Eithan said. He was pleased that he still sounded unfazed, though he was growing closer and closer to angry every moment. “As, I admit, did I.”

“None of you understand my interests, which always surprises me. I feel I have been very consistent.”

“You could have ascended like a king. Who is Kiuran of the Hounds? You know as well as I do those like him would have licked your boots the moment you ascended with a Dreadgod weapon in your hands. You would have dwarfed Northstrider’s most ambitious dream.”

Reigan Shen laced his fingers together, and his jeweled rings flashed in the dying sunlight. “My desires have only ever extended to this world, not beyond it.”

That was almost enough to start Eithan shouting, but Shen continued in a melancholy tone.

“I have heard your arguments from Tiberian’s mouth. Perhaps my people would be safer and happier if we had destroyed the Dreadgods. But they are safe, and they are happy, and I am here to guide them. And the heavens have offered me the means to achieve our goal, your goal, without abandoning my people.”

Eithan focused on his cycling madra, controlling his emotions. Equilibrium returned soon enough, and his smile was more genuine. “We both know that won’t work. If you don’t ascend, it will be for nothing.”

“It will buy us time to put new systems in place. You are not the only one who understands the nature of things, Arelius.”

Shen’s words sunk Eithan’s spirits. It will buy us time. That was all they ever wanted. Stall tactics. No real solutions.

Yes, millions of people will die, but still an acceptable number. It’s not as if we’re doing nothing. Perhaps we could reduce that number to zero, but it’s too much risk. Too much personal sacrifice.

How could anyone justify leaving the Dreadgods alive, even to themselves? Just because he would have to leave this world behind.

“I do,” Eithan said heavily. “I understand. But it seems that soon, I will be in the position to decide.” His smile returned. “So why has the lone Monarch of the Rosegold continent deigned to visit me today?”

Reigan Shen gave a wry smile. “I have come to buy you out of the tournament.”

“That’s impressive, considering that the grand prize is priceless.”

“Do you know how many priceless things I own? Penance is not in your hands yet, and even as an Overlord, you are not guaranteed to defeat Shoumei or Sophara. You can return to Blackflame City with all your wishes granted.”

Eithan gestured to the ash and ruin all around them. “This is not the most conducive environment to a negotiation.”

Reigan Shen waved a hand and the ruins of the shattered house were erased. They simply vanished with no more than a slight puff of wind to mark their passing. Another flick of his fingers, and the Monarch opened a swirling portal.

The space was protected, so Eithan could see only a swirl of color before a golden disc emerged. He had to take a few steps back to give it room; the disc was as large as a barn floor, though only as thick as two hands.

It came to a stop, hovering at waist height. The golden disc was a platform supporting a table and two contoured chairs. Eithan hopped up, as did Reigan Shen, and Eithan noticed the difference immediately as he crossed the scripted barrier.

Inside, the air was cool and sweet rather than choked with ash. Though there were no walls and he could look uninterrupted at the ruined city around him, they were far more comfortable. A ceiling hovered above them, blocking some falling ash, though the script would have done that just as well.

They took their seats, and Eithan plucked a flower from a decorative vase at the center of the table. “Before we begin, I would like a void key to contain the cloudship you gave me. It’s inconvenient not being able to carry it around.”

“Of course. An oversight on my part.”

Eithan doubted that. The ship Reigan Shen had gifted him was stored in one of the Ninecloud City’s hangars, but Eithan had been unable to remove it until after the tournament because of city air travel regulations. He was certain that had been part of the plan for his “prize.”

Shen casually tossed him an ornately carved and scripted golden ring, which Eithan tucked away.

That set the tone for the negotiation. Shen was willing to throw in a top-grade void key, which many Sages couldn’t afford, as an afterthought. Then again, he was perhaps the only one in the world who could treat spatial storage so lightly.

“This need not be a long process,” the Monarch said. “Tell me what you want so that I may give it to you.”

Eithan stopped himself short of saying “Your head on a platter.” Not only would it set the wrong tone, it wasn’t what he wanted.

If Reigan Shen didn’t die to a new generation of Monarchs raised by Eithan, that would be the real tragedy.

“Financial support and protection for House Arelius.”

“A wise choice. My grudge was never against House Arelius. They are now under my protection, free to operate independent of my rule, and I will honor their borders. I will give them support equal to any of my vassal states, including a restoration package of a billion scales, and Yushi will be at the service of your Sage for one year beginning tonight.”

Yushi was a Herald on a lightning Path, and one of Reigan Shen’s closest companions. She was colloquially known as the Thunder Fairy, a name she hated. There were children’s rhymes about her.

Eithan had written one himself.

That was generous support for House Arelius—more generous than Eithan had expected. Shen had come prepared, and he had obviously anticipated Eithan’s first demand.

Shen leaned on his hand, elbow on the table. “Now, surely you want something for yourself as well.”

“Certainly I do, but first I have another request on behalf of my House. Your fairy is wonderful, but the condition of my homeland is as you see it. We require the attention of the Rootfather.”

“I do not command the dragons.”

“Garrylondryth’s full attention and a guarantee of behavior from him. You may keep Yushi while he is here, if you like.”

The Herald of the green dragons was the right hand of the Dragon King, and rather than destroying human civilization, he preferred to enhance the power of nature. He practiced a Path of water and life, and he had made it his mission to restore the natural world after a clash of great powers.

Despite his generally peaceful temperament, he nursed centuries-old grudges against Akura Fury and Northstrider. Something about a relentless campaign against his family and the death of his children in battle; Eithan wasn’t entirely clear on the details.

Rather than continuing to pretend he had no influence over the Dragon Monarch, Reigan Shen said, “Agreed.” He leaned back and twisted one of his rings. “And for yourself?”

“I would like to ensure that the Blackflame Empire is evacuated before the danger of the Dreadgods.”

For once, Reigan Shen expressed mild surprise. “You don’t trust Malice to handle such a task?”

“She will be fighting against the cults. Who are now gathered under your banner.”

The Monarch drummed sharp fingernails on the table. “I can issue a standing order to allow evacuating civilians to continue unmolested, and I can respect whatever shelters Malice creates. I expect any of this to be included in whatever agreement I reach with the other Monarchs. It is not your concern.”

“Just being thorough. Now, to finally answer your question: neither House Arelius nor the Blackflame Empire can appropriately subsidize my advancement.”

“I will sponsor you all the way to Herald once the tournament ends, assuming you can overcome the other barriers yourself.”

That was another truly generous offer. Advancing through Overlord and Archlord could be astronomically expensive, and even Monarch factions did not spend such sums lightly.

There was no guarantee of return on such an investment; most would-be Overlords or Archlords stalled out at one of the other bottlenecks that could not be broken through with advancement resources.

If you could simply spend a fortune to power through the Lord realm, as you could through Gold, then every rich merchant would be Archlord.

Eithan gave a beaming smile. “Let’s assume that I can. Now, it also seems to me that I’m giving up the most powerful weapon in the world, so I should end up with some weapons of my own in recompense, don’t you think?”

“You’re giving up your chance at the most powerful weapon in the world,” Shen corrected, but a spark of interest had kindled in his eyes. “But if one of my collection has captured your imagination, it’s possible we can come to an arrangement.”

Once again, Eithan was sorely tempted to demand something unreasonable, like Shen’s entire arsenal.

If he waited until the final match, he might have enough leverage to force Shen to agree. Now that was a fortune that could reshape the entire situation on the planet.

But there was too much risk involved. What if Sophara and Yan Shoumei were both eliminated early, and Eithan was left in the finals against Mercy? What a missed opportunity that would be.

Of course, he could use Penance to blackmail Reigan Shen into giving him what he wanted anyway.

Eithan was aiming for the best of both worlds.

You didn’t make it to Monarch by being easy to fool, so Shen wouldn’t give Eithan anything that might affect the tournament. Eithan could funnel any advancement resources to Yerin, Mercy, or Ziel, even if he himself dropped out.

But if Reigan Shen bought him off and Yerin or Mercy won, Eithan would profit twice.

And if they didn’t…well, it was possible that Eithan would have lost anyway, and at least he had a luxurious consolation prize.

“Why would I break up the world’s greatest collection?” Eithan asked, with exaggerated horror. “No, I prefer my weapons made to order. Give me the Soulforge.”

He held a flower up to his nose and inhaled while the Monarch’s jaw worked. “…you’re not even in the top four.”

“Oh, would you prefer to have this conversation after I’ve knocked out one of your fighters?”

Even Eithan didn’t know the distribution of the next round, but given that it was reached by the agreement of the Monarchs, he could guess. Eithan wouldn’t be fighting any allies. Which meant a three out of four chance he was matched against one of Shen’s team.

Unless it was Yan Shoumei and she managed to defeat him, his position would only be stronger after this round ended. They both knew it.

There came a growl from deep in Shen’s chest that rumbled out and shook the table. Shen was perhaps the only Monarch who could make a replacement for the Soulforge, which was the only reason he was considering Eithan’s request at all.

Eithan respected that Shen didn’t try anything foolish, like pretending the artifact was irreplaceable. Any false position he took would only make Eithan more determined.

“This is the last concession I will make,” Shen warned.

“You agree to this and my other conditions, and I will swear on my soul to throw the next match,” Eithan promised. “Except…there is one final thing I do require.”

“Speak, but I will bend no further.”

“Clothes,” Eithan said. “I need new clothes.”

* * *

Information requested: Tiberian Arelius, the Storm King, Patriarch of House Arelius and the fallen ruler over half of the Rosegold continent.

Beginning report…

Path: Raging Sky. Most “storm” Paths are really only lightning Paths, but the Path of the Raging Sky harvests water, wind, and lightning aura in balance with one another. As an interesting side effect, practitioners can adjust their madra to bring one aspect or another to the forefront, so that it can often feel like facing three different Paths—one of water, one of wind, and one of lightning—rather than a single, unified set of techniques.

When Tiberian Arelius was young, he was often called a “perfect sacred artist.”

Not only did he have unsurpassed talent in the sacred arts, mastering each technique with grace and skill, but he never stopped working. He was honest and straightforward to a fault, keeping his power under control, showing perfect deference to his superiors and gracious mercy to those beneath him.

The previous Arelius Monarch was only a distant relative of his, but she ascended with peace in her heart when she realized she could leave their House in Tiberian’s hands.

He brought House Arelius to a new era of prosperity, maintaining a tense balance of peace with their rival and neighbor, House Shen.

Until his youngest advisor, a prodigy of their House, came forward to propose something more than an alliance. This advisor had violated family tradition and protocol to raid the tomb of their founding Patriarch, the original Arelius.

From this tomb, he brought relics of an unknown nature.

[WARNING: information incomplete. Continuing report.]

With these relics, the advisor was able to convince Tiberian to embark on an ambitious project: the elimination of the Dreadgods. The same task that resulted in the Dread War and the death of the previous generation of Monarchs.

As a first step, Tiberian approached his neighbor, Reigan Shen and proposed an alliance.

Shen responded with violence.

True battles between Monarchs are rare, and this one destroyed much of the Rosegold continent. In the end, even the Weeping Dragon was drawn in, and Tiberian was struck down.

Leaving House Arelius leaderless and in ashes.

Suggested topic: the fate of House Arelius.

ERROR: topic unavailable. Report complete.

* * *

In a snowy village protected by the Frozen Blade School, Yerin did battle with a demon.

The spirit was originally the Remnant of a man on a Path that combined sword, blood, and destruction madra. He had caused such havoc a hundred years ago that his Remnant had been sealed. Originally, it was as a sort of posthumous punishment.

But, as the Winter Sage had told her, it had become something else over time. The family in charge of the Remnant had fed the Remnant—which was originally Truegold—scales and spirits, and equipped it with a pair of long, sickle-like curved swords.

Now, it exhibited a power not unlike an Underlord, and they had used it to threaten their business rivals for several years. Under the protection of this creature, dubbed the Demon of Twin Blades, their business had prospered.

The Frozen Blade School hadn’t intervened as the spirit hadn’t harmed any innocents or even killed very many people. Until recently.

Yerin stood on the edge of a flat rooftop, which had been mostly ravaged under the impact of the Demon’s madra. Moonlight gleamed down over its long, silvery scripted blades, each of which contained cold power that weighed on her senses.

The Demon itself resembled a gorilla, painted in a complex color like a deep blue mixed with ashes. Its eyes blazed yellow and hot from within a head like an inhuman skull, and its knuckles scraped the ground. It was as dense as any other Remnant she’d ever seen, so that if she’d been forced to rely only on her bare eyes, she might not have known it was a Remnant at all.

It threw its head back and howled, and the world around it drained of color as it called all the aura from nearby to obey its Ruler technique. Sharp, jagged blades—like obsidian knives—began to Forge themselves into the air around her, and the two techniques pressed in on Yerin from every direction.

Yerin wasn’t really paying attention.

Her spirit screamed danger, and she listened to that instead, pushing her perception deeper. She had fought part of this fight with her eyes closed, trying to hear the elusive tune that had guided her in her fight against Altavian Arelius.

The Winter Sage insisted that she could chase it down through combat, and Yerin was trying, but it was like trying her hardest to remember something she’d forgotten.

She needed to be calm. To stop trying so hard and let it come to her.

When blades of aura and madra surrounded her, pressing in on her as though she were wrapped in razors, the sense of danger grew too much to endure.

And then she felt it.

A spark of madra passed from her hand down to her sheathed sword, and her blade rang like a bell.

The Demon of Twin Blades lost its hands at the wrists. When its swords hit the roof, it looked down as though trying to process what was happening. Its techniques destabilized, and then she lazily swung her blade through the air without looking.

A Rippling Sword slashed like a crescent through the night. A flat shield of madra appeared in front of the demon and it leaped backwards, but Yerin’s Striker technique had felt more…right…than her techniques usually did.

His defense might have been enough to deflect one of her normal attacks, but this time it passed through with no resistance and sliced him in half.

The Demon fell to pieces, and Yerin stood with her eyes closed, spiritual perception drilling deeper, trying to remember this sensation even as it drifted off.

This was her way forward. As she advanced, it would become easier and easier to sense.

Her Blood Shadow squirmed inside her, restless, hungry for both action and power, but Yerin forced it down. Soon, she wouldn’t need the Shadow at all.

Noise penetrated Yerin’s trance, and for the first time she paid attention to her audience. Down on the snowy streets beneath the building, several dozen people had gathered. They raised torches or rune-lights or techniques against the darkness.

And when the Demon of Twin Blades fell, their voices rose in a shout of excitement. It wasn’t quite a cheer, but a wave of cries that broke into chatter and a few individual calls.

Yerin wasn’t quite sure how to respond, but she felt like she was supposed to do something. She waved her white blade down to them.

The sound from the crowd redoubled, and this time it was definitely a cheer.

Well, that didn’t feel too bad.

The Winter Sage had been sending her out to fight with her sword, insisting that this would help her become a “symbol” of swordsmanship and thus get closer to the Sword Icon.

She wasn’t sure if popularity or fame would help with that. Did Icons care how well-known you were?

Yerin picked up the two weapons the Remnant had been carrying—no sense in leaving them for anyone else—and hopped down to the street. The people cheered and shouted out questions, but they also backed away from her. So they liked her, but they didn’t want her to get too close.

That was how people had treated her master, so she wasn’t too bothered. She used the bubble of space around her to make it to the end of the street, but her good mood faded quickly when she noticed another group that the people of the town were avoiding.

The Sage of Red Faith and his students.

The Blood Sage crouched on the street like a frog, looking up at her from his hunched position. Red paint tracked down from his eyes like bloody tears.

A wave of revulsion ran through her, and even her Blood Shadow surged up in willingness to fight.

Beside him was another figure that looked like they haunted children every night at midnight: Yan Shoumei. Her black hair hid half her face, and her one visible eye was too wide. Her sacred arts robes hung loose around her.

Their third companion, Calan Archer, was the only one who wasn’t likely to frighten anyone away. In fact, he had a fine figure, with broad shoulders, muscular arms, and a handsome face. His Goldsign ruined it all, in Yerin’s estimation, because the scripted rings of living lightning marked him as a member of the Stormcallers.

Putting a good-looking man in a Dreadgod cult was putting a dress on a hog. Didn’t make it any less a pig.

Just seeing the three of them was enough to ruin Yerin’s excitement over her progress. She almost wished they would make a move on her; not only would the Winter Sage not rest until she had her revenge, but if they attacked one of the Uncrowned in Akura territory, they’d have a Monarch and a heavenly messenger to contend with.

But she still wasn’t looking to die, so she dropped the Remnant’s swords and cycled her madra. The crowd took another few steps back.

Yan Shoumei scowled at her and let out a furious whisper. “Didn’t your master teach you better than to fight in a town? Someone could have been hurt.”

The words threw Yerin’s brain into a spin. Was a member of Redmoon Hall lecturing her about collateral damage?

Shoumei walked up to a trio of little girls in the crowd nearby, going to her knees and speaking in a soothing tone. “It’s going to be okay. The demon is gone, and we won’t let anything happen to you.”

She still sounded like a witch trying to lure them to their deaths.

The girls stammered something and scurried back, scrambling to put some adults between themselves and the evil-looking Underlady. The adults didn’t look any more at ease than the children did.

Yan Shoumei hung her head, and Yerin could see the depression and disappointment radiating from her back.

Yerin reminded herself to stay on her guard. She couldn’t feel any sympathy.

“You all found a spine and a half if you’re after me here,” Yerin said, hoping the crowd would sense an incoming fight and leave. “The Sage won’t lie down easy when she finds out you’re here to hook me.”

Yerin wasn’t sure if they were here to hurt her or to persuade her to their side, but either way the Sage of the Frozen Blade would be furious.

The Blood Sage wet his lips. “Min Shuei drove me off when I first arrived, and then she appealed to the Monarchs several times to have me removed. She went to Northstrider, to Akura Malice, and to Reigan Shen. They are all aware that I am here, and they will allow me to remain as long as I behave myself. Your Winter Sage is not so tolerant, but she is distracted at the moment.”

He took a little hop closer to her, and that seemed like it was enough for the crowd. They started filtering away, which Yerin thought was unusually perceptive for a bunch of Lowgolds.

“I have tried to speak with you face to face several times, but I was always delayed by the ignorance and stubbornness of others. Clearly, you have good judgment of your own, as you have cultivated your Blood Shadow according to my technique. With my help, you can take it to new heights. Even Monarch is not a dream. I am certain that, under these conditions, we can have a civilized discussion.”

Yerin drew her weapon back and began cycling for the Final Sword.

She had contained herself at the sight of the Sage, because after all, there was nothing she could do to him. But every word out of his pale lips made her angrier and angrier.

“I used to have a wish,” Yerin told him, as madra and aura and soulfire poured into her sword. “I wished that there was one waste of breath handing out Blood Shadows, and if I killed him, mine would go away. All of them would. And everybody…”

She heaved in a breath to stop herself from saying “..and everybody the Shadow killed would come back.” She didn’t need to share that part of it, because it made her sound like a child. She was finding it hard to speak now anyway.

The Sage blinked, looking confused. His two students were alarmed, distancing themselves from him and beginning defensive techniques.

“I have no influence over what the Bleeding Phoenix does,” the Blood Sage said, “and even if you could somehow kill me, it would have no impact on your Blood Shadow.”

Yerin knew that better than she knew her own name.

“True,” she said.

She unleashed the Final Sword anyway.

The crowd was gone, but this still wasn’t a technique she would usually use with homes so close. Silver light lit up the night as a fully detailed sword of madra closed the gap between her and the Blood Sage in a blink. Aura chewed up the ground, nearby walls, and the edges of the rooftops. The air screamed.

The Sage of Red Faith stopped it with one hand. He didn’t even stand up, just raised a palm and intercepted the technique.

The force almost bowled him over.

He stumbled back, channeling more power into defending himself. When the technique faded, blood flowed from his palm.

Yerin stood, panting and watching. She had known he would stop it. He was a Sage with his students behind him. Besides, if he had dodged, the technique would only have blasted off into the distance. She wasn’t so far gone that she couldn’t consider her surroundings.

But she was angry enough that she hadn’t been able to think of a better way to express it.

The Blood Sage didn’t look put off, though. He looked delighted.

He held up his bloody hand to her as though it proved something. “You see? You see? Your will is far more developed than an Underlady should be capable of. It’s your Blood Shadow, all your Blood Shadow, and the more of an independent will it develops—”

He stiffened and looked off into the horizon. A frustrated expression spread across his face.

“Your guardian has found me. I have to go fight pointlessly without killing. What a foolish game. Do not waste your potential, Yerin Arelius. Don’t let a childish grudge stand in the way of your making history.”

Yerin nodded. “Rot and die.”

The Blood Sage made a frustrated noise before loping away, leaping into the distance. She still had never seen him use his Blood Shadow. Maybe he was the Blood Shadow.

Her own Shadow began raging, its patience gone. It wanted to be free, to face these opponents, to feed.

Yerin struggled with it, but she didn’t back down or put away her sword. “If you two want your match ahead of time, you can take it now.”

Calan smiled and raised both his hands in surrender while Yan Shoumei shrugged. “The Sage has his interest in you. If we do not end up in the ring together, we are not enemies.”

“We’re not your enemies,” Calan assured her. “Honestly, I’m an admirer. I hope we don’t have to fight.”

Yerin would believe that when the sun rose green. “Dreadgod cults are enemies to anybody with eyes.”

Calan’s expression grew sober, and Shoumei darkened.

“Not everyone has a family to pick up the bill for their training,” she said quietly.

If Shoumei was looking for pity, she was running down the wrong trail. “I’d shed a tear for you, but I saw what Redmoon Emissaries did to the Blackflame Empire.”

“Redmoon or the Phoenix?” Yan Shoumei countered. “And are you responsible for everything the Akura clan has done? What about the Arelius family?”

Calan spoke calmly. “I think you may have a misunderstanding about us. Dreadgod madra gives you a way to improve without spending a fortune. If you want to advance but you were born in a gutter, you don’t have much choice.”

Yerin had chosen to advance her Blood Shadow differently, in a way that required either far more time or far more resources, but the normal way to advance was to steal power from others. That was the original purpose of the Shadow.

She had seen the other Dreadgod cults fight, in the records of the Uncrowned fights. They all had a component of hunger madra, which allowed them an unconventional path to advancement. It tended to produce sacred artists that advanced quickly, but didn’t go too far. And, at least in the case of the Blood Shadows, there was always an element of risk.

“Dress it up however you want,” Yerin said.

“I had a lot of talent, but no money,” Calan went on. “Less talented students kept passing me up because they had parents to buy them resources. Meaning they advanced and made even more, so I got left further behind. Now…”

He ignited his madra, and a dragon’s head of blue-and-gold lightning emerged from his palm, snarling as it did. “Hunting Remnants gives me everything I need. Thanks to the Weeping Dragon, I’m standing with you two. Disciples of a Sage.” He gave a crooked smile. “Imagine that.”

“I am not his disciple,” Yan Shoumei spat, and Yerin felt blood madra rising up inside her.

A lot of blood madra.

Yerin began cycling to defend herself, but Shoumei quickly got her power under control. “Sorry,” she muttered. “But I’m not his disciple. When I win, I won’t need him anymore. Or Redmoon.”

“She protects a city,” Calan said. “They call her their guardian spirit.”

“Shut up.”

Yerin finally accepted that there wasn’t going to be a fight, slamming her sword back into its sheath. She scooped up the demon’s twin swords, unaccountably irritated.

“So you’re both innocent souls who don’t want to kill me or recruit me,” Yerin said. “Okay. So what are you doing here? Not like the Sage needed your help.”

Calan and Shoumei exchanged glances. The Redmoon girl scratched the side of her face and looked down.

“I just wanted to meet you,” Calan said.

“Not everything is a plot,” Yan Shoumei said, and she sounded strangely sympathetic. “It wasn’t too long ago that I saw agents of my enemy everywhere. I thought you worked for him, all of you from the Blackflame Empire, back in Ghostwater.”

“Do you suspect everyone of trying to kill you?” Calan asked.

“They usually are,” Yerin muttered. “And there’s a Monarch-killing weapon on the line.”

He shrugged. “We’re not Monarchs. We can fight to win without being sworn enemies. I see it as a unique opportunity to fight to the death with people you don’t hate.”

Yerin had said almost the exact same thing to Lindon not long ago, and hearing the same sentiment coming from a Dreadgod cultist gave her a strange, unpleasant feeling.

“Don’t have any account against you, but your Sage needs somebody to take his head from his shoulders.” As she understood it, the Sage of Red Faith was the one who encouraged the spreading of Blood Shadows on the wild.

Yan Shoumei gave her a blank look. “Why would I care?”

“My Sage is even worse,” Calan put in.

Yerin thought they might be able to get along after all.

11

Maten Kei stood on her Thousand-Mile Cloud and watched the procession of survivors below her. Her sister was at the other end of the canyon, keeping an eye out from her own cloud.

Back at the Frozen Blade School, they had often been assigned to protecting civilians from stray Remnants or aura-storms or other threats requiring powerful sacred artists, so guarding a few hundred people as they fled to shelter was nothing new.

This crowd hadn’t faced any threat yet, but they had to be evacuated before the Wandering Titan woke. Kei and Teia volunteered for these escort missions whenever their team accepted such assignments. Saving people was more gratifying than slaying dreadbeasts or fighting bandits.

They didn’t care about the points, though their team leader certainly did. He scared Kei a little. She wondered if there was anything he wouldn’t do for points.

A flare of madra from Teia signaled her, and she floated up on her cloud, stretching out her perception. The earth aura was very strong in the land around Sky’s Edge, and this canyon was surrounded by clumps of trees that had been petrified by that aura.

Inside those trees, Kei felt someone waiting in ambush. Where there was one, there would certainly be more.

Though they were officially called “bandits,” these rogue sacred artists weren’t opportunistic thieves so much as they were desperate people who had been displaced by the flood of dreadbeasts. While most had sought shelter with the Akura clan factions, some had been unable or unwilling to for whatever reason. They stole what they could from evacuees and Akura patrols, but they were rarely a threat.

They wouldn’t likely have any Lords with them, but Kei couldn’t take chances with the lives of the ordinary people under her charge. She signaled a halt, then activated her message construct.

“We’ve found bandits at my current location,” she sent. “We’re going to double back and take the alternate route. We expect a delay of no more than eight hours.”

A construct fluttered off like a sunlight-colored sparrow. It would dissolve into a packet of madra and move much more quickly before re-forming at another construct that Lindon carried.

He wouldn’t like that their mission completion would be delayed, but he would understand.

The column of people had already begun reversing direction. She had expected to hear some complaints at the prolonged march, but the people were largely quiet. Either they were so tired that they couldn’t even muster the urge to complain or they knew the dangers of carrying on in their original direction.

No sooner had they all started marching the other way than her messenger construct returned. It burst into Lindon’s voice.

“I’m on my way.”

No further instructions.

Kei called a halt, and Teia flew over to discuss with her. Kei didn’t know what to say. How could Lindon’s presence change anything?

The two of them could handle combat with the bandits, but not without killing some of them. Unless it was a trap, and there were multiple Underlords hidden among the stone trees. Marching into unknown forces was a great way to die.

They both agreed that Lindon must be bringing the rest of the team.

Until he flew in on his green Thousand-Mile Cloud alone.

Kei stood on her own cloud, irritated, waiting for him to stop and explain himself. But, although he saluted to them as he passed, he didn’t slow down.

He dove straight into the trees.

He was going to kill them all.

Horrified, the sisters followed, pushing their clouds to maximum speed. As spirits flared in battle, Kei only hoped they weren’t too late.

Lindon was truly merciless. He was going to butcher these people. He…

Kei’s thoughts came to a halt as she landed, only seconds behind Lindon.

There were sixteen bandits, and they were all lying on the ground. Some were bound with simple constructs, others were groaning and helpless on the ground, and still others were in the process of surrendering voluntarily.

Lindon’s blue spirit chattered from its perch on his shoulder, and he flexed his hand of flesh as he listened. When he saw Kei and Teia, he ducked his head to them. “Pardon, but can you bring these people back?”

Kei swept her perception over them. Two were Underlords, and the rest were Golds. The Underlords were already bound.

It would have been so much easier to kill them. How had he done everything so fast?

Wordlessly, she nodded.

“Gratitude. I have to escort a mining team a few miles south of here. Is there anything else I can do to help?”

As he spoke, he slashed a line of black dragon’s breath across a dreadbeast a hundred yards away. It fell to pieces, and she knew he was going to grab its binding as he left.

Kei shook her head.

“Very good. Apologies, but I have to go now. I’ll see you tonight.”

Bowing slightly to them again, he swept off.

As she’d expected, he picked up the dreadbeast binding on his way out.

* * *

Grace dashed through the night, perception locked on her quarry.

She whipped her sword down, launching a Shadow’s Edge Striker technique after him, but he slipped aside. He followed some kind of illusion Path, and he was as slippery as those types always tended to be.

But when she finally got her hands on him, she was going to tear him apart.

He wasn’t an enemy or a bandit, but a sacred artist from a smaller sect who was supposed to be on her family’s side. But he was stealing from the cause.

More specifically, he was stealing from her.

He had presented himself as a courier, willing to take her natural treasures and dead matter back and turn them in on her behalf in exchange for a fee. Her void key was tiny, about the size of a picnic basket, so she would be able to earn more points if she emptied it.

Lindon’s fever for points was infectious. She found herself dreaming about the more expensive prizes and thinking up ways to save points.

And now this traitor had stolen twenty or thirty points from her team.

She fell from a short cliff, sure that she would land just in front of him, but he slipped away from her perception. As he had several times before.

This time, when she stretched out her spiritual sense, she caught someone else with them. That was a surprise; they were quite a way from Sky’s Edge, and most people took a break for the night. And this newcomer’s spirit was even harder to detect than the thief’s.

Until he removed his veil and she sensed his madra more clearly. It was pure.

Relief flooded her, followed by embarrassment. She had hoped to resolve this before anyone else on the team knew that she had lost some of their precious points.

Lindon’s large silhouette separated from the shadows, and he held a squirming sacred artist in his Remnant hand. “Pardon, Grace, but were you chasing her? Or do I owe her an apology?”

“Her?”

Now that Grace looked more closely, it was a woman. A girl, really; Grace would put her at sixteen or seventeen. Younger than Grace expected from a Truegold who wasn’t from a prominent clan. She was probably considered a genius of her Path.

Her previous appearance had also been an illusion to make her seem more masculine, and Grace hadn’t seen through it. If she’d gotten away, Grace would never have caught her.

The thief squirmed in Lindon’s grip, but she had a better chance of praying to the heavens for rescue than she did escaping from Lindon under her own power. “Let me go! These are mine!”

Lindon pried the sack from her hand and lifted them toward Grace. “Are they?”

Grace braced herself and decided to tell the truth. “They are not. She…tricked me.”

“I see.” Lindon tossed the sack back to Grace and looked to the girl in his Remnant arm. “Apologies, but why are you stealing from us?”

“I need points!”

“Understandable.”

Gently, he set her down. He lowered himself to look in her eyes, and she was shocked to see sympathy in him.

She would never have expected him to show compassion to someone who had stolen his beloved points, but he put his flesh-and-blood hand on the girl’s shoulder and spoke gently.

“Instead of stealing from our team,” Lindon suggested, “why don’t you steal for us?”

Now that was the Lindon she knew.

* * *

Lindon bent his every second to earning points.

He split up the team to take on multiple assignments a day, whenever they could. He took assignments on his own, worked as a Soulsmith when he couldn’t find a mission, and saved enough energy to Forge two pure scales a day.

Even so, they had only managed to earn about a thousand points in the first week.

Their pace was far ahead of the others, but he wasn’t satisfied. At this rate, they would only be able to pick one—maybe two—of the high-value items before he had to return to the tournament.

He would be coming back to Sky’s Edge after the next tournament round, so he would get another chance, but what if the other teams caught up while he was gone?

The problem was their expenses. He scavenged or made everything himself wherever possible, but oftentimes they had to buy scales or dead matter or simple constructs using points. Sometimes it felt like he had to spend five points to make six.

Another problem was the size of his team.

They had all agreed to his plan of buying the most expensive items first, before anyone else had a chance to afford them, but in the end they had eight members. Most of the limited items couldn’t be split up. When one person got a prize, how should the other seven be compensated?

Lindon was adamant that those questions should be answered after they earned all the points they could, but it was still a contentious topic. Certainly, he wouldn’t be able to buy the Diamond Veins for himself while the rest got nothing. That would be an abuse of power as the leader.

Although he still kept trying to come up with some kind of excuse.

Lindon considered his situation as he sat on his Thousand-Mile Cloud, Forging scales as he watched a group of earth artists raise pillars of stone from the ground.

Each artist used a Ruler technique to summon a thin pillar about ten feet high in an instant, and then craftsmen came along behind to etch scripts in its surface. When this boundary formation was complete, it would drive away dreadbeasts and even potentially push the Dreadgod back toward the ocean.

As he was on guard duty, he kept his perception extended, trying to sense a threat. He was the first in his group to feel the intruders.

They carried the impression of a mountain’s worth of stones rolling in from the north like storm clouds. He immediately signaled the foreman, who sounded a horn, then Lindon flew his cloud up to take a look.

[Wow, it’s like a…I want to call it a cloudship, but it’s really the opposite of that, isn’t it?]

From the distance, so far it was only a smudge in Lindon’s sight, a stone temple flew through the air toward them.

The temple itself was like a pyramid with three points instead of one, as though it had been crowned. Instead of resting on a cloud, it was supported by a collection of thousands of flying boulders. As it loomed closer, Lindon picked up a spiritual sensation similar to the Wandering Titan itself.

Abyssal Palace. The Dreadgod cult had arrived at last.

Lindon’s workers had begun to pack up, but he signaled for them to hurry. All around the territory surrounding Sky’s Edge, alarms were going up as others sensed the incoming power.

The feeling represented a massive force, which only made sense. Abyssal Palace didn’t have a Sage, but it had a Herald and several Archlords, and they knew full well that Akura Fury was here. They would have sent everyone they could.

As Lindon and his charges retreated, he used constructs and Dross to send messages to his teammates. When their missions were complete, they all needed to regroup.

Because, while Lindon could sense the overwhelming power of the approaching sect, he mostly felt excitement.

Fury had posted bounties for Abyssal Palace.

It was chaos as Lindon’s workers prepared to leave. There were no attacks—the cult hadn’t even come close to arriving yet—but the workmen were mostly Golds. Some dropped their tools and sprinted off, others tried to save as much of their equipment as they could, and every other group had started fleeing at the same time. Which made a messy crowd.

Lindon gathered his group together, making sure they withdrew at a reasonable pace, but even he chafed at the delay. Every minute he spent stopping Highgolds from fleeing for their lives was a minute further away from turning in the assignment.

Only when everyone was ready did he move them all out. They were almost all older than he was, but fear made them act more like children than adults. Several people tried to convince him why they should be allowed to go on ahead of everyone else, or they panicked and stampeded away for no reason at all.

As he was wearily explaining to a grown man why they couldn’t all turn around and go back for a hammer he’d forgotten, Lindon happened to feel powerful life madra flying over his head.

He instantly veiled his pure core.

Meira accompanied a squad of Seishen Kingdom Golds on a small cloudship that flew overhead. Judging by their route, they were just scouting to make sure that no one got left behind. Had she checked the roster? Did she know this was his group?

He didn’t see her, only sensed her, but when the cloudship flew off he gave a great sigh of relief. The last thing he needed was an unprofitable fight.

He continued the march, pushing through a mile-wide patch of sand that rose and fell like waves on a stormy sea.

One of the Lowgolds had hurt her channels as she tried to keep up her Enforcer technique to push through the patch of sand, and Lindon pulled out Little Blue to treat her.

“Pardon, sister, but why didn’t you let me know before you injured yourself?”

They were balanced on Lindon’s cloud over the surging surface of sand, and the woman spoke with conviction. “I will not be the one to show weakness. If my spirit can’t keep up, then I will crawl home on my fingertips or I will be buried here.”

This woman was older than anyone in the Uncrowned King tournament, and this was how she thought.

“You don’t need to ignore your own limitations,” Lindon said. It felt very strange to be lecturing a woman who might be twice his age, but had half his level of advancement. Like the world had twisted on its head. “Pushing too hard will only hurt you. Apologies.”

As Little Blue channeled cleansing madra, she added her own cheeps of disapproval.

“I asked for no pity,” the woman said calmly.

[I don’t want to tell you how to Underlord, but you may want to try, you know, sounding like you know what you’re talking about.]

Lindon forced down his discomfort and spoke more sternly. “I have given you none, but I am in command of this group, and I will not lose a member for any reason. Do you understand?”

She straightened and nodded.

Lindon desperately wanted to apologize.

He returned her to the sand. “Now, I expect you to alert me or one of the Truegolds if you find you can no longer continue. Or if you notice anyone else who begins to flag. Can you do that?”

She pressed her fists together.

“Gratitude. Is there anyone—”

[Aaaahhh!] Dross screamed. [Combat report!]

The moment Lindon felt the spike of danger in his spirit, the world slowed down.

Information requested: Surviving a sudden ambush.

Beginning report…

Lindon stood on his green Thousand-Mile Cloud, Little Blue on his shoulder, as the Lowgold woman in warm yellow sacred artist robes saluted him from below. Some four dozen other workers were in the process of crossing the moving dunes, which hung in the air as they were frozen halfway through crashing down.

I thought I’d just…tell you the situation, although it’s nothing to worry about! Nothing…nothing wrong here.

A figure fell from above. Even in Dross’ vision, Lindon couldn’t see their face, because Dross hadn’t seen them. Only sensed them with Lindon’s spiritual perception.

But his veil was beginning to come off as he attacked, so Lindon knew exactly who he was. Prince Daji of the Seishen Kingdom had come for him.

So Meira had sensed him after all.

Why hadn’t she come herself?

Dross, Lindon asked, how long before he makes contact?

Two seconds, maybe less if he has some kind of technique.

Lindon was very conscious of Little Blue on his shoulder. If Daji’s attack connected, the Riverseed would be in danger.

Thanks to the frozen world, Lindon had plenty of time to feel anger.

Gratitude, Dross. I’ll take it from here.

Report complete.

“Blue!” Lindon called, and she heard his intentions. She slapped the side of his neck, pumping him with deep blue cleansing madra.

Before even looking up, Lindon unleashed the Hollow Domain.

[I just want to say,] Dross said, [I’m very happy we’re calling it that.]

Blue light surrounded Lindon in a ball. The madra in his cloud dispersed and he started to fall, but he maintained his balance as he looked up.

Daji was covered in a version of the same armor he’d used back in the Night Wheel Valley: a suit of smooth gray plates with liquid silver or yellow showing through the seams. Yellow light shone within the visor, and he had two swords lifted to slash as he fell toward Lindon. His spirit, fully unveiled, radiated fury and pressure.

Until he landed inside the dome of the Hollow Domain.

The sparks of lightning dancing around his blades disappeared. The madra powering his armor faded, sputtering as Lindon’s pure madra washed it out.

The Soul Cloak sprang up around Lindon, and he caught Daji in his Remnant hand.

They both fell as his cloud dispersed, and Daji completed his blow in midair. The sword clubbed the side of his head, but he barely felt it.

He gripped the prince by the neck as they hit the sand, and he activated the hunger binding in his arm.

Without Little Blue empowering the Heart of Twin Stars, he couldn’t make much use out of the power he took from the armor, but in only a few seconds it went from hampering Daji’s movements to weighing him down completely. He was trapped in the armor, struggling only with his raw strength as an Underlord.

Lindon, meanwhile, had the Soul Cloak. He pushed Daji down against the rolling sand, pulling his helmet off with his left hand.

Daji stared up at him with fury in his dark eyes. His hair was matted with sweat, and he snarled like a wolf. The prince struggled against Lindon physically and spiritually, but made no progress on either front.

The field of pure madra around them had already begun trembling. Lindon hadn’t practiced the technique enough to keep it stable for long.

So he drove an Empty Palm into Daji’s midsection.

A massive palm-print was imprinted over his own hand as he shoved enough madra into the technique to penetrate the armor. The technique sunk in, erasing Daji’s control over his own madra even as the Hollow Domain dissipated.

Lindon’s first instinct was to kill him.

“What were you thinking?” he demanded. “You could have killed these Golds!”

“You deserve to die a thousand times!” Daji shouted, but Lindon had no time to waste.

“Okay, that’s enough.” He ran his perception through Daji’s armor. Lindon had already examined the pieces of Seishen armor that he had scavenged before, so he was familiar with its construction, and it didn’t take long to find the scripts he was looking for.

Running his pure madra through the suit, he triggered the clasp holding on Daji’s breastplate and pulled it off. In seconds, he had peeled the armor away.

Fortunately, Daji was wearing a tight gray outfit beneath. He might have to abandon this project if it meant stripping an Underlord naked in front of dozens of allied Golds.

“I’m keeping this,” he told Daji. “And if you give me one more reason, you’re coming with me.”

“I will—”

He shook the prince. “Do you understand that Fury would execute you for this?”

Daji still looked furious, which only stoked Lindon’s own anger.

What right did he have to be angry?

“Do you really think I wanted Kiro to die?” Lindon demanded. “Why does everyone blame me for defending myself? Would you like it better if I rolled over and died? Should I have let Kiro kill me because he was your brother? He gave me no choice!”

[Wow, Lindon, look at that grip! Really impressive, truly, I’m impressed.]

He realized he was squeezing the sides of Daji’s arms so hard that a Truegold’s bones would have broken, but the prince’s glare was uninterrupted.

Lindon didn’t know why he was bothering talking at all. He stood up, his anger fading quickly. “I have a choice this time. I’m letting you go, just like I tried to let Kiro go, and just like…”

He became conscious of new presences around him.

His team had arrived. Some of them, at least.

Pride stood not far away, and Grace was coming up behind him. He didn’t look up at them, but he felt their spirits, and he knew that purple eyes were watching him.

So he stopped himself before he said Harmony’s name.

“Anyway, you’re free to go.” He drew on Blackflame for the strength to speak the next words, making sure he looked Daji in the eyes. “This will be the only chance you get. Now get out.”

Daji shot to his feet, and suddenly the prince’s anger seemed hollow. Fragile. He dashed off, and even weakened and disarmed as he was, he still ran across the moving sand with more agility than any of the Golds.

Two swords sat on the ground nearby, and he realized he’d almost left them.

He’d have to make room in his void key.

Pride landed by him as Lindon began opening his void key, shifting things around to make space.

“The bounties have been finalized for Abyssal Palace,” Pride said stiffly. He had seen what happened, but he didn’t want to talk about it. Lindon could appreciate that.

“Apologies, but would you mind telling me?”

“Seven points for an acolyte mask, twenty-five points for a priest, and one hundred for a high priest.”

Lindon nodded. “And when are they projected to get here?”

“Just after sundown.”

“Gratitude. If you’ll take these workers back, we can prepare tonight and be ready in the morning.”

Pride nodded, but didn’t leave. After a moment, he said, “It is better to put enemies in your debt than to kill them.”

“Tell that to them,” Lindon muttered.

* * *

Yerin woke in the middle of the night to a strange sensation in her spiritual perception. She couldn’t put a name to it, it was just…strange.

When she saw the shape of a person sitting in her room, silhouetted by moonlight against the window, Yerin’s body reacted before her mind was fully awake. She had already rolled out of the way, sweeping her sword up in a hand and leveling it at the intruder.

She froze when she realized it wasn’t a stranger.

It was the most familiar intruder in her life.

The Blood Shadow sat with its back to her, hunched over something that it held in its hands. Empty bottles, fruit rinds, husks, seeds, and pill wrappers dotted the floor—it had gotten into the advancement resources that the Winter Sage had left for Yerin.

That wasn’t what disturbed Yerin. The Sage could afford it.

But the Blood Shadow had escaped on its own. Without even waking her.

It could have done anything it wanted.

The Shadow’s back shuddered, so it must not have finished some medicine or spirit-fruit. She moved around to the side to see what it was eating.

A tiny, blood-spotted bandage sat at its feet.

And the Shadow cupped something small and white in its hands.

Yerin’s fury boiled up as her madra began to flow through her sword, which glowed silver. She had known the Blood Shadow was a danger, but she hadn’t done anything about it. This was her fault, and she’d solve it here if it meant cutting off her own arm.

The Shadow looked up, snarling, and Yerin got a clearer look at the baby rabbit in its hands.

The rabbit was…fine. It sniffed the air and looked at Yerin curiously, ice aura playing around the tip of its horn.

Its bandage was fresh and clean, and only then did Yerin notice the roll of new bandages sitting to the Blood Shadow’s right.

Yerin’s thoughts felt like they crawled as she tried to put the picture together. The Blood Shadow had crept out of her spirit without her noticing, and it had used that time to sneak into another hut, steal an injured baby rabbit, and hold it while eating Yerin’s food.

The Shadow hissed and pulled the bunny closer to its chest, as though afraid Yerin was going to steal it.

Yerin’s Enforcer technique dissipated, but she felt only confusion. “You fattening that up before you eat it?”

The Blood Shadow responded in its broken voice that still gave Yerin the shivers. “You…got to…hold it.”

The Shadow was still a frequent guest of Yerin’s nightmares, but this was too bizarre to be frightening.

“The Sage will scrub you out,” Yerin warned.

“Why…alone?”

Yerin stared. The Blood Shadow glared at her resentfully.

“Why…are we…alone?”

“So you know, we’ve got less than no chance of winning next time unless we train with the Winter Sage.” A second later and Yerin realized what she’d said. “I. I’m training with the Winter Sage. You’re a wound that won’t stop bleeding.”

The Shadow ran a pink-tinged finger down the back of the rabbit, who didn’t seem to mind. “…no.”

“If you’re talking anyway, you should use more words than just one.”

“No need…to be here. Rather…lose together…than win alone.”

That stuck in Yerin like an arrow. She didn’t want to be here, where the Winter Sage saw her master instead of her and the other students treated her like she had descended from the heavens.

But she couldn’t leave, and she couldn’t lose. It would be a betrayal of her master’s memory.

And the Sage would have her sensing the Sword Icon well before Archlord. That was an opportunity only a blind fool would pass up.

“It’s no account of yours anyway. I’ll sink or swim without you.”

Her bloody reflection sneered. “Good…luck.”

Yerin slammed the door open, marching into the icy wind. She was going to the jagged fields of ice to work on her connection to the Sword Icon.

She wouldn’t be getting any more sleep tonight.

12

Abyssal Palace moved over Sky’s Edge and the surrounding valley like a plague.

They didn’t attack. Their goal wasn’t to kill Akura sacred artists, but to prepare for the coming of their Dreadgod.

Teams of cultists swarmed over the land, erecting squat towers. These two-story cylinders of stone, raised with Ruler techniques, were covered with scripts inside and out. They served to hide cultists from outside detection, but Lindon didn’t understand their other functions at first.

If the towers were only shelters, why build so many? Abyssal Palace was lifting towers from the earth even when there were five others already in sight.

Only when he and his team forced a group of Truegold cultists away from a tower and Lindon got a look inside did he understand.

The towers were filled with scripts that would capture and store Dreadgod madra.

There were other scripts he didn’t understand, like one pointed into the ground that he assumed had some kind of mining application, but only one thing mattered: even the masks of low-level acolytes were worth seven points apiece.

The average Abyssal Palace construction team was made up of three or four acolytes with one higher-value priest. That meant at least forty-six points per team.

Since acolytes tended to be Highgold or Truegold while priests were usually Underlords, not all the Akura clan’s teams could handle them.

But Lindon’s most certainly could.

Lindon peeled the mask away from a Truegold acolyte and tossed it back to one of the Maten twins, who were covering their retreat. The eight of them stood in a battlefield of still-smoking holes and wreckage that had been an Abyssal Palace tower and a field of flowers only minutes before.

Pride and Grace were both finishing up acolytes of their own while Lindon walked up to the leader of the cultist squad.

Acolyte stone masks were bare and only lightly detailed, carved with what could barely be called a snarling face. Priest masks were more detailed and clearer, with pronounced jaws and fangs. More noticeably, the right eye of the mask shone yellow.

This priest, an Underlord, gathered madra, aura, and stones between his hands. They swirled together in a chaotic ball of golden light and razor-sharp stones, and as he hurled it out, the attack expanded.

Naru Saeya swept it away with a gust of wind.

The technique screamed as it landed in the ground, the flying rocks chewing up stones, but none of the Akura Underlords batted an eye. These cultists were outmatched.

The priest fell to his knees and pulled his mask from his face. He was visibly older than they were, and his skin was covered in patches of living stone. The Goldsign of his Path, and one of the reasons why they wore masks.

“We surrender.”

Pride stepped up behind Lindon and spoke under his breath. “If we’re not going to kill him, we need to move.”

Lindon nodded. Abyssal Palace fighters had been quick to surrender, and after his first attempt to take them captive, he’d learned why.

As soon as they had tried to fly off with their prisoners, a squad led by an Overlord had locked onto their position. They had been forced to kill or abandon their captives before they could be caught themselves.

Lindon had dumped them immediately. He already had their masks, and if he let them live, maybe they would get new ones. Like dumping small fish back into the lake.

They were allowed to kill, of course. The Dreadgod cults weren’t much of a threat yet, but they would be a danger to any survivors of the Wandering Titan.

But Lindon and the other leaders had been warned not to go too far. His team was powerful, but if they stuck out too much, then Abyssal Palace would target them specifically. They had to lay as low as they could.

While scoring points.

Fury didn’t mind this sort of combat because their entire objective was to slow Abyssal Palace down, not to eradicate them. In fact, killing too many would invite unwelcome reprisal that could end up drawing the attention of the enemy Herald.

Lindon took the mask from the priest and tucked it away, but this time he had a test. “I will happily let you go, but there’s one thing I’d like to try first.”

The old man hesitated, but his men were bound and he was surrounded by Underlords.

Lindon put his hunger madra hand on the man’s head. From Lindon’s pocket, Little Blue channeled madra into him.

He drained power from the man, cycling the Heart of Twin Stars as he did so.

A rush of different energies flowed into Lindon, and he and Dross separated them together, processing them according to the Heart of Twin Stars. But unlike when Lindon had tested this on Remnants and dreadbeasts, this influx hit him like a runaway horse.

The priest convulsed and fell backwards, and Lindon let him go. It was taking all his mind and spirit to control the technique.

Soulfire and pure madra streamed into his spirit, blood essence suffused his body, and yellow-and-brown madra vented from his arm. The earth around him shook in response, but by far the most disturbing were the memories.

For a moment, Lindon’s point of view doubled. He was standing over the priest and he was lying on the ground, wondering what the young Underlord had done to him.

He wished his son was safe, dreamed that the treasures unearthed by the Dreadgod would be enough to take him to Overlord, and wondered when he could go home.

Then he realized he was in an unfamiliar body. It was taller, broader, younger, with pure madra flowing powerfully through it and the arm of a Remnant. Pure madra didn’t respond to any of his cycling techniques—

[Whoops, hang on. I was supposed to handle the memories, wasn’t I? I’ll filter them and give you what you need to know, that’s my fault.]

Suddenly Lindon remembered who he was again—but he struggled to control his own body. Someone else was moving his madra, trying to move it in a pattern that would never work for the Path of Twin Stars. It was as though he’d pulled the man’s Remnant into his body.

But now that he remembered himself, Lindon put an end to that immediately.

He crushed the remaining will with his own, flexing his fingers to prove to himself that he was back in his own body.

His team stared at him with various degrees of horror. Pride had lines of black and gray running down his body as he cycled two different Enforcer techniques at once. Naru Saeya snapped her fingers. “Lindon. What did you do?”

He waved a hand, only then realizing that he was covered in sweat. “Apologies for worrying you. I’m fine. We should leave before they find us.”

The Overlord was no doubt on his way, so they all loaded themselves up onto the small Akura cloudship and drifted away.

But the rest of the team didn’t stop looking at him strangely.

His team would have preferred that he kill the man rather than drain him, but Lindon needed them to understand his Consume technique if they were to help him. They had all seen him absorb Striker or Forger techniques, but it had to be disturbing to witness him siphon power from another living sacred artist.

They had to wonder if it would happen to them.

He had hoped they would let it go, but they still demanded explanations once they were all aboard the cloudship, so he explained: “I can steal power. It’s not a complete technique, though. It still needs work.”

Naru Saeya made a fist as though she wanted to grab his neck with it. “And that works? You can just…take someone’s advancement?”

“It’s more complicated than that, but…” He was too excited to downplay his achievement. “It works! I gained weeks worth of advancement in my pure core just from what I did back there. It can replace cycling and then some. I gained a little soulfire too, and my body’s stronger, although—”

Saeya cut him off with wind madra across the mouth. “Teach me,” she demanded.

“Ah. Well…apologies, but I have pure madra.”

“I could still use it on wind artists.”

“The hunger binding is part of me now.”

“I’ll give up an arm.”

Dross projected into all of their minds. [That’s a wonderful idea! Now, the way we have it worked out, you need a soul Enforcer technique to sort the madra, an advanced Sylvan Riverseed to purify it, and a mind spirit without peer to sort the residual memories. Oh, and your body needs to be sturdy enough to handle an influx of blood essence without tearing itself apart. But I fully encourage you to try! Maybe you’d survive!]

Saeya gave Lindon a look, which he didn’t think was fair. It was Dross that had spoken.

“I understand, thank you. You don’t have to take that tone.”

[What tone?] Dross asked, baffled. [It’s a splendid idea! I, for one, am delighted that you would risk your body for research.]

“It can’t be that unique,” Pride said. “You should give your notes to the clan Soulsmiths. We have plenty of dreadbeast bindings; this might be the development that gives us an edge over our enemies.”

“Of course!” Lindon said brightly. “I’ll trade you for the complete blueprint of your Book.”

Pride glared at him.

The Maten twins were quiet, only exchanging a glance, and Grace appeared to be working something out in her head.

Akura Douji and Courage muttered to one another in the back. They were trying to speak too low for him to hear, but he caught enough to figure it out.

They thought he would come for them next.

Lindon watched until they noticed his eyes on them, looking up. Then he bowed over pressed fists.

They looked at his right hand and shivered.

* * *

That night, Lindon spread Daji’s armor pieces out over a table. He’d built the table, and the entire hut surrounding it, himself.

He didn’t want to stay inside the Seishen Kingdom’s encampment, but he didn’t particularly want to stay with the Akura clan either, so he’d used timber from the many flattened homes in Sky’s Edge to build himself a shelter.

He’d included six redundant layers of scripted protection against dreadbeasts, and through sheer luck he’d positioned the hut to the south while Abyssal Palace had appeared from the north, so he wasn’t close to the enemy.

His hut was basically a giant box made of logs, but at least it was as secure as he could make it.

Fisher Gesha would be proud of him. She’d always said that if a foundry looked more like a palace than a barn, the Soulsmith was showing off.

He moved his perception over the armor and sketched a diagram…but his spiritual sense had been stopped for five minutes. As had his pen.

His Remnant hand was trembling.

Dross peered at it through one purple eye. [Hmmm…I’m keeping the memories locked up tight. None of them could be doing this, because I wouldn’t let them.]

“His oldest son was born during a thunderstorm,” Lindon said.

[Well, they’re all locked away except for the ones that aren’t, obviously. Once I have them sorted out, I’ll slip you the ones that have to do with the sacred arts. But it’s not the memories messing with your arm, it’s some sort of animating force. It feels like your arm is coming to life.]

Lindon suppressed it. “Can we stop it?”

[Ah, but hear me out: what if we evolved it to the next level? We brought me to life, and look how helpful I am! Imagine how much less lonely I’d be if there was someone else in here!]

Consuming part of the Abyssal priest’s sacred arts had been incredible for Lindon’s advancement, but he was discovering the cost of pushing himself to the brink.

“How are my channels?”

Little Blue shrugged and gave a ring like a bell.

She didn’t know, and neither did he. His channels were sore and stretched from over-use every day, and accepting a new rush of power from the priest had strained him further. On the other hand, they had also been strengthened by that power and by repeated treatment by Little Blue.

Sudden growth was hard to control, he used techniques constantly all day, and his wounds—all healed by his Bloodforged Iron body—had still taken strength from him. Integrating new blood essence burdened him now as eating high-quality sacred beast meat always had, and though his Iron body could handle it, the burden was adding up.

But he blinked the fatigue away and turned back to the armor. There were points to earn.

“Northstrider advances like this,” Lindon said. “So can we.”

[Yeah, where is he anyway? Didn’t he say he could find us wherever we went? Do you think he’ll be mad if he thinks we ran away?]

“He told us we could,” Lindon said, but truthfully he was afraid of the same thing.

A construct blared a warning, and he looked up to see who had tripped the perimeter alarm. Akura Grace strode up, holding a ward key that let her push through the security measures. They didn’t let her pass the alarm, though. Lindon wanted to know when anyone approached, even friends.

He tapped his pen dry and put it down, stretching as Dross shifted back into him. He didn’t hide Dross’ existence from his team, but he did want to keep the spirit’s full capabilities a secret.

Lindon tried not to resent the interruption, but he wanted to keep working on the armor. Still, Grace wouldn’t visit without a good reason.

She poked her head in, glanced around, then entered entirely. “We’re about to eat, if you’d like to join us.”

So much for a good reason.

Lindon forced a smile. “Apologies. I don’t have enough time to work on my armor during the day, and I’d like to examine these pieces while they’re still fresh.”

Instead of bowing out, she brightened and stepped closer to the table. “Oh, I had a project like this when I was a Jade! I tried to put together a version of the family’s bloodline armor using Lowgold materials. It didn’t work very well, but I won a Soulsmithing contest.”

“Really? How did you compress the plates?”

“Scripts. Way too many scripts.”

Lindon had known that the Akura clan had done very little research into construct armor, since all the members of their main family could generate their own, so he was interested to hear the perspective of someone who had tried to pursue that avenue anyway.

But after only a few more questions, he realized he was wasting time and stopped himself. “…apologies, but let’s talk more about that some other time. I need to go find some Remnants, if they haven’t all been eaten by dreadbeasts. We can’t afford to spend points on dead matter.”

Grace crossed her arms and leaned against the table. “What are you looking to buy?”

“All of it,” he said immediately. “But we’re so close to earning the Diamond Veins, and I’d love to end up with those for myself. It’s always my channels holding me back.”

The talk about the prizes only reminded him that his time to earn points was slipping away—he would have to return to the Uncrowned tournament in only a few days.

But still, it would have been impolite not to ask her the same question. “How about you?”

“The Thousand Swords of Binding Light,” she admitted, glancing away. “The same as everyone else. They’re too expensive. I know it’s just a dream, but I might be able to commission an Akura Soulsmith to make me something similar someday.”

Lindon looked over his armor. “If we can pick up our pace, it’s not a dream. We could separate and go after different teams, or we could bait out a high priest…”

He trailed off, going over plans in his mind for the thousandth time before Grace spoke up again.

She pulled her long, curved steel sword from her soulspace. “I don’t know how I’ll do in a fight against a high priest. My sacred instrument is getting weaker, and sometimes it takes a blink or two before it activates.”

“You haven’t been taking care of it,” Lindon said immediately, before wincing. “Pardon, that was rude. I know you’ve been busy.”

“I’ve been using it all day every day,” she said with a sigh. “No time to rest.”

Lindon was the one who decided that they should be spending every second of every day on missions, so he heard that as an accusation. “Apologies,” he said. “I’ll keep our equipment in mind. It’s important not to abuse the components.”

She laid her fingers on his arm until he looked up, surprised.

Then she pointed out of the wide doors, which she’d never closed.

Pride stood just outside the outer layer of his script, standing over a campfire. The Maten sisters and Naru Saeya were behind him, stripping logs with Ruler techniques to make a table.

They were setting up to eat. Right outside his makeshift foundry.

“Why don’t we go do some maintenance?” Grace suggested gently.

[Ouch,] Dross said.

Little Blue peeped eagerly and ran for the edge of the table. She agreed.

And, really, so did Lindon.

“Apologies,” he said.

“What for?”

Lindon packed away his armor and tools and joined his team. The wasted time weighed on him…but it wasn’t wasted time, he reminded himself. It was maintenance.

With that in mind, he was finally able to relax.

* * *

Two days before the next round of the Uncrowned King tournament, Lindon held a shimmering blue-white crystal in his hands. Its energy felt pure and cleansing, almost like a mix of Little Blue’s madra and the impression that Suriel’s glass marble gave him.

He finally had the Diamond Veins.

It was beautiful. He had been looking at it all day.

Pride cleared his throat. “You can’t take it.”

“Yes, of course. Of course. But if I did, can you imagine how many points we could score in a day? It’s an investment, if you think about it.”

It had taken more than two weeks to earn enough points for the Diamond Veins, which was far longer than Lindon had expected. He just couldn’t get the expenses down far enough, when he had to subsidize an entire group of eight.

If he could have hunted Remnants, it would have been far cheaper, but dreadbeasts fed on Remnants and left none behind themselves. So both Remnants and natural spirits were rare whenever a Dreadgod was nearby.

The entire team agreed that they should clear an expensive item out of the store before one of their competitors could buy it, but no honorable leader would spend all his team’s points on something for himself.

But Lindon couldn’t help but imagine. And he would be far more likely to get the other expensive items if he wasn’t slowed down by his madra channels.

“We can’t give exclusive prizes to anyone until we earn as many as we can,” Pride said firmly. “You said that. This was your idea. We could have cashed them all in for scales.”

“I know,” Lindon muttered. But he couldn’t stop staring into the faceted surface of the Diamond Veins.

Pride plucked the Divine Treasure from his hands. “I don’t need this, so I’ll hold on to it. Mercy wouldn’t forgive you if you gave into temptation.”

Lindon thought it was strange how much Pride brought up his sister’s opinion, especially related to Lindon. But he wasn’t wrong; Mercy wouldn’t approve of him using resources on himself instead of the team.

“Yes,” Lindon said. “Gratitude.” His hands itched to take it back, but he cleared his mind and focused on the mission at hand. “You have your gatestone?”

Pride lowered the cloudship, of which he and Lindon were the only two passengers. “Worry about yourself.”

“I have mine.” It was one of the expenses that Lindon had resented. Gatestones were far cheaper than any other device that allowed for spatial transport, and common enough that the Akura clan would supply them for contribution points, but buying some for the entire team had set them back almost two hundred points.

They were worthwhile as life-saving measures, he knew, but Pride and Maten Teia had both used one and needed to have it replaced. Every time, that was another step further from a real prize.

Today, Pride and Lindon were going after a small Abyssal Palace tower erected in a crossroads of two canyons. They had settled into a routine: go in, destroy the tower, take masks from anyone who fought, and leave.

Usually, few of the cultists fought. They just fled.

In fact, it was rare that any of the combat teams reported killing a member of Abyssal Palace, and there had been very few casualties among the Akura as well.

The danger was minimal, and time was short. So Lindon had finally decided to try completing an assignment using the people on his team least likely to be killed in action: Pride and himself.

They set down the cloudship well beyond the reach of anyone’s spiritual sense in the canyon, hiking over the land overhead. They walked through clouds of dust, as this stretch of terrain was almost a desert.

Lindon wasn’t sure why Abyssal Palace even wanted an intersection of two crossed canyons, besides the heavy earth aura here, but Fury paid in points for destroyed towers and stolen masks.

There was one other reason why he and Pride were perfect for this assignment: their veils were hard to penetrate. Shadow and pure madra were both difficult to detect, so they had the best chance of reaching the tower undetected.

Still, they would have been caught if not for Dross. Lindon’s perception was restricted under a veil, but Dross used the little information they had more efficiently.

He spotted a line of script covered by dust, allowing Lindon and Pride to quietly disable it and move on. They dodged a flying construct, and before long they were lying at the edge of a canyon, looking down.

Sure enough, at the crossroads of two ravines was a classic Abyssal Palace tower: a squat brown cylinder of packed dirt and stone, ringed with scripts that blocked intrusion and hid them from spiritual perception. Three acolytes in their simple masks huddled outside, hunched up against the cold wind.

Lindon told Dross to relay the plan to Pride.

[Here’s what we—oh look, he knows the plan already!]

Pride had leaped down into the canyon.

Two Gold acolytes went flying into the distance before the third reacted, swinging a massive club into Pride’s side.

Pride, of course, caught the weapon easily in one hand, then flipped it around and knocked the cultist onto the roof of the tower.

Lindon jumped down after him, irritated. There was an alarm blaring now, which meant they were on a time limit.

Sure, this group wasn’t a threat. But they could summon more.

Lindon landed next to Pride as three more Abyssal Palace members emerged from the short, scripted tower. Two acolytes stood on the roof with madra gathering in their hands, and a priestess came out of the doorway. One of the eyes in her mask blazed yellow.

“Your masks or your lives,” Lindon said. At first, he had included a short speech about sparing their lives and being unwilling to shed blood, because he felt like a bandit extorting them for their masks.

Now, he just cut to the chase. There was no point in drawing it out. They had never run into an enemy that was a match for him or Pride.

The priestess surveyed them, and Lindon scanned her spirit. She wasn’t even an Underlady. Most priests were, so the Truegolds that made it to that rank were considered real monsters, but Lindon wasn’t too concerned.

“You’re the Monarch’s son,” she said quietly, and Lindon felt the first tingle of alarm.

Pride drew himself up to his full unimpressive height. “I am Akura Pride.”

“Use your gatestone. We would rather not hurt you.”

He barked a humorless laugh. “It would be to your credit if you could.”

The priestess stepped aside, revealing someone standing in the tower behind her. Both of his eyes glowed yellow.

A high priest.

Lindon’s gatestone, like a lump of sparkling blue chalk, was already in his hand, but Pride was too slow.

He shouldn’t have been. He was a master of Enforcer techniques; he should have been faster than Lindon.

But he had hesitated to retreat in front of the enemy, so the high priest was already out of the doorway and holding a dagger to his throat.

The two yellow eyes turned to Lindon. “Not you. Drop it, or we will kill him.”

[Perfect!] Dross said. [Let’s leave him.]

It was Pride’s own fault that he was in this situation, and Abyssal Palace likely wouldn’t kill him. Both sides of this conflict had been tiptoeing around each other, afraid of drawing too much blood, and knowingly killing the son of a Monarch would surely count as “too much.” If Malice intervened, the entire balance would tip.

But leaving would mean abandoning a member of his team to the mercy of Dreadgod cultists.

He extended his spiritual sense delicately, trying to avoid upsetting anyone, and he got a sense of the pressure emanating from the high priest’s spirit. When he did, the knot in his stomach loosened slightly.

He wasn’t an Overlord. Like the priestess with him, he had earned his rank earlier than his advancement, which spoke greatly to his achievements.

But that meant Lindon faced one experienced Underlord and three Golds.

It wasn’t impossible.

Slowly, the Soul Cloak built around him. The dagger pushed into Pride’s neck, drawing a trickle of blood.

“Drop the technique!” the high priest snapped. “Gatestone down!”

Dross couldn’t give Lindon an accurate prediction of the enemy’s movements without a model, but he fueled Lindon’s senses so that the world appeared to slow down.

Lindon whipped the blue ball at Pride.

He had hoped the cultist would stay close enough that he would be included in the transportation, but he had no such luck. The high priest pushed his way apart as blue light surrounded Pride and space crackled.

He disappeared, leaving behind a spray of blood.

The cultist had drawn his dagger across Pride’s throat on the way out.

Everything had happened suddenly, but Lindon took a moment to think. He could fight to escape, or he could try to truly defeat his opponents.

He was in real danger here…but nothing he hadn’t seen before. There were points to be earned. He didn’t have Little Blue out to power his new techniques, but he had fought this far without them.

He may not have been one of the Uncrowned, but that didn’t mean he was helpless.

Earth aura and madra gathered at his feet, loose stones rising from the earth and sharpening into blades. It was the chaotic field that he’d seen Abyssal Palace cultists use before; a combination Ruler and Striker technique that created a ball of physical and spiritual destruction.

It was too slow.

Let’s go, Dross, Lindon thought. We’re playing to win.

[Were…were you playing to lose before?]

Blackflame gushed through him, and he tore away from the Ruler technique with the explosive strength of the Burning Cloak.

Stone exploded behind him as a strange field of light covered the high priest. It resembled a golden Remnant of the Wandering Titan that covered the enemy Underlord’s body like armor. Lindon’s spiritual sense was overwhelmed by a sense of solidity and furious, ancient hunger.

The dagger in the high priest’s hand swept toward Lindon, and Lindon pulled a shield from his soulspace.

This was his sixth version of the impact shield he’d used in the tournament, and while it was a typical round shield with a force binding in it, he’d made some improvements.

Inspired by the Seishen armor, he’d given it several layers, including a layer of water madra and a layer of wind. It could take quite a blow without buckling, now, and the binding was an Enforcer technique that made it all but indestructible to Underlord attacks.

The dagger slammed into it, chipping the material of the shield and sending Lindon flying backwards.

Dross, how does that Enforcer technique work? Lindon demanded. The members of Abyssal Palace he’d seen had full-body Enforcer techniques, but it hadn’t covered them in transparent madra that looked like a Dreadgod.

[I don’t know, but run! Run from it! And while you’re running, try to observe it more, because I’m very curious myself!]

The two Gold acolytes on the roof had formed more Chaos Fields the size of their heads, which they threw at Lindon.

Balls of yellow, filled with writhing storms of razor-sharp stones and crushing earth aura, flew toward him.

That was easily dealt with, but the high priest was dashing at him like a bull, his eyes glowing. At least his overwhelming Enforcer technique didn’t help his mobility much.

[Above you!] Dross shouted, and Lindon returned his attention to the Truegold priestess.

She hovered above him, standing on the flat of a flying sword, and the palm of her hand faced downward.

One eye of her mask flashed yellow.

Lindon opened his void key.

It didn’t open fast enough to help him, because a rush of earth and force madra slammed him down, shoving him out of the air and into the ground. The two Chaos Fields arrived a second later, crashing into his hastily upraised shield.

Little Blue screamed at him like breaking glass, but he wasn’t opening the key for her.

Wavedancer flew out, and Dross took over its control.

The Archlord weapon rushed up at the priestess, entangling her while Lindon focused dragon’s breath on the Underlord rushing him.

The high priest had already pulled out a shield of his own. His was smaller, tipped with spikes, and it gave off a venomous aura. Blackflame splashed into him and the shield began to smolder, making the other Underlord falter.

Meanwhile, the Golds on the roof had pulled out bows. A pair of arrows arced through the air. Rather than simple Forger techniques, these arrows were constructs made from Underlord parts.

If this had been a fight in the Uncrowned King tournament, Lindon would have had to run.

But it wasn’t a tournament, and it wasn’t a game, no matter how it had felt.

There were no rules here.

He pushed Little Blue back when she tried to leave, and he willed his armor to him.

The breastplate rushed into his hand, and he raised it into the air like a second shield, activating the emergency binding within.

The armor wasn’t complete. He’d cobbled it together from his Skysworn armor and the scavenged plates he’d taken from the Seishen Kingdom. He didn’t even want to call it a first attempt; this was more of a functional prototype.

His Skysworn armor had once contained an emergency binding of Grasping Sky madra that pushed everything back. He had installed that again, but he’d made some upgrades.

A pulse of wind, force, and destruction madra tore out from the breastplate, pushing away everyone but Lindon.

The damage was too much for the high priest’s shield, and he tossed it aside, coming to a complete halt. The priestess above Lindon lost control of the technique she was going to use, and the two arrows from the acolytes exploded in midair.

There was venom madra in those too, so Lindon was doubly glad he hadn’t been hit. He shoved his head through the breastplate, tucking it onto him in the lull in the battle. The binding was expended for now, but its scripts and layers of madra would still protect him.

Then he let the void key close and dashed away as more techniques tore up the space where he had been standing.

He slashed dragon’s breath behind him, leaping up the canyon wall from one outcropping to the next until he reached the top. He reached back into the void key, once again keeping Little Blue inside, and touched the rest of his armor.

But he wasn’t far ahead of the priestess. Under Dross’ control, Wavedancer kept her occupied, but she managed to follow him on a flying sword of her own. It took three weapons of hers to counter his one, but she was gathering a ball of golden earth-aspect chaos between her palms.

While plates flew onto his body, guided by madra and the aura controlled by his soulfire, Lindon spoke to Dross. Give me control.

[Oh good, I was getting tired anyway.]

Lindon let Blackflame drop, taking control over his flying sword with a thread of pure madra.

Then he poured power into it.

The three Gold swords shattered before Wavedancer, and the priestess had to drop her half-formed Striker technique and switch to Enforcing herself. Even so, she was thrown to the ground.

He drove Wavedancer down on her, but he couldn’t finish her, having to spin and focus on the Underlord coming up behind him.

The high priest used the last of his dissolving shield to block the attack, and from somewhere—Lindon couldn’t tell if it was from the man’s soulspace or not—he pulled a long stone staff.

It didn’t look like anything special, but the pressure it emanated was beyond normal. It was more than an Underlord weapon.

He swung it down with the force of that Dreadgod Enforcer technique, and Lindon brought up his shield on an armored forearm, with the Soul Cloak running through him. He even activated the Enforcer binding in the shield itself.

The blow from the staff landed like a collapsing castle. The Enforced shield cracked, as did the outer shell of Lindon’s armor. Pain flooded through his body, he was forced to one knee, and dust blasted away from him as the ground around his feet splintered.

More than anything else, it reminded him of taking a direct hit from Yerin at her full power. He shouldn’t have blocked it.

But finally, his helmet settled around him, and his prototype armor came to life.

[Do you want me on the armor or the sword?] Dross asked. [I would suggest the armor, since it’s more complicated, but if you wanted to--]

The sword!

[Right then!]

Lindon’s pure core started to drain rapidly. More quickly even than when he used the Hollow Domain. He couldn’t use either of his new pure techniques while wearing the armor, as the pure madra empowered by Little Blue would interfere with the armor.

It was that interference that had almost made him discard the idea of the armor entirely, but after a number of experiments, Lindon had finally had an epiphany.

He’d been thinking about the suit of armor all wrong. Like it was a system that unified many constructs with different functions.

That was a dead end. There was a reason why not every sacred artist fought with fifteen constructs at all times, beyond the obvious difficulty and expense. A weapon with the full force of the spirit behind it was always more powerful than one operating independently or with just a trickle of madra.

Lindon’s armor wasn’t a collection of weapons.

It was one weapon.

Madra flowed through every piece of the armor in an uninterrupted network, and when it completed its circuit, six full-body Enforcer techniques activated at once. All compatible with one another. All resonating.

He and Dross had tested hundreds of defensive Enforcer techniques before coming up with this combination.

It would put great strain on his body and spirit, and it would drain his madra dry. But for a few minutes, Lindon would be invincible.

Gold light poured from black armored plates, and Lindon leaped forward.

13

Maraan, High Priest of Abyssal Palace, was approaching one hundred years old. He had given up all hope of reaching Overlord decades earlier, thanks to a spiritual injury when he was a young man, and had dedicated his life to training future generations.

Even so, it was a point of pride that he hadn’t lost a duel against anyone else at his own stage in twenty years.

When he’d landed a clean blow with his staff on Lindon Arelius, he had enough experience to know it was over. He wouldn’t need a second strike. His Staff of Condemnation added great weight to his attacks, and he had complete mastery over his Embrace of the Titan Enforcer technique. New Overlords were often surprised that they couldn’t endure one of his swings.

Until the young man had blocked it.

Then a black helmet covered his face, and Maraan felt something he never felt from an Underlord: danger.

Maraan had seen to the early parts of Brother Aekin’s training. He kept up with news from the Uncrowned King tournament, so he knew who Lindon was. He just hadn’t paid the boy any special attention.

That was starting to feel like a mistake.

He swept the Staff of Condemnation in from the side, but an Archlord flying sword deflected him. He hadn’t had the time or attention to spare to activate the binding in the staff, so the sword was enough to stop him.

By that time, gold light was rising from the seams of the young Underlord’s armor. It felt like half a dozen sacred artists all Enforcing themselves at once.

Maraan’s wariness grew to full-blown alarm.

This was obviously a suicidal technique. No Underlord’s body, spirit, or mind could afford the burden of so many powerful techniques at once. If most of them were bindings embedded in the armor, that would only make the burden worse.

Era, the Truegold priestess and his second-in-command for this post, brought out a simple construct like a writhing birdcage the size of her two hands. She hurled it down, and he quickly recognized her good judgment.

Just in case, he pulled the same construct from his own soulspace, throwing it down at the Underlord’s feet and jumping back out of the way.

Pillars rose from all around the armored Underlord as the Ruler technique in the construct pulled the rocks and loose grit and hardened them into a stone cage. At the same time, bands of earth madra were Forged around the outside, and the pillars themselves were Enforced.

Maraan breathed more easily when he saw that the young Underlord was still standing there, gushing madra from his armor. The power for which he’d damaged his own soul had been too much for him, and now it was all he could do to control it while standing still.

Their Deep-Fathom Prison constructs were quite complex, not to mention expensive and difficult to produce. They were designed to trap Underlords, and with two of them layered on top of one another, the pillars formed an almost solid wall.

“Good work,” Maraan called, but Era was doubled over and panting. The Deep-Fathom Prison was an Underlord construct and would be difficult for her to activate.

Maraan circled around so he stood between the prisoner and Era, lazily cycling his next technique. He had intended to kill this young man from the beginning, both to teach the Akura clan a lesson about taking Abyssal Palace lightly and to study his arm, which appeared to be made from pure hunger madra.

Now he could finish Lindon off at his leisure, or just wait until the suicidal techniques took their toll.

“Acolytes retreat!” Era called back down into the canyon.

“No need for that,” Maraan said, though he didn’t say it loud enough for the acolytes to hear. He couldn’t contradict his second in front of them. “He’s quite—”

The armored Underlord punched through both prisons with one blow.

Stone and madra blasted forward for hundreds of feet. If Era had been standing in their way, she would have been shredded.

Maraan’s years of experience did not go to waste. He spun, activating his Staff of Condemnation and fueling the Embrace of the Titan with soulfire. The butt of his staff slammed into the black breastplate in a blow that would have collapsed a castle wall.

It was like throwing a fistful of straw at a bull.

Lindon crashed into him, but Maraan stood his ground. His soulfire-fueled Enforcer technique blazed around him, the yellow image of the Wandering Titan solidifying as the will of the Dreadgod itself lent him its strength.

He stood with the solidity of mountains as he pushed against this young Underlord.

Pushed…and was shoved back.

His shoes slid across the stone, and as he dug in, drawing on his earth madra to make himself heavier and more solid, he continued to move. Even the stone beneath his feet began to crack.

The boy had given up the nimble movements he’d shown before, and he hadn’t launched a single Striker technique.

But he didn’t need to. Maraan’s muscles strained.

That flying sword of his flashed at Maraan’s back, and Era managed to deflect it with a Striker technique, but it only banked around for another attack.

Lindon drew his fist back, and Maraan felt his own death approaching.

At the risk of damaging his own channels, he poured all the madra he could into another Striker technique.

The Eruption Ring technique had been modeled on one of the Dreadgod’s powers. It released a wall of madra all around, shoving enemies back, and with great control it could be focused in one direction.

Maraan blasted a solid wall of force and earth madra in front of him to give him some space.

The wave of yellow power splashed over the armored man like water.

He crashed through the Eruption Ring with his fist swinging.

Maraan held up the Staff of Condemnation and focused all his effort on his Enforcer technique, but when the punch landed, his vision whited out for an instant.

His back crashed into the side of a plateau. He made a crater in the rock.

His Embrace of the Titan faded.

His mask cracked in half.

He stared blankly forward, too dazed to feel pain or much of anything. A black visor turned to him, and then Era was there.

Her expression was hidden by her priest’s mask, but he could feel the desperation in her spirit as she leaped up and wrapped her body around him.

A black figure loomed over them, shining gold, as Era crushed a blue ball. A gatestone.

An instant later, they were back in the Abyssal Palace itself, the fortress that now hovered over Sky’s Edge. He and Era rolled to a halt on the polished floor, and only then did the pain penetrate.

His ribs were fractured, his arms useless, and he couldn’t feel his legs. Era struggled to her feet, groaning, and then he saw that her sleeve was a ragged, bloody, empty mess where her left arm used to be.

An acolyte cried their names and ran for help.

Maraan let his pain wash over him. With trembling effort, he turned to look at the Staff of Condemnation, which had snapped into two pieces. An Overlord weapon he had been given along with his position.

His head fell back down to the tile.

This was his own fault for not paying more attention to the Uncrowned King tournament.

He had thought of the competition only as a way to prove their value to Reigan Shen and for his apprentice to gain experience. But Maraan knew Brother Aekin’s strength better than anyone; he had practically raised the boy.

Aekin could not handle opponents like this. And this boy hadn’t even made it into the top eight.

No…Lindon hadn’t beaten him under tournament conditions. In fact, he’d given his life for this temporary power.

If he wasn’t dead now, he’d be crippled for life.

Maraan consoled himself with that knowledge as he allowed the acolytes to carry him to medical care.

He spoke with great effort to Era as they were both gathered up. “What…was his name?”

“Lindon Arelius,” Era responded grimly.

“We struck…a great blow…killing him. They will…want…revenge.”

The fights had been mostly bloodless so far, but this was worthwhile. Maraan may be in recovery for a few weeks, but the Akura had lost one of their rising stars forever.

* * *

Lindon peeled himself out of the armor, letting Little Blue berate him as he fed each plate back into the void key.

He deserved her lecture. Not for the reasons she was upset, but he deserved it nonetheless.

She was angry that he hadn’t accepted her help, and insisted that he could have made quick work of the enemies using her power.

He didn’t regret leaving her in storage, but with every piece of armor he loaded back into the void key, he couldn’t help calculating how much repairs would cost.

Fifty or sixty points, he suspected. And the fight had earned him zero more.

Well, the twenty from completing the assignment of clearing out an Abyssal Palace tower, but he was always going to get those.

[We have information on how the prototype performed in real, live combat!] Dross said cheerily. [That will cut down on costs in the long run, since instead of performing more tests in the boring world of flesh, we can perform them inside my amazing mind.]

“It’s too fragile,” Lindon said.

[You were like a rock covered in steel and wrapped in more rocks.]

“Not me, I mean the madra layers in the armor. They can’t handle the resonance, so the armor tears itself apart. Instead of a sacred instrument, it’s like strapping simple constructs all over my body.”

[What’s so wrong with that? You could be the construct man! That would certainly be memorable!]

“If I want to fight once for five minutes a week. Even if we could solve that, I didn’t…like it.”

The armor was too bulky. Not just physically, but spiritually, as though he had to lift heavy weights with both his body and his madra.

“I can’t help but think there’s one technique that would provide the same benefits without being so…complicated.”

[Look at it this way: it only cost you points to make an entire team retreat!]

His pure core was still almost half-full, his Blackflame core virtually untouched. His madra channels were sore, but no more so than after a day of hard exercise, and his body had handled the strain of all those Enforcer techniques unscathed. He could fight another battle immediately, if he had to, thanks to the effects of the Heaven and Earth Purification Wheel.

But the thought only depressed him further, and he gave a heavy sigh. “We still don’t know what happened to Pride. If he…”

He trailed off, but if Mercy’s brother died under his orders, it would be his fault. And the Akura clan had taken him to task over Harmony. If Fury’s nephew was killed, what would his response be?

Charity was supposed to take Lindon back to the tournament in only two days. He couldn’t hide from her. What would she do to him?

Lindon had sent messages requesting updates on Pride’s condition, but no one so far had responded.

So it was with a heavy heart that he stood on his Thousand-Mile Cloud and began drifting back to the camp.

He was surprised to run into Pride halfway there.

He was standing behind the control panel of the small Akura cloudship, racing across the dusty plains. His collar was still smeared with blood, and there was a scar across the side of his throat that looked like it had been healing for weeks.

When he saw Lindon, he pulled the cloudship up alongside him in an instant. “You got away!” Pride said in evident surprise.

“Apologies.” He bowed over fists pressed together.

Pride scowled. “I didn’t think I’d have to tell you not to waste gatestones. What were you thinking?”

That was not what Lindon had meant to apologize for.

“I was trying to save your life.”

Pride gave him a blank look. “Why would my life have been in danger?”

“He had his knife to your neck!”

“And did you see me use my armor?”

“He drew blood!”

Pride stared at him for another moment and then opened a void key. Like some other Akura void keys Lindon had seen before, it was blocked with shadow madra so he couldn’t see within.

A moment later, he emerged with a dagger and stabbed it into the side of his own neck, pulling it out as blood gushed onto the console in front of him.

All the while, he wore a reproachful look.

The blood stopped flowing almost immediately, and Pride wiped the knife clean.

He tried to speak, coughed, spat up some blood, and continued. “A dagger to the neck is only threatening blood loss. Between my Iron body and one of my Enforcer techniques, it is almost literally impossible for me to bleed to death.”

“Well, I…did not think of that.”

Lindon had seen Pride’s abilities before. He should have put that together.

If the Underlord had activated a binding in the dagger that might have cut Pride’s head off, Pride would certainly have sensed that and used his bloodline armor.

So he had been in no danger at all.

[If it helps at all, I remembered all that, but even I didn’t know he could brush off a knife to the throat. It’s good to remember when we end up killing him.]

Pride’s eye twitched. “You don’t have to save me. Remember that. Just worry about yourself.”

Lindon’s own irritation with Pride returned, and he gave an even deeper bow than he had before. “Pardon, but would you mind letting your aunt know? I don’t want to owe her another debt if you die.”

Pride ground his jaw. “Get on the ship.”

* * *

When Charity appeared in front of Lindon to take him back to the Uncrowned King tournament, he felt like she was tearing points away from him.

He wanted to see Yerin again, and of course he needed to witness the rest of the tournament, but how much would his team slow down without him around? What would happen to his points?

Charity noticed his hesitation, raising one eyebrow. “Did you enjoy it here that much?”

“Apologies, no, I’m…I’m ready to go.”

“When my father was younger, he would have stayed in battle rather than returning home. Sometimes for months.”

“It’s not battle that concerns me. I just can’t afford to stay where I am.”

And every day he was gone, the Uncrowned would be growing stronger. He would be left further behind than he was already.

The tournament would only remind him how far he had to go.

“I had to visit for my own reasons in any case. If you would like me to leave you here—”

“No. No, my mind is made up.”

If for no other reason, he hadn’t seen Yerin in a month.

Charity nodded, giving him an hour to speak with his team and pack. Only when he was certain that they would all dedicate themselves to earning points while he was gone did he feel any sort of comfort about leaving.

Just like their trip to Sky’s Edge, their trip back took half a day of transporting through seemingly random locations. This time, Charity was in a more talkative mood, asking both Dross and Lindon about their experiences in Sky’s Edge.

“And you haven’t seen any hint of the other Dreadgod cults?”

“Only Abyssal Palace, although other teams may have seen what I haven’t.”

She waved a hand. “No, that lines up with what my father said. It simply concerns me. But how about you? You were placed at the head of a team with no time to prepare.”

Lindon wasn’t sure what kind of answer she was looking for, so he gave a noncommittal answer. “It has been a valuable learning opportunity for me, and a good chance to earn contribution points.”

“I see.” Purple eyes watched him, and he couldn’t read them. “And your team members? Have you grown to know them better?”

“We often work separately, but I have spent time with each of them.”

Less so with the Maten sisters, who seemed not to talk any more than necessary to anyone but each other, or the two lowest-ranking Akura Underlords. Douji and Courage went out of their way to avoid Lindon whenever possible, no doubt worried that he might take revenge for their treatment of him in Moongrave.

Their fear was not improved by Dross, who kept whispering threats into their minds as they tried to sleep.

“Hm.” She raised an arm, and an owl of living madra came down to perch on it. She scratched it behind the head as she asked, “What do you think of Grace?”

Lindon sensed danger, but since he still didn’t know where the Sage was headed, he continued to answer safely. “She has performed admirably, both in and out of combat. I can trust her judgment more than…others.”

He had almost given in to his temptation to insult Pride.

The Sage of the Silver Heart turned and speared him with a gaze that examined him far beyond the point of comfort. “What if we allowed you to marry her?”

They had stopped in a beautiful glade, where Lindon sat on a plush cushion of moss, but suddenly he couldn’t find a comfortable position.

“I…would be…flattered by the offer, but certainly she has better prospects than me.”

Charity continued examining him as she rested her hand on the owl. The owl, too, stared fixedly at him.

“How many better prospects do you imagine there are?” the Sage asked. “You must know that you caught my grandmother’s attention. She instructed us to tie you to the family, and this would be the easiest way.”

[Wow, marriage is easy! I had always imagined a lot of nonsense building up to it, but this is nice and fast. You should do it.]

Lindon focused on watching dew bead at the end of a huge leaf so that he didn’t have to keep staring into piercing purple eyes. He declined as graciously as he could. “Apologies. I doubt I can live up to your expectations. I have never interacted with Grace as anything other than a teammate.”

“You will become a significant power in the future,” Charity said. “It is in our best interests to tie you to our name as early as we can. As for Grace’s personal feelings, while I intended to propose this issue to her, she brought it up first.”

For a moment, Lindon had a hard time believing that. But the Sage would have no reason to lie.

Then he couldn’t help but be flattered. More than he would have expected.

He understood the reality of Grace’s position: she saw him as a good prospect that her family would accept and that she could get along with. He had no illusions about his own charm.

“I am honored,” he said honestly.

“Good. We would also like to avoid the possibility of any…missteps…on your part. We are aware that the only young women you have spent significant time with are Yerin and Mercy, and we would like to act before you develop too much attachment to either of them.”

Lindon studiously examined the dew-spotted leaf.

“Mercy cannot afford any distractions until she reaches at least the peak of Archlord, at which point she will make her own decisions. And Yerin is not a member of our family. Yet. But we will be doing what we can to change that.”

“I appreciate your honesty,” Lindon said automatically.

“Yes.” Charity waved a hand, dismissing her owl. “Now, I would appreciate some from you.”

While Lindon couldn’t detect any clear change in her expression, somehow she seemed more relatable. Less like the Sage of the Silver Heart, and more like Mercy’s aunt.

Or, technically, Mercy’s ancient niece.

“I am genuinely flattered by the offer,” Lindon said, “but I am interested only in Yerin.” That was uncomfortable to say out loud, so he tried to soften the statement. “Presuming she feels the same way. I would like to try, at least.”

Charity folded her arms. “I knew we had waited too long when I saw your reservation at the Sundown Pavilion.”

He gave an awkward laugh that he didn’t feel. “Ah. My apologies.”

“None necessary. If you’re serious, you should strike sooner rather than later. Yerin has become one of the most eligible young women in the world.”

Lindon tried to imagine Yerin’s reaction to a stranger asking her for a stroll in the moonlight.

He couldn’t picture it going well.

“Pardon if this sounds too proud,” Lindon said, “but I don’t think that’s my greatest concern.”

* * *

When Charity made the final jump to the Ninecloud Court, she told Lindon to expect that they would emerge at the end of the cloudship dock.

So when he ended up inside a familiar gray, simply decorated room with Northstrider standing in the corner, Lindon was caught off guard.

At first, Lindon thought Charity had brought him to Northstrider as the result of some secret deal, but the Sage spoke in a flat voice. “Monarch. You could have summoned me.”

“I did,” Northstrider said. “Now I dismiss you.” His muscular arms were folded, and he stared into the walls as though watching something far away.

“We are allies. We may as well be cordial to one another.”

He slowly turned to regard her with his draconic gaze, but if he meant it to be intimidating, it didn’t seem to work. Charity met him evenly, impassively, without any disruption in her madra that Lindon could sense.

“Very well,” Northstrider said at last. “Thank you for your assistance. You may go.”

That didn’t sound too cordial to Lindon, but Charity accepted it, as she bowed. “Of course. Lindon, I will speak with you later. And I will relay your greetings to Mercy, Yerin, and Eithan.”

With that, she stepped into shadow and disappeared.

Dross spun out onto Lindon’s shoulder. [Sir! It’s been too long! I mean, not too long, unless you think so.]

The black orb appeared in Northstrider’s hand. “This time, I would like you to attempt some simulations, to show me the true extent of your predictive capabilities.”

[Of course! Of course, delighted to. I remember exactly—]

“Begin.”

Instead of pushing his way in, this time Dross was absorbed straight into the center of the black sphere, leaving Northstrider and Lindon together.

Before Lindon could say a word, Northstrider spoke. “You used my technique.”

Lindon immediately worried that the Monarch might disapprove, but pride in his accomplishment won out. “Gratitude for your guidance. It took me great effort to separate the powers from one another.”

“Has Dross helped you overcome the effects?”

Lindon quickly realized he must be referring to the burden that absorbing power put on his body and spirit. “Dross has been invaluable in helping me to separate memories, but my madra channels are still not quite as resilient as I would like.”

He studied the Monarch, hoping that Northstrider would take the hint and gift him with a set of Diamond Veins. Then Lindon wouldn’t have to use the treasure he’d bought from the Sky’s Edge battlefield.

“Your madra channels. Good. If you continue to use it on the battlefield, you could reach Overlord in a matter of weeks.”

“Gratitude, but I am not certain I have the insight to advance to Overlord. I have much yet to learn.”

“But you have investigated the Overlord revelation yourself.”

It wasn’t really a question, but Lindon nodded anyway. “It seems to be based on seeing yourself clearly, as the Underlord revelation was. I read a theory that Underlord requires meditating on the past, Overlord on the present, and Archlord on the future. But pardon me if I am incorrect.”

Northstrider ran his spiritual sense through him, keeping it on him until Lindon found it hard to breathe. “That is the path for you,” he said at last, and Lindon took a deep breath when his perception lifted. “Consider yourself as you are now. What is the nature of the will that drives you? What principles guide your madra?”

He tapped the black orb, in which Dross still swam, and then nodded to himself. “Yes. That is the way.”

Lindon bowed as he committed the words to memory. “Gratitude, Monarch. I hope to one day repay you for your wisdom.”

“You may soon have the chance.” Northstrider darkened, scowling but not at Lindon. “The Ninecloud Court has announced their support for Reigan Shen. Leiala would never have allowed it. She hated him almost as much as he deserves.”

Lindon thought back to Eithan’s fight and wondered if it was appropriate for him to speculate. “Is…is that Eithan’s fault?”

“It could be Miara’s immaturity, but the Ninecloud Court is far from the Blackflame continent. They have nothing to risk from this experiment, but they will provide little support to Shen either. The more pressing issue is the Eight-Man Empire. They are looking for an excuse to throw their weight behind one side or the other.”

“I thank you for sharing your wisdom.”

“I’m sharing so that you may understand,” Northstrider said sharply. “You will return to the Dreadgod battlefield, so you should know. Right now, a flight of dragons is poised to cross the continent and head to Sky’s Edge. They are held back by Heralds in the Wasteland, but those Heralds have no allegiance, even to me. They will bend with the wind. And they look to the Uncrowned King tournament to gauge the direction of the wind.”

Lindon thought he understood, and his stomach clenched. Depending on who had the best showing in the tournament, Abyssal Palace could receive reinforcements. The Eight-Man Empire could tip the balance in war zones all over the world.

And depending on who ultimately won, it could shift again.

“I only wish I could still influence the tournament,” Lindon said. He still hadn’t quite gotten over his disappointment with Northstrider at matching him against Yerin.

“Do not pretend you don’t understand that situation. The placements were a game among all eight factions.” Northstrider unfolded his arms and stepped over to Lindon, standing so close that Lindon started to sweat.

“The world will not end with this tournament, nor even with the awakening of the Dreadgods. One day, you may become an asset.”

This made the second time in quick succession that Lindon had heard something about how influential he would someday be. Evidently Charity, Northstrider, and even Akura Malice had expectations of him in the future.

Rather than honored, he was growing suspicious. What had he done recently to attract their attention? Or did they treat him this way just because he earned top sixteen in the tournament?

Dross emerged, gasping, from the black orb. His purple arms drooped, and he shivered. [You lied to me! That was so much harder than last time!]

When Northstrider turned his gaze to Dross, the spirit coughed. [Ah, you know what, I misinterpreted what you said. Don’t blame me. It’s his dream aura that I run on.]

“Both of you, continue your training,” Northstrider said. “You should have new insights to pursue.”

Dross and Lindon both thanked him, and the Monarch waved a hand. As usual, he dismissed him the instant he was done with them.

As they appeared in Lindon’s room in the Ninecloud Court for the first time in a month, Lindon sent a thought to Dross: Did you get any more memories

[Not from him,] Dross said dismissively. [He’s locked those up now. Most of his “tests” involve sorting facts, and of course I remember them. I was hoping he’d give me some kind of memory erasing technique. But hey! I did get some records from the tournament! Straight from the recording constructs, fresh and delicious.]

Lindon wasn’t one to dismiss the value of information—anything the Monarch could give Dross would be as valuable as any technique library—but he did admit a little disappointment. He had been hoping for more Monarch sacred arts he could steal.

That disappointment was nothing next to what he felt when he tried to visit Yerin.

“Due to increased security measures, the Uncrowned have been separated for the duration of the fifth round,” the Ninecloud Soul said apologetically from outside the empty room that had once belonged to Yerin. “You may apply for a visit when the fights are complete, and in the meantime, you may avail yourself of Ninecloud City’s many world-renowned entertainment venues!”

Lindon went back to his room to Forge scales.

* * *

Information requested: the Eight-Man Empire, wandering conquerors and collective Monarch.

Beginning report…

Path: the Eightfold Spear. What the Empire calls “the Path of the Eightfold Spear” is not a Path in the traditional sense. It is a complex bond of mind and spirit woven through a network of Divine Treasures that allow the eight members of the Empire to access the powers of the other seven. In reality, each member of the Eight-Man Empire is on a separate Path.

When Sages and Heralds refuse to ascend, it is almost always because they dream of becoming a Monarch and ruling over the world of their birth. Over the course of history, therefore, there have been many attempts to create a reliable way to advance to Monarch.

All those who pursue such research eventually have the same idea: if Monarchs are those who have advanced both to Herald and to Sage, why not link a Sage with a Herald? Surely they would then, together, exert the power of a Monarch.

If this research reaches the stage of experimentation, it almost always ends in tragedy. The strain is too great for both the Herald and the Sage, as neither has the insight required to control the power of the other.

All who tried this technique have been torn apart by their own spirits…with a single exception.

The founding members of the Eight-Man Empire, four Heralds and four Sages, suspected that spreading their power more widely could lessen the burden on any one member. They crafted eight Divine Treasures, suits of golden armor, that linked their wills together.

It is unknown how sacred artists who never ventured beyond Cradle understood such principles so thoroughly, but Abidan intervention is suspected.

The Path of the Eightfold Spear is unique in all the world, and the Eight-Man Empire is always on the lookout for heirs to inherit their positions in the event of death or ascension. Their suits of armor can be passed down and repaired, but not replaced.

Their experiment has never been successfully repeated.

Suggested topic: squires of the Eight-Man Empire. Continue?

Denied, report complete.

14

Yerin sat in a plush seat in the audience hall of a floating castle covered in shadow: the Akura family Monarch platform. Constructs of light projected the contents of the arena so that she could see everything in perfect detail, and she had a personal servant to cater to her every whim.

If she could have cut her way out, she would have.

“It’s for your own security,” the Winter Sage reminded her for the tenth time. “The Ninecloud Court couldn’t afford it if anything happened to the Uncrowned under their watch, and our political relations are more strained than ever.”

Yerin still seethed. “Show me the face of the killer with so much courage that they’ll attack while I’m protected by the heavens.”

“It’s not courage we’re concerned about,” the Sage snapped. “Who can count on the Abidan?”

Mercy leaned forward and laced her black-gloved fingers together. “It’s about to start,” she said quietly.

Yerin eyed her. Mercy wasn’t acting like her usual self. She was on the edge of her seat, tapping her foot, and she hadn’t tried to make Yerin feel better.

Mercy’s match was in two days, and it was enough to put anyone on the edge.

Which meant it was Yerin’s turn to try cheering someone up.

“Look at it with new eyes,” Yerin suggested. “When you win, she won’t make it any further.”

Mercy let out a long, heavy breath and slumped down further in her chair. “Yeah, but I have to win,” she muttered. “That takes all the fun out of it.”

Well, I tried, Yerin thought.

The Ninecloud Soul introduced Yan Shoumei, and Yerin paid more attention to the projection. After all the dream tablets and recordings Yerin had seen of the Redmoon girl, she recognized the signs of nerves in her fixed expression and the way she let her hair hang over the sides of her face.

Yerin was particularly interested in this match because she had never actually seen Yan Shoumei use her Blood Shadow. She had only summoned it in the match against Blacksword. To Yerin, it seemed like the woman was on a standard blood Path.

And while Yerin knew that she hadn’t seen everything Shoumei was capable of, she suspected she hadn’t seen everything the other fighter had to offer either.

Yan Shoumei stood in the middle of a field full of obstacles that resembled ancient ruins. Dark stains spattered everything, and since the projection of these high-quality constructs even conveyed spiritual impressions, Yerin could sense that the stains gave off blood aura.

So the aura would allow Shoumei to use the full extent of her Path, but the obstacles would break sight and force both participants to rely on their spiritual senses.

Which would greatly favor Yan Shoumei’s opponent.

The Ninecloud Soul was wrapping up her introduction. “…and facing the prodigy of Redmoon Hall, we have a prodigy in his own right: the exile separated from his homeland and fighting for the glory of a new Monarch. Eithan Arelius!”

There came the faint sound of applause, though Yerin could only hear it because of the projection. The Monarch platform blocked all outside sound.

A stone door lifted, and out came…not Eithan.

Two Remnants, like chubby golden phoenixes, soared out of the waiting room. Rainbows streamed behind them, and they cried in a chorus that seemed like it couldn’t possibly come from any less than a hundred throats.

Eithan drifted out, floating not on a Thousand-Mile Cloud but on a platform of shimmering light generated from diamond shoes. His robes were five shades of gold, sewn with images of dragons and phoenixes and tigers in even more gold. The robes glowed, too.

He held an ivory pipe encrusted in jewels, and it must have been two entire feet long. When he held the pipe out to the side, the smoke drifting up from the bowl spelled out letters in the air.

“…do I want to know what that says?” Yerin asked.

“It’s his name,” the Winter Sage said icily.

Mercy choked down a laugh.

A gold-rimmed glass lens sat over one of Eithan’s eyes, and a crown of shining crystals hovered over his head. As he came to a stop, shimmering white wings of light spread from behind him.

It was the ugliest, most unnecessary thing Yerin had ever seen.

Northstrider stood with his arms crossed between both fighters, and while Yan Shoumei looked confused, the Monarch gave Eithan a sharp glare.

“I did not call for a clown,” he said.

“Really? I could have sworn I heard my name.” Eithan took a puff of the pipe and blew out the smoke, which formed the shape of a star in midair. “It’s an important occasion, so I thought I’d dress my best.”

Northstrider turned to Yan Shoumei. “Will this distract you?”

Shoumei was still examining Eithan the way she would a mysterious creature of unknown origin, but she shook her head.

“Very well,” the Monarch said. “Then…begin.”

He vanished, and so did the barrier separating them.

Eithan adjusted the lens over his eye. “I say, I hope you’re prepared for a real tussle. Yes, a knuckle-scraper. Put up your—”

Shoumei threw one Striker technique, a simple nest of bloody whips that struck Eithan in the chest.

Eithan didn’t defend himself at all. The madra tore through him, and Yerin knew what the technique would do. It was easy enough to block or avoid, but blood madra affected bodies directly; undefended, the Striker technique tore his heart in half.

He and all his clothes dissolved into white light.

There was a moment of silence from the crowd, and then jeers that grew louder and louder.

“…victory in fight number one goes to Yan Shoumei,” the Ninecloud Soul announced. “Has Eithan Arelius underestimated his opponent, or did he intend to give up the first fight for a more stunning victory later?”

Yerin turned to the Winter Sage for an explanation, but she was grinding her teeth together so hard that it looked like she was chewing strips of invisible leather. Frost had begun growing on her chair, and wild sword aura slowly tore rips into the fabric.

Yerin turned to Mercy instead.

“They bought him off,” Mercy said with a sigh. “The Abidan specifically mentioned it as an option. I still don’t understand why. Are they hoping the richest faction will win?”

“They’re not looking for a recruit with no spine,” Yerin said. “If you can be bought, why would they want you?”

That felt right to Yerin, if maybe incomplete. It wasn’t as though she knew what motives drove the heavens.

“Well then, we know he’ll allow it. But I hope…”

She glanced up to the top of the room, where a mass of darkness and dense spiritual power waited.

That was the seat of Akura Malice, and while none of them could tell if the Monarch was actually inside that cloud of shadow or not, she would certainly be watching from somewhere.

If Eithan had thrown the match while fighting in Malice’s name without warning her, the Monarch wouldn’t be happy.

The heavenly messenger might personally intervene to stop reprisals, but Malice could still find a thousand ways to make Eithan’s life miserable.

To Yerin’s own surprise, she found herself hoping that Eithan had gotten permission for this. Normally she would say that Eithan had earned whatever he got by acting like a fool, but this time she was afraid for him.

A few minutes passed before Northstrider announced the rematch.

The fourth round had been single-elimination duels, according to Northstrider’s preference, but the fifth round gave each competitor the chance to show more of what they were capable of. The winner of each match would be the first to win two fights out of three, with half an hour in between each fight for the fighter to adjust their strategy.

When that half an hour ended, Yan Shoumei walked out to the center of the arena as before. The battlefield had changed slightly, with the obstacles rearranged. Some of them moved along tracks, while others looked insubstantial or like blobs of shifting liquid.

Eithan rode out of his waiting room on the back of a blazing white Remnant that resembled a skull-headed horse.

He galloped out, leaped off, and flipped in the air as the Remnant trotted back to the room behind him. When he landed, he spread both his hands wide.

“Well, my worthy opponent, you may have caught me off my guard once. But I assure you that this time, you will face my full fury!”

“Begin,” Northstrider said.

Yan Shoumei lashed out with a Striker technique again, but this time she didn’t go for a quick kill. Whether she was trying to make Eithan suffer or to avoid the potential of falling into a trap, she lashed her blood madra at his legs.

As soon as the technique made contact, Eithan exploded.

Simple constructs strapped beneath his clothes detonated at the touch of blood madra, annihilating him in an instant.

“Victory to Yan Shoumei,” the Ninecloud Soul said with a sigh.

* * *

Eithan re-formed in his waiting room laughing.

Reigan Shen would have preferred it if he hadn’t flaunted his bribery, but that was all the more reason to do it. Malice wouldn’t like it either, but Eithan had pacified her before the match began.

He wasn’t entirely happy about his deal with Malice. He now owed her a favor, paid at a time of her choosing, which was too much of a potential liability for his liking. What if she held on to that token until he advanced to Monarch?

But some jokes were worth it.

It was at that moment that he realized how cold it was in his waiting room. He had been brought back to life without a stitch of his clothing.

“This doesn’t seem fair!” Eithan called. “Northstrider!”

He knew the Monarch could hear him.

Oh, well. The clothes had been expensive, but Reigan Shen had paid for it all. He reached into a cubby for his void key, only to find it missing.

It would be back in his room, he was certain—it was beneath a Monarch to steal from an Overlord. Then again, it was also beneath a Monarch to strip an Overlord naked.

Eithan looked toward the door and sighed. “On the bright side,” he said aloud, “at least I look fantastic.”

* * *

Yan Shoumei marched toward the Akura waiting room, seething.

She had been told to expect that Eithan would throw the match, and she would take any victory she could get. She wasn’t here for honorable combat.

Even so, Eithan had been supposed to make it look like a real fight. This brought her no respect at all, and it made her look like he could have destroyed her and had chosen not to. She was certain she could have won the fight even if he had given it his all, and part of her still resented that the Monarch had no faith in her.

Her anger only faded when she thought of the prizes she would soon receive. Respect or not, a win was a win. This was one step closer to overall victory, when neither she nor her homeland could be ignored ever again.

She was debating with herself when she came to the Akura waiting room. The Uncrowned were still allowed to interact with one another outside the matches, which she had thought was strange. Surely the eight of them were the most likely to attack one another.

Who could try anything under the observation of both the Ninecloud Soul and the Monarchs?

The door swung open, and Eithan Arelius emerged.

She wondered if he was deliberately trying to provoke her.

A cloud, which he’d clearly condensed out of aura, wrapped around his waist. Otherwise, he was completely naked. His ostentatious clothes had vanished as though they’d been dissolved with destruction aura.

When he saw her, he smiled brightly and put both hands on his hips.

“Yan Shoumei! Wonderful to see you. Would you mind if we spoke later? I’d love to have a heart-to-heart, but I can’t keep this cloud up forever.”

Shoumei pulled an outer robe from her void key and tossed it to him.

“Ah! Thank you.” He wrapped it around his waist and let the cloud puff apart. “Now, what can I do for you?”

“Why?” Her voice came out more puzzled than angry. “Are you trying to embarrass me? Or make an enemy of the Monarch?”

“I apologize for the lack of respect toward you,” Eithan said. “But I apologize not at all for the lack of respect toward your master.”

That phrasing grated on her. “He is not my master. And he should have let me beat you myself.”

“Ah, that is a disappointment. We’ll have to see about that some other time. Until then, enjoy your prizes. And I will repay you for the robe! Unless you would rather I wash it and send it back?”

Yan Shoumei couldn’t take him anymore, so she turned and marched away.

On a whim, she reached back with her spiritual perception. It was hard to get a passive sense of his spirit, since pure madra was naturally subtle, but she probed his spirit accurately. It was rude, but not as rude as what he’d done already.

When she felt his spirit, she stopped in her steps.

Overlord.

Yan Shoumei spun around to see him wave lazily to her as he walked away.

* * *

The Forest Sage had given up on Ziel halfway through their training, but that was understandable. Ziel had given up on himself long before.

He stood in the center of the Uncrowned King arena, letting the cheers and shouts of the audience wash over him. The arena was an elaborate machine of crashing steel and falling stones, a three-dimensional maze ripe with aura of force and earth.

He would have to navigate it carefully, and he was certain the shape of the arena had been designed to encourage mobility. On its own, this fight was likely to be nothing more than two sacred artists crashing hammers into one another until one fell over, and the Ninecloud Court wanted a more interesting fight. Especially after the last round.

Northstrider was here, and his opponent was on his way. Brother Aekin wore a dark stone mask carved to resemble some kind of snarling monster, the right eye of which glowed with a bright yellow light. His robes were black and brown, representing the Wandering Titan’s cult: the Abyssal Palace.

When Ziel had learned they weren’t matching him up against the last remaining Stormcaller, that had sapped even more of his motivation.

Even now, he wondered why he bothered. It would take the attention of multiple Monarchs to restore him to his former power, which he would only get if he won the tournament. Not only were the odds too low to bet on, what would he do with the power of an Archlord?

He just wanted his own spirit to stop hurting. Emriss Silentborn’s treatment had helped, but it needed a long time to do its work. Rather than fight, he wanted to go home and wait for that elixir to slowly heal him.

Even if it would only ever make him an Underlord.

But he did have one more hope.

He glanced at the Arelius tower, with its blocks of white stone held up by fluted columns. Tiberian Arelius had been known for his spiritual attacks, and in fact the Sage of Calling Storms had abused some of the Arelius Monarch’s research to damage Ziel’s soul in the first place.

Tiberian had created a spiritual restoration process to undo long-term soul damage: the Pure Storm Baptism. Once, Ziel had hunted for it, until he had learned that the Arelius Monarch was dead.

Only days ago, the Arelius family had contacted him. If he defeated Brother Aekin, they would ensure that their prize in the next round was one of the few remaining Pure Storm Baptism courses.

Without Tiberian alive, they couldn’t replace those. Any they used would be gone forever.

And it wouldn’t restore his power as an Archlord, but it would allow him to live as a perfectly healthy Underlord far faster than Emriss’ elixir.

With the two combined, he might even be able to advance again.

He had already passed his soulfire revelations, so his body would be even stronger than any other Underlord’s. And now the revelations couldn’t bottleneck his progress if he did manage to advance again. It was a great offer.

Too great to pass up. He knew that in his head, but his heart wasn’t convinced.

He’d been worthless for too long. Nothing could turn that around now. The belief was engraved in his bones.

Cylinders crashed to the ground around him, casting off force aura and kicking up wind that billowed his cloak. He leaned on his hammer, facing Brother Aekin.

Northstrider asked them both if they were prepared, and Ziel wondered if anyone got to this point in the competition and required another minute for preparation.

Finally, the Monarch ordered them to begin.

The Path of the Dawn Oath had only two techniques, and Ziel used them both.

The Stone Anchor, his full-body Enforcer technique, ran through him like iron bars reinforcing his skeleton. It bound him to the ground, so that with stable footing he could stand as though nailed in place.

But the cornerstone of his Path was the Oathsign technique. He Forged eleven green, shining runes in a circle that hung in the air in front of him.

This circle hardened force aura into a solid barrier that stopped physical impacts.

Brother Aekin’s hammer crashed into the barrier and cracked it, ruining the Forged symbols, but the blow was stopped.

Ziel’s own hammer, driven with the force of his Stone Anchor, slammed into Aekin an instant later.

The Dreadgod cultist blocked it with one upraised arm, sliding a few feet back instead of flying across the arena. A full-body Enforcer technique flowed through him as well, appearing outwardly as a yellow light covering him like armor.

They each gripped a hammer in both hands.

Aekin’s weapon looked like it had been hewn from rough stone, and it gave off the pressure of an Archlord weapon. Ziel’s steel hammer had been made for an Archlord as well, but there was no way he could activate its binding. His madra channels were already screaming at him after using only a handful of techniques.

As he expected, he should give up.

But while he was here, he might as well give the fight a token effort.

New scripts encircled his wrists and ankles, stimulating the blood aura in his body and strengthening him briefly. He kicked off from the ground, launching himself into the air and landing on a platform that drifted across the arena on a cushion of force aura.

He expected Aekin to follow him, but the Abyssal Palace priest pulled a second weapon out of his soulspace. It was shaped something like a crossbow made from polished wood, though if he was storing it in his soulspace it had to be very dense madra.

A launcher construct made into a sacred instrument. That was rare, as launcher constructs typically didn’t get any stronger when powered directly. A sword produced more power in accordance with its user, but launchers had static output.

Globs of a dark, oily liquid shot out of the construct. Ziel had already dropped the scripts around his limbs and switched back to the Stone Anchor, so it would be a moment before he could dodge again. He had no choice but to block.

A new script-circle appeared in front of him, this one designed to seize madra rather than aura. The globs of oil struck the circle and were sprayed out the sides, away from him.

But a few droplets landed on the ends of his cloak and splattered onto his feet. They began to grow, drawing strength from his blood and sticking him to the flying surface.

He broke them quickly, but Aekin had already leaped onto the platform, and a rush of his yellow madra shoved Ziel backwards.

The duel took another minute or two, but Ziel never recovered.

Aekin kept him on the back foot as Ziel grew more and more exhausted, his own techniques burdening him too much to continue.

Eventually, he couldn’t support his own madra and Aekin crushed his head.

Ziel was remade from white madra in his waiting room. Alone.

Shame and disappointment draped over him in a crushing weight.

That had been pathetic.

Would the spectators think that was the limit of his abilities? His master would have disowned him if she’d witnessed that sort of behavior. What would the people who saw him think about the Dawnwing Sect?

Ziel rested his head in his hands. His horns were cool against his fingers.

What was wrong with him?

He had gone into this match knowing he was going to lose. Expecting to lose. Fifteen minutes ago, he’d been fine with it.

He couldn’t even count on his own heart to be consistent.

No matter how many times he was certain that the Archlord of the Dawnwing Sect was dead, he always found another scrap of that man clinging to life. Ziel should have no pride left to be hurt, and yet here he was.

The truth remained: he didn’t want to lose.

Ziel reached out to the shield to his left. It looked like a steel castle wall, with elaborate designs that made it worthy of being carried into battle by an Archlord. The shield had been his prize from the second round, but he couldn’t hold it in his damaged soulspace, and carrying it along with his hammer strained his Enforcer technique, so he hadn’t bothered using it until now.

Maybe he was a hypocrite to start caring about the fights this late in the tournament, but so what? Let him be hypocritical.

He strode out of his waiting room for the rematch against Brother Aekin, huge hammer propped up on his right shoulder and over-sized shield covering the left side of his body. He had to use the Stone Anchor just to carry them, so his soul already ached, but he set those concerns aside.

It was time to see how much of his former self still remained.

Northstrider looked him up and down. “Welcome to the tournament.”

Ziel nodded to the Monarch and faced his opponent. If Brother Aekin was a real enemy, how would Ziel face him?

It was easier to remember than Ziel had expected.

Northstrider waited until Aekin’s full-body Enforcer technique covered him in translucent yellow madra like armor. Only then did he command them to begin.

Against Ziel’s expectations, Aekin leaped back, conjuring a ball of golden light and stone fragments in his left hand as he held his hammer in his right. A combination Striker and Ruler technique.

Ziel Forged six circles at once.

One wrapped around Aekin, choking off the energy coming from him.

Two hung over Ziel’s weapons like haloes, lightening them so they were easier to carry.

Two more appeared around Ziel, strengthening him.

And the final script, the biggest of all, appeared over a pendulum the size of a house swinging nearby. Multiplying its force.

Ziel’s spirit felt like it was tearing in half, but he pushed through.

Aekin’s technique faltered before he broke the ring of script around him, but the pendulum tore free of the chain holding it up and crashed into him.

The Abyssal Palace cultist stood as firm as a fortress, denting the metal ball as it crashed into him.

Until Ziel arrived, slamming his hammer down onto the pendulum. Aekin was crushed to the ground beneath it, and Ziel Forged another script on the ball to shove it harder into the earth.

A column of yellow light blasted up from beneath it, shoving the ball to the side, but Ziel had already moved. He stood in front of Aekin, shield raised to catch the cultist’s wild swing.

Ziel’s counterstroke landed with another green circle, multiplying its force.

Aekin crashed into a cylinder that pumped in and out of the ground, denting it so severely that it bent in half.

Several of Ziel’s circles had fallen apart—most only tended to last a few seconds—but he re-Forged the ones around himself and added another circle to his feet. It launched him forward as though thrown by the hand of a Monarch, and he slammed into Aekin shield-first, knocking the Palace priest deeper into the metal column.

His body was mangled and bent, but members of Abyssal Palace modeled their Path after the Wandering Titan. They were all but indestructible.

But now he was trapped.

Ziel’s spirit was fresh torture, but he felt alive. He felt like himself again.

His next hammer-blow tore the entire cylinder apart.

Its top half crashed to the ground behind him with a sound like a collapsing house, and Brother Aekin’s body tumbled across the arena leaking blood.

The crowd’s cheers were deafening, and Ziel thought he heard people chanting his name. He remembered this feeling. Life crept back into him, as he hadn’t felt in years. The exhilaration didn’t cancel out the pain, but it made the agony more bearable.

Aekin’s arms and legs were broken, his neck hung at a strange angle, and the light in his mask was flickering, but he hadn’t died. His Path emphasized endurance, but Ziel would end it here. He may not have the power of an Archlord anymore, but there was no substitute for skill.

He raised his hammer, Forging a circle around it.

The green runes fuzzed to essence before they were half-complete, and the hammer fell from his numb fingers.

He stared at it for a long moment, uncomprehending, but then the Stone Anchor Enforcer technique dropped. His shield was too heavy for him, tugging him off-balance as he tried to keep it upright with his whole body weight.

His spirit had failed him.

No matter how much he endured the pain, his soul was still shattered. Determination alone didn’t let you run on two broken legs.

Aekin’s hand raised, and one last technique formed between his fingers.

Ziel closed his eyes.

As a ball of madra and flying rocks tore his head apart, Ziel chastised himself. He knew better than this.

He should never have forgotten who he was.

* * *

When Ziel came back to life in his waiting room, he left his hammer and shield sitting where they were.

Northstrider restored him to the condition he’d been in before the match started, so his spirit was no more strained than usual. He could have carried both weapons back, but he couldn’t muster the energy to care.

He’d come back for them later. Or the Ninecloud Soul would bring them to his room, or Northstrider would, or maybe no one would and they would sit in that room forever.

The hammer held years of memories for him, but it was hard to remember why he should care.

It took him too long to realize that someone was standing in front of him, smiling broadly and wearing an outer robe of turquoise and thread-of-gold.

Eithan Arelius was competing in an Akura vassal team, but he was still a member of the Arelius family. He may have come here on behalf of House Arelius, or he may have had goals of his own.

Ziel just kept walking.

“I see you found some inspiration during the second match! Good for you.”

Ziel didn’t respond, but Eithan fell into step beside him.

“It is a shame that you weren’t able to receive your prizes for this round, but I may have an alternative offer for you.”

It didn’t surprise Ziel that House Arelius had something else in mind, but it did somewhat surprise him that they still needed him for anything. Now that he was out of the tournament, why would they care what happened to him?

“You know, there are a handful of people left with the knowledge to perform the Pure Storm Baptism, they just don’t have the resources. However, thanks to some fortuitous circumstances and a few carefully laid plans, I happen to find myself in possession of both!”

Ziel turned and examined Eithan carefully. His smile was too bright.

“No, you don’t,” Ziel said at last.

He kept walking.

“Ah, but what if I did? I can’t restore the original power you lost, of course, but I can turn you into quite an extraordinary Underlord.”

“So you’re telling me that you have the materials for the elixirs—”

“My private garden is being prepared as we speak.”

“—and a refiner skilled enough to make them—”

“That part is still a work in progress.”

“—and the skill to perform the procedure—”

“I give great massages, too.”

“—and lightning madra of sufficient power. Without Tiberian Arelius, that leaves you scales from the Thunder Fairy, the Storm Sage, or the Weeping Dragon itself.”

Eithan’s smile was painfully bright. “Which would you prefer?”

“I don’t believe you.” Ziel turned away and kept moving. “And I don’t do favors on faith.”

“Ah, but what if you were paid up-front?”

Ziel stopped.

Eithan rolled out a hand-sized scroll. A contract. “I perform the Pure Storm Baptism, and only if it is successful to your expectations, you repay me with your services as an employee for one year. Standard conditions for a Blackflame Empire Arelius family worker, though scaled up to reflect your position as an Underlord.”

Ziel tried to parse out whether Eithan was insane, overly idealistic, or trying to scam him.

He was leaning toward the scam.

The conditions were too good. If Eithan could successfully perform the procedure, that was worth Ziel’s oath to House Arelius for life.

“No,” he said at last. He couldn’t see the trap here, but he was certain there was one.

Eithan shrugged. “Ah, well. Let me know if you change your mind.”

He tossed the scroll and Ziel caught it on reflex.

For a moment, Ziel considered tearing it up to demonstrate his commitment. He was still sure this was a deception of some kind.

In the end, he slipped the scroll into his pocket.

15

Mercy’s Uncle Fury had left the Dreadgod battlefield to come see her fight.

He had personally killed Sophara’s great-aunt, and had lost friends of his own in his personal crusade against the gold dragons. He had spent hundreds of years campaigning against them, and she had been raised on stories of the thousands of human settlements they had annihilated.

He lowered himself to look her in the eyes, smiling easily, his hair drifting like black seaweed. “Loosen up,” he said. “You’ll be fine. We know all their tricks. Just go kill her.”

All the elders in the Akura head family were up next, giving her last-minute advice or cheering her on. Even Yerin gave her a straightforward attempt at encouragement.

When the time came and Mercy was released by the crowd, Aunt Charity took her by the shoulder and transported her to the tunnels beneath the stadium. “Sophara has not advanced yet. We have a solid plan for the first fight. Keep a calm head and a cool heart, and you will do us proud.”

Calm head, Mercy reminded herself. Cool heart.

As long as she won, the previous few matches wouldn’t matter.

Lindon, Ziel, even Eithan—she could make up for their elimination. If she won, the Heralds would know that the Akura clan would continue to be stronger than the gold dragons, and would hold the dragons back from reinforcing Sky’s Edge.

If she won, the Eight-Man Empire would throw their support behind her mother.

She wanted to prove Charity’s faith in her justified, she wanted to show her pride in the Akura name, and she knew that her victory here would save lives. Possibly including her mother’s.

And although it was less important, she just…wanted to win.

Sophara had burned her side, scorching her face and her scalp. She had recovered, and Charity had even helped her soothe the mental trauma left behind, but that didn’t mean she’d forgotten. It had been agonizing.

She didn’t need to get back at Sophara. She had never really seen the point of revenge. But that burn was a reminder of how much stronger Sophara had been than Mercy.

She had been weak for too long. This was her chance to be the strongest again.

Charity reminded her to stay focused and to control the fight, not to get swept up in Sophara’s pace, and that they would reevaluate after the battle was over. But when the door to the waiting room opened, Charity didn’t enter.

Mercy’s mother was already inside.

Mercy couldn’t help it; she brightened and rushed up when she saw Malice. Though she still bowed in the presence of the Monarch.

Malice’s black lips turned up into a fond smile. “You’re not as excited as I thought you might be.”

“It’s hard to enjoy,” Mercy admitted, taking her void key from around her neck and putting it into a cabinet prepared for that purpose. She had Suu in her hand and the Moon’s Eye lens in her soulspace.

“You have been tasked with a burden far beyond what an Underlady should be responsible for. The lives of Monarchs are in your hands.” Malice leaned forward, and her smile showed teeth. “Isn’t that a rush?”

Mercy echoed her mother’s smile, but less confidently. She didn’t particularly like having dominion over the fates of others, but she knew Malice felt differently.

Malice tapped her on the forehead. “That tells me no. But you understand my meaning.”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t think that’s me.”

Malice lifted her eyebrows in exaggerated surprise. “Isn’t that up to you? I can tell you this much: it’s easier to love ruling than it is to love being ruled.”

Mercy limbered up, cycling her madra, tapping her bloodline armor for a moment so that her eyes started turning to amethyst before she released them. She was ready. She was in peak condition, and now she was about to unleash her full power against an opponent who could push her to her limits.

It had been years since she’d really let herself loose. At least if you didn’t count sparring against opponents like Fury or Charity, who could flatten her if they actually tried.

She didn’t know if she could enjoy wielding control over Monarchs, but channeling overwhelming power…that was fun.

Malice patted her on the arm. “That’s it. Now, remind them what my daughter can do.”

* * *

Sophara touched the guardian’s helmet and wished her sister good-bye.

They had covered Ekeri’s Remnant in plates of golden armor, so that her serpentine dragon form was more beautiful than ever, and had planned to use her as a guardian of her homeland. She could protect her home territory forever, or at least until she was finally destroyed in battle.

Instead, Sophara kept her sister’s Remnant in her own void key. The storage was now filled with beneficial natural treasures to create an aura-rich environment, and Sophara fed Ekeri scales whenever possible.

The dragon-spirit nuzzled against Sophara’s hand before the void key closed. A Remnant would never become the living person again, but it could eventually develop its own awareness. When it did, Sophara intended to treat the spirit as family.

As the space closed, it revealed that she wasn’t alone in her waiting room.

She panicked, dropping to her knees and pressing her forehead to the ground so that she wouldn’t look too long on the face of her ancestor.

Seshethkunaaz commanded her to rise, so she did, though she continued to avert her eyes. She was taller than he was, which made her too tall.

“Are you prepared?” the Monarch asked.

“I am.”

Sophara’s spirit was still cracked, but it hadn’t gotten worse. The longer she remained at the Underlord stage, the better.

But she could advance whenever she wished. Even if she ended up stuck as an Overlady, it would be worthwhile if she could eliminate the Akura family heir.

“Fight with the pride of the dragons,” the King said, “and I will be satisfied. Win or lose.”

Sophara was so shocked that she almost looked at his face. He was merciless toward weakness.

“Malice’s daughter is a true opponent, and you have already proved the might of my blood to the world. If you show your full power here, it will be no shame to fall to her. Look into my eyes.”

She did, reluctantly, and he met her draconic golden eyes with yellow human eyes of his own. They were so much more beautiful than hers that she lost herself in admiration.

He smiled on her. “I will be proud to care for you as a mighty Overlady and one of the eight Uncrowned of your generation…but I would rather lift you up as the victor of the Uncrowned King tournament and my third Herald.”

Strength and pride she’d never known flooded through her, and she drew herself up straight. “It will be my honor.”

The Monarch’s face darkened, and he turned to the door. “The moment is upon us. Go, and savor the opportunity to tear Fury’s sister limb from limb.”

* * *

Mercy’s battlefield against Sophara was an isolated space, sealed off by madra. The arena was as wide as usual, but all noise and spiritual sensation from the stands were cut off, and the audience would have to watch them exclusively through viewing constructs and projections.

The floor and ceiling were knobby and black, so that they resembled Mercy’s bow, though she didn’t sense any shadow madra from them.

Shadow aura, on the other hand, was thick in the air. The arena was dark, the shadows in the corner impenetrable to the naked eye.

Winding through the center of the arena, cutting it in half, was a flowing river with a line of fire dancing on its surface. That would be for Sophara: a plentiful source of water and fire aura.

But the flames did little to push back the darkness, and Mercy faced Sophara over a line of fire.

The dragon had her chin lifted even higher than usual, an arrogant tilt to her lips. Her strands of golden scales hung from her scalp, flickering in the firelight, and her eyes seemed to glow. She wore no sacred artist’s robes, but simple pants and a tunic that left her arms bare.

No jewelry either, though all her clothes were lined in golden silk. She had dressed simply, for a gold dragon.

Mercy raised a hand in greeting. She couldn’t afford to lose, but Sophara was surely in the same situation she was.

The gold dragon didn’t respond, turning to Northstrider.

The Monarch hovered inches over the fire, so that the flames occasionally licked his mismatched sandals. His ragtag clothing didn’t burn, and he looked from one of them to the other.

“Prepare yourselves,” he said.

He didn’t ask if they were ready. He could see they weren’t.

Both Underladies cycled their techniques, watching each other. Mercy tapped into the Book of Eternal Night, preparing its power. Suu’s head drifted down the length of the staff as it bent into a bow, a string coming down from one tip to the other.

Mercy calmed her heart and mind, as her aunt had suggested. She forgot the potential execution hanging over her mother’s head, and the thousands of lives at stake from the deals of Monarchs.

And she allowed herself to look forward to the fight.

“Begin,” Northstrider said.

Gold dragon’s breath annihilated the space where he stood.

It engulfed Mercy in a violent world of sunset-orange light, overwhelming her senses.

And harming her not at all.

Crystalline purple armor covered Mercy from head to toe. From beneath her amethyst helmet, the Moon’s Eye lens continued to show Sophara as a silhouette of madra standing right where she’d begun.

Still inside the Striker technique, Mercy pulled back the string of her bow.

The second the air cleared, she Forged an arrow on the string and released. Then another, this one with an added punch from her Enforcer technique. Then another, and another, and another.

As she loosed her arrows, she let her armor puff back into essence and began cycling her Dark Tide Incantation. Madra of shadow and water strengthened her, from the soles of her feet to the tips of her fingers.

Sophara had her own Archlord weapon in her hands: Quickriver, a whip of liquid steel that stiffened to a saber as she swatted the arrows out of the air.

The first, she slashed apart. The second hit with more force than she had evidently expected, knocking her blade a hair out of line. The third stuck to the blade, the fourth into her shoulder, and the fifth she dodged.

Mercy’s arrows were made from solidified Strings of Shadow, so they didn’t hurt much. But they stuck, and they interfered with the circulation of madra.

Before Sophara could recover, Mercy drew her hands down as though painting a line. The Shadow’s Edge flew out, slicing the flame between them in two.

Harmony’s favored technique was notoriously difficult to block, cutting through physical and spiritual material with equal ease, but Sophara had a way to defend.

As expected, she used it.

A golden disc bigger than her head flashed out of her soulspace and intercepted the Striker technique. The Shadow’s Edge shattered, its madra dissipating on the script around the edges of the construct.

The disc—her Imperial Aegis—had its full power scaled down for use in the tournament. It was too much like armor. But it was still allowed, as shields were permitted.

Sophara’s own full-body Enforcer technique filled her now, and as she leaped over the fiery river, she trailed orange madra behind her.

The Riverflame Dance gave her physical power that Mercy didn’t want to meet head-on, so she used her own Dark Tide Incantation to slip aside.

Quickriver melted back into a whip, extending its reach and slashing at Mercy, but Mercy slipped below it and splashed out with another Striker technique: the Nightworm Venom.

The Imperial Aegis intercepted that, moving it into place for Mercy to leap onto it, jumping over Sophara and loosing another arrow straight down onto the dragon’s head.

She smashed it with an Enforced fist and returned dragon’s breath, but Mercy had extended a String of Shadow and lashed herself to a distant point of land. She pulled herself backwards on the line, firing arrows as she flew.

Sophara took the bait.

She dashed forward, trailing gold madra, her flying Aegis shielding her from Mercy’s arrows. Sophara would know from previous matches that Mercy never preferred to close the distance, fighting only from afar until she was forced to use her bloodline armor to defend herself.

Dragons had innately powerful bodies—Sophara kicked up chunks of the ground every time she took a step. And Sophara’s spirit had been strengthened beyond its limits. She would know that if she closed the distance, she could pull Mercy apart.

That played perfectly into Mercy’s hands.

A wall of dragons’ breath thundered past her, but Mercy had seen it forming in her Moon’s Eye, and she took an extra moment to layer techniques into her arrow.

When she released her bowstring, the arrow flew with speed that tore the air, crashing into Sophara’s Aegis.

There was a deafening explosion of shadow, and the Archlord shield construct was blasted away. The detonation destroyed the floor and carved into the river, launching water and fire into the air to fall as rain.

Sophara had followed up her dragon’s breath with a leap, hanging in the air over Mercy. Her liquid metal weapon condensed into a short broadsword, and her every movement trailed a shadow of Flowing Flame madra.

With a confident smile, Sophara brought her hands down with all her strength.

Mercy’s bloodline armor returned, covering her whole body, and she finally unleashed her Dark Tide Incantation to its fullest.

Though even Mercy herself tended to forget, every one of the techniques in the Book of Eternal Night was one that Malice considered powerful enough for a future Monarch. This technique was the foundation of an entire Path in the Trackless Sea.

It could be used as an ordinary full-body Enforcement, but only with training and mastery could it reveal its true power.

Mercy caught Sophara’s blow in one gauntleted hand.

The strike still forced her down, the impact cracking the ground beneath her feet, but Mercy’s armor protected her. For the moment, Mercy could stand up to Sophara’s full strength.

Mercy didn’t have time to see the shock on her face, but she felt it in the hesitation of the other woman’s spirit.

The Akura bloodline armor was notoriously difficult to control. When summoned over the entire body, it made the user clumsy and slow.

On the other hand, Mercy’s Puppeteer’s Iron body gave her perfect control over her movements. And the Dark Tide Incantation flowed with the flexibility of water and shadow.

Mercy punched Sophara in the gut, launching her backwards, but snagged her with a quick String of Shadow before her body could fly too far. Mercy whirled Suu into a staff strike.

The Imperial Aegis returned, blocking one of the attacks, and Sophara used her tail to brace herself on the ground, launching another dragon’s breath.

The other end of Mercy’s staff punched through it, catching Sophara in the face. The rest of the Flowing Flame madra washed over her armor.

Sophara’s body flew backwards, crashing into the far end of the river, but Mercy was already there to slam her back up to the ceiling. As soon as she hit, the dragon was dragged back down by Strings of Shadow.

Sophara broke every technique she could, but Mercy was always using the next, filling her with arrows of shadow.

When she finally landed an arrow loaded with the Nightworm Venom, that was the end of the battle. Sophara’s spirit eroded, her madra losing cohesion, each Striker technique fainter than the one before.

Mercy’s armor faded when she ran out of madra to support it, and she was heaving for breath, but she had enough power left for a Shadow’s Edge.

She swiped her fingers down, Sophara’s flying golden shield blocked it, and as Sophara tried to use another technique, Mercy put an arrow into her eye.

Five more followed.

Only when Sophara’s eye socket looked like a vase stuffed with flowers did she dissolve into white light.

“Victory to Akura Mercy!” the Ninecloud Soul announced.

Mercy heard no cheers, so she gave one of her own.

* * *

Sophara returned to her waiting room panting like a dog.

What was that?

How had a human met her fist-to-fist? Mercy had never shown anything like that! Not even in the rumors! Physical strength was her weakness!

In the second round, Sophara had single-handedly outclassed everyone on the Akura and Blackflame teams together. Even if Mercy had learned to unlock more of her Path of Seven Pages, she couldn’t have improved her body so much in such a short time.

Unless she had been holding back, even then.

Sophara opened her void key, and the armored serpentine Remnant tilted its head in confusion as she reached in.

This time, she didn’t want her sister’s comfort. She wanted the natural treasures.

At her beckoning and a quick use of wind aura, she summoned them all. Stones that burned with eternal flame and those that wept spring water, goblets filled with rain clouds, torches that blazed green. And those she didn’t use for her usual advancement: feathers that carried a deadly white mist, bells that rang with haunting tunes.

She shoved Ekeri’s Remnant back in, hauling all her treasures out and then shutting the door.

The longer she remained at the Underlord stage, the more stable her spirit would be. And the greater her chance of becoming an Archlady before her permanent spiritual injuries slowed her down too much.

If she lost.

But she didn’t intend to lose.

She spread the artifacts out in a circle and calmed herself, focusing on the pool of soulfire within her. Humans had to discover truths about themselves in order to trigger their advancement, but sacred beasts were different. They had to choose to change their forms.

Sometimes, these advancements could take weeks, but Sophara had been certain of her primary form since she was a child. Most of the gold dragons spent as little time in their serpent bodies as possible.

Say what you would about humans, but their bodies were elegant.

She connected herself to the unity of aura, focusing on her new form. A dragon’s transformation was often slower than a human’s advancement, but she still had the Gate of Heaven elixir inside her.

The soulfire from the burning treasures passed through her quickly and easily, transforming her from the inside out.

It was painful, in her state of imbalance. Unbelievably so.

But rage and fear carried her through.

Her madra channels had been strengthened by the Symbiote Veins, which drained her of vitality even as they allowed her to use more powerful techniques quickly. Now, those channels were fortified, but so were her Symbiote Veins.

Her core grew denser, thicker, wider. Her claws shrunk until they were little more than sharp fingernails. Her remaining patches of scales faded into smooth skin, and she finally had glistening golden hair instead of strands of scales.

When she finished advancing, she reached back into her void key to pull out a stand mirror. Ekeri’s Remnant watched as she examined herself, twisting in the mirror.

She was smooth. Beautiful. Perfect.

And even more powerful.

The spirit of an Overlady radiated out in her waiting room. This time, she would juggle Akura Mercy. Not only was she stronger in every way, but now she had a better idea of her opponent’s capabilities.

Her mental power elixir, the drop of white liquid hovering at the base of her skull, was refreshed and ready to use. It hadn’t done her much good in the first fight, but she had fallen into Mercy’s trap.

Her Madra Engine churned, processing blood and life essence into madra. She could keep fighting almost forever. And the Crystal Nexus floated over her core, strengthening her madra at the cost of extra strain on her channels.

She was ready now. She knew what to do.

So when she went out to face Mercy, she didn’t start by cycling her Enforcer technique. She started one of her two Ruler techniques.

Mercy didn’t seem intimidated, though Sophara didn’t veil herself. She wanted everyone to know that she had advanced, but Mercy merely nocked an arrow.

Water aura drifted toward Sophara as soon as Northstrider announced the beginning of the duel.

Mercy fired a volley of arrows, but this time Sophara burned her mental elixir immediately. The pale droplet in her spirit vanished, and Sophara slipped between the attacks, using Quickriver in the form of a saber to knock the arrows aside.

Her sword would be a blur to the onlookers, as would the arrows, but to Sophara everything floated along. It was child’s play to continue gathering water aura into a globe over her head, reinforcing it with Forged madra.

As the two forces combined, a sphere the size of Sophara’s torso began to shine blue. Azure Moon Reigns was one of the most complicated techniques in her arsenal, combining a Forger and Ruler technique. It looked like a softly shining azure cloud inside a clear bubble, but just by existing it turned water aura against Mercy.

The Akura girl loosed Striker techniques at the orb, but Sophara had formed it in seconds, and the world was still slowed. Sophara batted one technique out of the air, the Imperial Aegis intercepted another, and then Sophara leaped over to Mercy.

She only started her Riverflame Dance in midair. Her Overlord-level body would be enough to carry her through.

As the world returned to normal speed, Mercy summoned her armor, but Sophara had been prepared for that. In the form of a whip, Quickriver slashed at Mercy.

The Akura girl kept launching arrows, but Sophara wove between them. Her limbs moved so much more easily now that she had advanced, it was effortless to dodge, and every scrape on Mercy’s armor would put it one step closer to dropping.

Meanwhile, Azure Moon Reigns had begun to work.

It pushed against the water in Mercy’s body, slowing her, making her clumsy. The blue orb itself could be used to attack, but their battle was moving away from it, and it was limited in its range.

The second Mercy stumbled, Sophara opened her mouth and breathed gold dragon’s breath into her opponent’s face.

She didn’t like using Striker techniques from her mouth. It looked undignified. But humans tended to forget she could do it.

The word “breath” was even in the name.

Mercy was driven down, but her armor hadn’t broken, and Sophara slapped her across the side with her tail. The Akura girl flew away, twisting in midair to launch another arrow.

But Sophara had leaped with the power of her Enforcer technique, catching Mercy mid-flight and spiking her down into the ground.

The floor burst into a crater, sending sharp black madra flying everywhere.

Mercy’s armor puffed to essence, and she even coughed up blood.

Sophara’s instinct was to follow up, to drive Quickriver through Mercy’s bare chest and finish it there. Instead, she leveled her palm and unleashed another gold dragon’s breath.

What a laughably easy match.

Her spirit screamed danger as she sensed an Overlord-level spirit join her own.

Mercy, battered and bloody, knelt on the side of the crater. Sophara hadn’t seen her move. The human’s hair had torn loose, hanging into her face, and she wiped blood from her lip with the back of her hand.

That gesture shook Sophara with fear. Mercy was a devil. A ghost. A spirit of terror. She had come to track Sophara down, to torment her, to torture her with nightmares—

Sophara had to use soulfire to push away the dream aura that was keeping her in fear, but she’d already stumbled back, holding her Imperial Aegis and Quickriver in front of her to defend herself.

The unnatural terror was a Ruler technique, and one she hadn’t sensed coming, but she’d had no idea Mercy could do that. That was the Sage of Silver Heart’s technique.

Sophara had seen Mercy advance temporarily, but that was back when she was Gold. She hadn’t expected Mercy to be able to advance to Overlord as well, but she had known it was possible. That didn’t throw her off, but the nightmare-inducing Ruler technique did.

She was so focused on pushing the dream aura away that she almost didn’t react to the arrow in time.

The Imperial Aegis threw itself in front of the attack, and Sophara brought up her hand for a Striker technique.

Mercy was already in the air over her, arrow nocked and blazing with an Overlady’s power. The Imperial Aegis was out of position, but Sophara’s dragon’s breath was ready.

She unleashed the flowing golden power just as Mercy released the arrow.

Shadow madra smacked through Sophara’s chest and spirit, blinding her with pain. It carried too many techniques to count, and it tore her up from the inside. Spirit and body.

She choked, unable to breathe, unable even to cough as the arrow ravaged her insides. Her madra began to leave her control.

But Mercy was in even worse condition.

The entire left side of her body had been burned off. She was blackened and pitted red, her eye mangled and her ear melted. She fell to the ground and curled up with an agonizing scream.

Sophara didn’t have time to gloat or to enjoy the sight.

She used her last trickle of madra to extend Quickriver, whipping it into the side of Mercy’s head.

An instant later, Mercy disappeared.

And as the Ninecloud Soul announced victory, Sophara vanished too.

* * *

Mercy gasped for air, hand flashing to her ear.

Unspeakable pain had vanished in an instant. She had suspected all along that Northstrider did something to heal their minds as well as their bodies, because she felt much less trauma from this wound than she had from the burns Sophara had given her as a Gold.

Even so, the fight dominated her thoughts. Sophara really had advanced, and had even adapted strategically in a way Mercy had hoped she would overlook.

Sophara could outlast Mercy in any prolonged contest. Mercy’s armor would only last so long, as would her temporary advancement to Overlord.

Charity and Mercy had both suspected that Sophara would begin the first fight by leaning on her superior power to crush Mercy, and they’d had a plan for that. Their entire strategy for the second fight had been to surprise Sophara with the Dream of Darkness technique.

Mercy had only one more card to play, and the final duel was the time to go all-out. There was no sense holding anything back now.

Of course, Sophara had more to show as well. Azure Moon Reigns had been completed, but like any persistent Ruler technique, it showed its true power the longer it was allowed to remain. And Sophara’s Path had one more technique, not to mention the Archlord binding that was certainly inside her liquid metal sword.

Mercy looked over to Charity, who sat in the corner tapping her foot.

“What do you think, Aunt Charity?”

“Nothing you don’t know, I imagine. That was a close fight, even with her advancement. She will be warier of you now, which is not entirely to your advantage. The quicker the fight, the better.”

She spoke as usual, but something was wrong. The Sage of the Silver Heart never showed nerves, and here she was tapping her foot and chewing on her lower lip.

“Don’t worry,” Mercy said. “I can do this.”

Charity relaxed and gave a faint smile. “I’m sorry, that was rude of me. I have no doubt in you…but it is not often that I have to sit by the sidelines and watch. I’m not used to being unable to help.”

Mercy knew that feeling. “You’ve helped enough already. Now leave it to me.”

This time, as Mercy faced Sophara across the burning river, the dragon didn’t look so confident. Her Imperial Aegis drifted around her head, ready to intercept attacks, and Quickriver coiled and uncoiled around her feet.

Mercy limbered up Suu…no, she limbered up Eclipse, Ancient Bow of the Soulseeker.

She needed a quick fight, and she needed to catch Sophara by surprise. That meant she needed the bow.

This was her chance.

Mercy didn’t even hear Northstrider announce the beginning of the match, she just felt the barrier fall. Sophara leaped backwards, launching her huge dragon’s breath.

Rather than intercepting it with her armor, Mercy slipped to the side. The heat was scalding, but her concentration was locked. The Book of Eternal Night flashed behind her, unleashing the power of the fifth page, and Overlord madra cascaded through her channels.

She Forged an arrow onto the string.

Sophara held out both hands. To her left, water aura and madra gathered into a floating blue light. Azure Moon Reigns.

To her right, fire aura and madra condensed into a matching ball of red. Crimson Sun Rises.

The second technique would control fire aura as the first controlled water. Rather than interfering with the aura in her body, as the Azure Moon did, the Crimson Sun would induce all the fire aura in the area to burn her.

Simple burns weren’t much threat to an Underlady’s body, but she would have to spend a little power and concentration keeping the aura away. Which would distract her and bring her madra to its end that much sooner.

There were other attacks Sophara could use with the techniques, but Mercy was going to end the fight before she saw any of them.

The Dark Tide Incantation went into the arrow, adding the force of a crashing wave. Then the Nightworm Venom and the Shadow’s Edge.

Finally, with great difficulty, she wove the Dream of Darkness into the arrow. Its tip began to warp like a heat haze.

Attaching a technique to an arrow took intricate madra control, and she wasn’t familiar enough with the Dream of Darkness to make it easy. So as she did so, Sophara completed her two techniques and released another gold dragon’s breath larger than Mercy’s entire body.

Mercy could endure it with her armor, but the Striker technique would destroy her arrow—with so many techniques combined, it was unstable. She leaped into the air with the power of the Dark Tide Incantation, flipping over the Striker technique and taking aim.

She sensed a change in Sophara’s spirit, focused on her mind. The mental enhancement she’d used before.

Quickriver whipped out, slashing at Mercy in midair and spoiling her aim.

Mercy could have unleashed the arrow there, but it would only have been intercepted by the Imperial Aegis. She kicked the end of the whip, a crystalline boot appearing on her foot as she did, but then Sophara followed up with another dragon’s breath.

This one didn’t cover a huge chunk of the arena, but it would still be enough to erase half of Mercy. She lashed Strings of Shadow to the ground, pulling herself down and out of the path of the beam.

Sophara’s mental enhancement would only last a few seconds, so Mercy just had to dodge until it dropped. That would be her opening.

No sooner had she thought so than Sophara’s blade cut her across the back of the ankle.

She tried to stand, but her left leg almost buckled beneath her. Mercy was forced to fire the arrow, but as expected, it detonated against the Imperial Aegis.

Sophara slipped out of the area of the explosion, but she did so with no difficulty, keeping up a barrage of whips and dragon’s breath.

Mercy would have no chance to load up such an arrow again.

She released the Shadow’s Edge, pulled at Sophara’s feet with Strings of Shadow, kept her body upright with the Dark Tide Incantation, pushed against the aura using her soulfire, and blocked attacks wherever she could with her bloodline armor. All the while keeping her temporary advancement to Overlady under control.

It was too much. She was juggling twenty knives at once; sooner or later one of them would slip.

So when she sensed the power fading from Sophara’s mind, she dropped everything she was juggling except one. She kept her Overlord-level madra and joined her spirit to the bow.

Quickriver shredded her right arm, and gold dragon’s breath had already ruined her left.

Mercy fell backwards, twisting in the air to hold her bow with her right foot and pull the string back with her teeth. The arrow was a plain, unadorned String of Shadow, and as she watched her aim through the Moon’s Eye, she knew Sophara’s scripted golden shield would block the shot.

Mercy’s spirit strained past its limits, her channels screamed in pain, and her core dimmed to almost nothing.

As she activated the technique in her bow.

Arrows of violet light formed in the air all around the weapon, dozens and then hundreds Forged in a blink. Their color matched the blazing eyes of the dragon’s head at Eclipse’s center, which was currently glaring at Sophara.

Mercy released her black arrow, and two hundred violet arrows followed as the Archlord Forger technique launched at the same time.

The Imperial Aegis intercepted one attack…but only one.

Sophara wrapped liquid dragon’s breath around herself, but Suu’s arrows twisted in midair, seeking her with the will of the Sage’s Remnant that had gone into the bow’s creation.

The arrows exploded into violet lights as they landed. Made of shadow and force and destruction, they were an equal threat to the body and the spirit, and the barrage blinded Mercy both physically and spiritually. Tiny chunks of the floor were sent flying into a cloud that completely obscured Sophara.

Even her Moon’s Eye couldn’t pick out the dragon from the chaos, but Mercy pushed up on Suu to hop on one foot. She couldn’t hold the fifth page anymore; her Overlord power faded.

The barrage slowed, but the match hadn’t ended. Sophara was still alive.

She let her bow melt back into a staff; her arms were too ruined to draw the bow quickly anyway. Only her burned arm could somewhat move, and then only through agony.

But Sophara was trying to kill her mother.

She focused the Strings of Shadow technique through the tip of her staff, shooting black madra indiscriminately through the hole where the dragon had been. With only a little more effort, she brought up the Nightworm Venom technique, spraying it over everything.

The Imperial Aegis emerged, catching most of the poison.

From the web-filled pit, a dragon roared.

Sophara’s hair had been seared off, as had most of her clothes and huge patches of her skin. A sacred artist’s clothes were not often destroyed in battle; not only were they made of sturdy materials, but a person’s inherent spiritual protection extended to their clothes as well. Sleeves and hems were often damaged, but you usually only saw completely ravaged clothing on corpses.

Her left arm was a withered, bloody mess that looked like it had been torn apart by wolves, and blood spread across her middle. Even a chunk of her jaw was missing.

But she gripped Quickriver in her less-mangled hand.

And the liquid metal blade began to glow orange.

Fire aura flowed easily to it, thanks to the Crimson Sun that still shone behind Sophara, but it was the madra that really concerned Mercy. It was Archlord madra.

She had activated her own weapon.

The Enforced whip blazed like the setting sun, whipping at Mercy, and she desperately conjured her bloodline armor. If she could endure this, then surely Sophara could take only one more—

Mercy slipped.

She couldn’t afford to push away the subtle Ruler techniques of the Azure Moon and Crimson Sun anymore. Water aura had gathered around her foot and knocked her off-balance.

Her other leg gave out as she landed on it.

And a fiery blade passed through her neck.

16

The Akura audience stands were very quiet.

Lindon sat staring into the projection as the Ninecloud Soul replayed moments from Mercy’s three fights, spread out and slowed down for the sake of the spectators.

None of the Akura around Lindon seemed to want to watch the images again, but none left either. Lindon himself kept watching Sophara’s huge Striker techniques that she could release so easily…and Mercy, who could dodge or weather them with ease.

Layering techniques onto arrows like that was much harder than it looked. He had experience combining compatible techniques while building cannons, and he knew what kind of madra control and how much practice it would take.

And what could he have done against that echo Forger technique from her bow? The barrage of arrows would have destroyed him. His Hollow Domain could have eliminated a weaker version of the technique, but each arrow was too strong and too solid to be erased.

That was when it was being used by an Underlady, who had to struggle to maintain an Overlord’s madra at the same time. The technique would only show its true power when used by a real Archlord.

[And that completes my model of both Mercy and Sophara!] Dross said cheerfully. [Yes sir, it’s getting easier and easier. Between the Arelius library and Northstrider’s codex, I’m more amazing than ever before. Do you want to know how you stack up against them?]

Lindon watched Mercy pull her bow back with her teeth.

I already know.

So that was what a fight between two Monarch heirs looked like.

He had been proud of his battle with Yerin, but Mercy must have seen them as children playing. She or Sophara could toy with Lindon as they pleased.

[Ah, well, actually, I’m not sure you know what I was going to say.]

Lindon stood up from his seat. We’ll practice against them tonight.

He couldn’t say he was looking forward to it. Just when he had gotten somewhat of a grasp on fighting Sophara, she’d advanced.

[We don’t have to, you know. We could do something fun instead, while everyone else you know and love progresses without you.]

It didn’t matter how far Mercy outclassed him. His answer was the same as it had always been.

As Suriel had once told him, “There are a million Paths in this world, Lindon, but any sage will tell you they can all be reduced to one. Improve yourself.”

Though he didn’t have time to be concerned about himself at the moment.

Akura Malice’s daughter had lost to Sopharanatoth. The power balance between the Monarchs was shifting.

Mercy was at the center of it.

[I could use a vacation too. Working all day, all night. I don’t mean to complain, but my working conditions—]

Lindon cut him off. I need you on something else. What security measures are keeping us separated from the Uncrowned?

He walked behind the stands and through a sealed passage, where a bare hallway led to a locked and scripted door.

Within was a cloud that led down to the waiting rooms behind the arenas. Now, only the Uncrowned and their sponsors were allowed back there. Lindon no longer had permission to enter.

He pressed a hand against the door and extended his perception.

[Well, let’s see…it’s all Lord-level security, of course, because a Sage or a Herald will be able to force themselves in anywhere. The Ninecloud Soul is monitoring the outer layer of security, but it’s nothing incredible. They’re counting on the Monarchs to be watching and protecting their own candidates; this is just to keep out the rabble.]

Lindon reached his pure madra through the script that required a ward key to activate, and he began warming up the hunger binding in his arm.

“Apologies if I’m intruding, Monarch Malice,” Lindon said aloud. “But please don’t stop me.”

* * *

Sha Miara sensed the alarm of the Ninecloud Soul as someone broke through the security at the back of the Akura viewing tower.

Her perception covered him immediately. It was the other pure madra Underlord, Wei Shi Lindon Arelius.

She chuckled. He was trying to get to the Uncrowned, but he hadn’t earned that right. She stretched out to lend her power to the Ninecloud Soul, to remind him who was in charge in her court.

Her spiritual sense was swallowed in shadow.

Miara sat bolt upright in her seat, from which she’d been watching the fights. “I was doing you a favor,” she said.

Akura Malice and the entire Akura area remained completely dark.

Miara flipped a hand and fell back. “Fine! You deal with it, then.”

* * *

Mercy emerged from her waiting room sheepishly rubbing the back of her head in a gesture she’d adopted from Fury.

“Sorry! I messed up.”

Fury himself put his hands on his hips and laughed. “What are you worried about? You fought your hardest! I wish I’d had any competition like that!”

He was forcing it.

Mercy and Fury had always shared certain similarities, so she could read him better than most. He was acting carefree for her benefit.

But she appreciated it, so she smiled for him. “I almost had it!”

Ordinarily Fury was the open book and his daughter was an icy riddle, but this time Charity did a worse job hiding her true feelings. She glanced to Fury and then softened as she turned to Mercy. “It was never fair for you to worry about this. You’ve done your best, and now Sophara is our problem.”

“She sure is,” Fury said, and there was a soft menace in his voice.

It was tempting to fall for that lie, transparent though it was.

All her life, Mercy had complete faith in Charity and Fury. They were unstoppable, and more present and human than her mother ever had been. They could be counted on to do anything.

Now, not only would the Dragon King do anything to protect his future champion, but the very heavens would intervene to defend her.

Mercy pushed Suu against the ground and stood straight. “It won’t be too long before you can lean on me! I’ll keep working hard!”

“For now, you should rest,” Charity said.

Fury looked to the exit at the end of the hall and perked up. “Oh, hey! It’s—”

His daughter elbowed him in the ribs.

He had obviously sensed something, but whatever it was, Charity had stopped him from saying it. She was probably being considerate to Mercy, and she appreciated the thought. She couldn’t handle any bad news at the moment.

Shadows deepened on the floor as Charity and Fury began to sink into a spatial transfer. “We’ll talk to you tonight, Mercy.”

They vanished, leaving Mercy to her thoughts.

She kept replaying moments from the fights in her mind. Little things she could have done differently, moves she could have prepared for.

The competition had been close enough that it could have gone either way. If she had made better decisions, she could have won. If she had advanced to Overlord for real, as Sophara had, she could have won.

It was easier for sacred beasts, but would that matter to the people in Sky’s Edge who would have to face dragons on the battlefield? Would that matter for her mother, if the dragons got Penance?

She opened the exit and saw Lindon crouched on a Thousand-Mile Cloud.

He had folded his bulky frame in half to examine a script-circle low on the wall, and his white Remnant fingers were half-sunk into a shimmering construct that he’d pulled halfway out. Dross was manifested on his shoulder, pointing to a specific part of the construct, and as the door opened both of them turned wide eyes on Mercy.

Lindon released the construct and straightened, smoothing his outer robe. “Ah, apologies. I thought I could make it here faster.”

Dross disappeared, and Mercy peeked around Lindon’s shoulders. There was no one else behind him.

“Did you break in?”

“I thought you…well, I mean, I just wanted to talk to you.”

She forced another smile. “Thanks. I guess it’s up to Yerin now, huh?”

“I’m sorry,” he said simply.

For some reason, she hadn’t expected that.

Then again, she hadn’t expected him here at all. He had broken through the Ninecloud seals, and her mother must have allowed this, but he had come entirely out of sympathy. It wasn’t like Lindon to act on sentiment.

But he knew how she felt, didn’t he?

“I know…” he began, but caught himself. “Well, I can’t say I know how you feel. But I know how I felt.”

Tears welled up in Mercy’s eyes.

“I wanted to win,” she said at last.

“I know.”

“I tried really hard.”

“Yeah.”

Her tears were coming more freely now, and she leaned into his shoulder. “Just…give me a minute, okay? My family…I can’t…”

She couldn’t talk to her family like this. How could she? She’d let them down. If anybody had a right to cry or be angry, they did.

After a minute or two, she realized she was leaving a mess on Lindon’s outer robe and pulled back. She wiped her face with the edge of her sleeve. “Sorry. I’m all right. How’s Yerin?”

Yerin was the only one left in the tournament. Whatever happened from then on, it was all on her shoulders.

Lindon looked upward. “Actually, she came to find you right after I got through the door. But the Ninecloud Soul is mad at me, so I’m locked in. I was trying to figure out how to go back for her.”

Mercy extended her spiritual perception. It was hard to penetrate the walls in here, but sure enough, there was a mass of familiar sword madra outside the door a few floors up.

“Pardon, but Dross and I should probably get back to work. If we don’t open the door before she loses patience, she’ll—”

A lance of silver light blasted the door apart, sending debris raining down on Lindon’s face.

“…apologies.”

* * *

In his waiting room, Calan Archer meditated and focused on his cycling.

There was no one in here with him. Therian would have come down here to join him if he’d been allowed, and the other Uncrowned in his faction—Yan Shoumei—had been called away by the Blood Sage.

His own Sage, the leader of his sect, hadn’t shown his face once all month.

Calan had taken whatever lessons he could from the Sage of Red Faith, but the Sage had his own student. Students, really, if you counted Yerin.

He’d never met Reigan Shen, of course—people didn’t meet Monarchs, even if you represented their interests on a global stage.

Which meant there was no one left who could support him here, as he prepared to face Yerin in battle.

He decided to use the isolation to focus on his task.

Yerin, he knew, had others pressuring her to win. Like the other seven Uncrowned, Yerin was concerned about the broader situation in the world. If she lost here, Penance would go to the Dragon or Lion Monarchs. The political landscape would shift, and great sects would rise and fall.

Calan didn’t care about any of that.

He had always been a talented sacred artist, but great schools and sects and clans lived in their own worlds.

He had earned his way up to the top of his generation on his own, and he would win this tournament for his own sake.

A disc-shaped Divine Treasure floated in his soulspace, and seven jade rings hovered around him. The rings around his biceps crackled, and his madra moved smoothly.

After poring over the records from Yerin’s fight against Lindon, Calan had a good idea of her capabilities. She was impressive, certainly, but he could win.

He strode out of his waiting room to the roars of the crowd and examined his arena.

They had plenty of open space, but blades the size of his whole body jutted up from the sand every few yards. Three or four dark clouds made lazy circuits of the space, flashing with lightning.

Calan didn’t position himself exactly in the center of the arena, moving as far as he could from the swords. These arenas were supposed to be designed to allow each participant to show the full extent of their Path, but from what he’d seen of Yerin’s Endless Sword, he would lose the second he stepped too close to one of these blades.

Or if he brought his own flying blades too close to himself, for that matter. He spread the seven razor-edged jade rings away from them, so they hovered and spun at least thirty feet off the ground.

Yerin nodded when she saw him, but her jaw was clenched. She wore the pressure she felt openly, even closing her eyes and rolling her neck to release tension. She hopped in place, grip tightening and loosening on the hilt of her sheathed sword.

Calan still thought that Northstrider looked nothing like any Monarch he’d ever imagined, with his scruffy unshaven jaw and wild hair, but he certainly carried himself like a king. He looked from one to the other and ordered them to prepare themselves.

Stormcaller madra coiled and writhed, hungry to be unleashed. Calan cycled the beginnings of his Ruler technique, sure that Yerin was doing the same.

Northstrider looked over them both, spread his hands, and ordered them to begin.

Calan released his Harbinger of the Storm. Everywhere the Weeping Dragon flew, a storm followed, as it agitated the water, wind, and lightning aura for miles around.

This technique had been modeled on that one, and it allowed Stormcallers to slowly dominate a battlefield. Dark clouds gathered overhead, merging with the clouds the arena already contained.

Rain fell, and lightning cracked down to the sand. The storm was self-sustaining, and as time went on, it would grow more violent and powerful until it peaked. There was no stopping it now.

Yerin hadn’t moved. Or opened her eyes.

Calan didn’t question it. He controlled his seven bladed rings together, directing them so that they would collide with Yerin at a different angle and timing. This wasn’t a formal madra technique that created a binding, but a skill that he’d spent years mastering. He could control more constructs and weapons at once than anyone he knew.

Yerin’s sheathed sword chimed, and sparks flew out as every one of his flying rings was deflected by invisible blades.

He had expected as much, and he’d prepared two responses.

Simultaneously, he brought his rings back around for another pass, directed the storm aura to target Yerin, and began preparing a Striker technique.

His crackling blue-gold madra formed the head of a roaring dragon in his palm. Stormcaller madra was born when a person took madra from the actual Weeping Dragon inside of themselves. Later they built on it by harvesting the different aspects of storms, but members of their sect forever carried a measure of the Dreadgod’s hunger and animating will.

This Dragonblood Thunderbolt technique was not only the most powerful technique in his Path, but it was how the Weeping Dragon fed. It was closer to a Forger technique than a Striker technique, but he’d heard it called both, and its power was undeniable.

Calan hurled the dragon of storm madra, and it twisted through the air, a serpent made from gold-and-blue lightning. At the same time, his Jadeclaw Rings fell on Yerin and lightning flashed from the cloud above.

Yerin’s eyes opened.

Blood spurted from Calan’s neck.

His Jadeclaw Rings exploded backwards again, the lightning struck the sand, and her madra-clad sword clashed with the dragon. She clearly had to exert herself to destroy his technique, but he was too busy pressuring his artery to throw another one.

How had she done that? He had a good grasp of the range of her Endless Sword technique, and he’d been far from any source of sword aura.

Now he had a time limit.

Before he bled out, he had to win.

The first of his two Divine Treasures activated, and a white eye of Forged madra appeared hovering over his head.

The eye allowed him to map madra flow in his opponents, and he saw what he expected. Her madra was going to her Iron body and to the Enforcer technique making her sword glow as she finally sliced through the dragon.

The second she did, she re-focused on him, building up a Striker technique.

That was the opening he’d been waiting for.

He activated his second Divine Treasure, and a ring of light appeared behind Yerin. She wouldn’t see it, and it was difficult to sense. Even if she did feel it, she wouldn’t know what it was. Spatial transfer was his ultimate trump card.

Only a breath later, he appeared in that circle a foot from Yerin’s back, ready to unleash a Dragonblood Thunderbolt at point-blank range.

As soon as he appeared, a sword swept through his head.

* * *

The Winter Sage threw her head back and laughed proudly. “I told you he would show up behind you! Didn’t I tell you?”

“That was a help and a half,” Yerin admitted, “but don’t polish yourself up too much.”

The Sage looked like she’d just won a championship fight herself.

Mercy punched Yerin’s arm. “We should have left everything to you all along!”

“A closer shave than it looked. At the start of it, I could feel the Sword Icon. But whenever I have to push myself, it shakes me out.”

For the first few seconds of the battle, Yerin had felt perfectly in control. She had known exactly what to do against Calan’s first moves.

But she hadn’t been able to break his Forged dragon in one slash, so she’d focused her spirit on it and therefore lost her concentration.

She’d only been able to win so quickly because the Winter Sage had scanned Calan Archer, sensing that he had a spatial transfer artifact and predicting that he’d use it to move behind Yerin.

It wasn’t one of his prizes from the tournament, and he hadn’t used it in previous rounds. It must have been a gift from Reigan Shen.

As soon as Yerin had sensed strange madra gathering behind her, she’d spun and struck without holding back.

It had still been close. If she’d been half a second too late and he had shoved one of those dragons into her back, she would have been the one melting into white light.

“It’s only natural that you can’t hold on to a Sage’s mentality,” the Winter Sage said. “You’re only an Underlady.”

“What good is a sword I can’t grip too hard?” It was disorienting to get shaken out of a state of concentration in every fight. Eventually, that was going to cost her.

“Using it to any degree of consistency at your level is nothing short of extraordinary. When you reach Archlord, you will be Adama’s true successor.”

Mercy gave Yerin a look of exaggerated confusion. “What’s to complain about? You won. You won!”

“Now let’s go do it again,” Yerin said. She wore her usual attitude like a mask, but her heart was tight.

She was so close to achieving her master’s dream. To prizes beyond her imagination. Every step forward meant there were fewer people in the world who could threaten her.

But she was close to defeat, too.

And she didn’t feel any closer to becoming a Sage.

Lindon believed she could win, so did Mercy, so did Min Shuei, and she still might let them down. One of the enemy Monarchs could end up with a weapon of heavenly death.

And it all came down to her, right now.

“Not a worry in the world,” she muttered.

A door popped open to the waiting room. Not the exit; the entrance.

Lindon stumbled in.

It looked like he’d been leaning on the door and hadn’t expected to get it open. Constructs hung from the wall like a deer half-gutted, and the sealing scripts on the door had been scratched up. His Archlord flying sword hung over his shoulder; he must have used that.

To break in and see her.

Yerin’s spirits lifted, and she had to hold back laughter as the Ninecloud Soul manifested as a beam of rainbow light. “Contestant Lindon, you cannot keep doing this. We thought the increased security this time would teach you a lesson.”

Lindon pressed his fists together. “I did learn quite a bit. Gratitude.”

Yerin’s laughter escaped, and Mercy joined her. The Winter Sage’s face paled.

“Next time, you will be charged for the cost of repairs and punished according to Ninecloud City law,” the Ninecloud Soul insisted.

Lindon inclined his head as though he understood, but immediately afterward he turned to Yerin. “They told me I couldn’t come see you.”

“Are you insane?” The Sage demanded. “What if you distract her? Yerin, look, focus on me! Don’t lose the trance!”

She tried to grab both sides of Yerin’s face, but Yerin pushed her away.

Lindon looked horrified that he might have ruined her chances.

“She sounds the horns at every breeze,” Yerin assured him. “This is where you should be.”

There were tears in the Winter Sage’s eyes, and Yerin couldn’t tell if the woman was hurt or worried. Or proud. Yerin found no point in trying to figure out the source of the Sage’s tears.

But then the exit door began to slide open, and Yerin really did need to re-focus herself. She spun around, gripped her sword, and took several calming breaths to keep her madra moving easily.

She extended her senses into the aura gathering around her blade, finding that it helped her focus. The aura wanted to move in a certain way, and she had to quiet herself to hear it.

“This can be it,” the Winter Sage whispered. “Let the Icon show through you.”

Yerin’s delicate focus wobbled. Wasn’t she the one telling everybody to leave Yerin alone? Now why was she whispering in Yerin’s ear?

The battlefield was a clash of sword and storm aura, with thunder rolling overhead. Yerin felt like she heard something as she passed the sword blades rising from the ground, like the distant ring of metal.

She kept her eyes closed, using only her perception to guide her to stand opposite Calan.

Northstrider asked if they were both ready, but he would know when she was prepared. She sensed inside herself—the orderly flow of sword madra, the dormant Blood Shadow lurking inside, the flow of power between herself and her master’s blade—and she extended that perception outward.

Thoughts tried to crowd in: what if she couldn’t touch the Sword Icon? What if she lost the fight? Everyone was counting on her.

She pushed them all aside and stretched out her perception. She stopped watching herself, sensing everything else. It felt as though she’d moved herself from her body; she couldn’t even tell if her madra was cycling correctly.

It was hard to escape her panic. This went against her every instinct, but she stretched out to the world around her as she had when she was advancing to Underlord.

The barrier holding her apart from Calan dropped, and storm madra gathered around him. She fought against all her training and experience, waiting until that silent music moved her.

A Striker technique blasted toward her, and it took all her willpower to stay still.

Someone’s sword madra sliced it apart.

Did I make it?

Maybe this was what it felt like to succeed in manifesting the Sword Icon: like she was feeling someone else fight instead of herself.

The moment she had the thought, she knew it wasn’t true. That sword madra had a source.

And it radiated the power of blood.

Her concentration vanished, and she opened her eyes and drew her sword at the same time.

The Blood Shadow dashed after Calan Archer. The big, sandy-haired man jumped and landed on a Thousand-Mile Cloud, which he used to speed away, but the spirit raised a black blade and used the Endless Sword.

Aura erupted from each of his seven bladed rings. They weren’t knocked back as effectively as if Yerin had deflected them—the Blood Shadow still had to dodge two. But she managed to put a cut on Calan’s forearm.

The Shadow’s smile gleamed white. She looked more and more like Yerin, except for her ruby eyes and bright red hair. Her teeth had once looked like she’d chugged a tall glass of red paint, but now Yerin couldn’t tell the difference between the spirit’s smile and any human’s.

Her skin was still tinged pink, and she let out wild laughter that never could have come from Yerin.

The Blood Shadow was trying to cheat her out of a chance to advance like a Sage.

Furious, Yerin pulled on her connection to the Shadow. The spirit stumbled, red robes waving in the air like actual cloth, and from its knees it turned and gave her a scarlet glare.

Then it pulled right back.

Yerin stumbled this time, her madra faltering in its cycle as the Shadow regained control and continued pursuing Calan. Rain began to fall as his Ruler technique spread a storm over her.

For a moment, she was frozen in indecision. Should she stay and try to recapture the feeling of the Sword Icon, or should she join the fight and push to win however she could?

The Blood Shadow traded blows with Calan, leaping off one of his jade circles and tossing a red-tinged Rippling Sword at him. A thin line of blue-gold light lanced down from the clouds; Calan’s second Striker technique. It drilled a hole through the spirit’s hand, and though it growled in pain, the power of blood madra stretched out and flesh knitted back together.

The Shadow was keeping his attention, and though Yerin hated to waste the opportunity to sense the Sword Icon, there were lives at stake.

She had to fight.

Even if it meant giving up this chance to get closer to her master’s power.

She lifted her sword, reversing the white blade and gripping the hilt in both hands. Then she bent all her madra and soulfire to the binding within.

With great effort, she could activate the Archlord binding, but there wasn’t enough madra in her entire core to fuel it. The technique drew its power from the sword itself, which was dangerous and unstable.

It could damage the blade if she used it too much, although it was safer with the Winter Sage around to do maintenance. But it was doubly dangerous for her. Without Northstrider’s protection, she wouldn’t have been willing to risk it.

Archlord madra exploded from her blade, filling most of the arena.

Raindrops froze to ice…and stopped in midair, hanging in place.

A lightning bolt in the clouds overhead stopped, glowing in a cloud like a light trapped in smoky glass. Calan and his blades froze too, but he could fight back against the technique. He could move, if he pushed through.

But there was more to this technique than locking the subject in place. Tiny shards of Frozen Blade madra hung in midair, ready to cut. The solid raindrops gleamed silver with sword aura.

Lines of red had already appeared on Calan’s skin where the madra and aura had sliced him.

Yerin’s spirit trembled and her core drained noticeably. She couldn’t move while controlling this technique; without the Diamond Veins, her madra channels would have torn apart, but now they were the most stable part of her.

One of the most difficult parts of the technique was keeping the Blood Shadow as an exception. The spirit could still hurt itself on the floating Frozen Blade madra, but Yerin could keep the aura from restricting it. But doing so took even more concentration and control, and she was strained to her limit already.

The Shadow wove easily through the specks of white power hanging in the air, getting closer to Calan. Yerin hated that she was reliant on the Blood Shadow to win the fight while she was locked in place, but she had to admit it was an effective combination.

Suddenly the aura rushed away from Calan. He must have used all of his soulfire to push away an Archlord’s Ruler technique, but he didn’t waste the opportunity, shoving his hands up and blasting a thick lightning dragon through the Blood Shadow’s middle.

Rather than defending itself, the spirit snarled and swept its blade at Calan’s legs.

Half of the Shadow was torn away, and Yerin felt its pain. It was enough of a shock to her mind to shake her concentration, and she lost the Winter Sage’s technique.

All around the battlefield, frozen raindrops crashed to the ground.

Calan didn’t come off any better than the Shadow. He fell off his cloud, blood spraying into the air.

He landed in one place, his legs in two others. The Shadow had sliced through his knees.

The lightning dragon looped around and returned to him, and from what Yerin knew about the Stormcallers, it would be carrying some of the Blood Shadow’s madra back to Calan.

She whipped a Rippling Sword at him. Finishing him off was no more than mercy.

But a brief shower of bright lines fell from overhead. A Striker technique he must have already prepared. The blue-gold madra pierced through her own Rippling Sword, destroying her technique.

The Blood Shadow hadn’t re-formed, and the dragon sank into Calan’s body as it returned. He clenched his jaw, red madra blasting out behind him as he vented blood madra. Yerin was surprised to see that his technique was so similar to Lindon’s arm.

Then his seven jade rings gathered, his Thousand-Mile Cloud swooping down. He hauled himself up with his arms, levering his body onto the cloud. The bleeding from his severed legs had already stopped; either his Iron body healed injuries, or he’d controlled the blood aura in his own body to seal the wounds.

His eyes turned to her, and his gaze was firm as stone. The pain of losing his limbs hadn’t shaken him at all.

Yerin couldn’t help but be impressed.

Out of respect, she had to match that determination. She drew her sword back, cycling her madra.

Then he vanished as the Blood Shadow re-formed and slashed a sword through the space where he’d been.

He reappeared closer to Yerin, but had to turn to face the spirit, and Yerin used the Endless Sword.

She felt dirty for doing so.

When his Jadeclaw Rings went out of his control, the Blood Shadow dealt with his Striker techniques, and Yerin’s follow-up Rippling Sword cut him in the back.

It didn’t sever him in two, which was a testament to the power of his spirit. He didn’t scream, either.

Until the Blood Shadow pounced on him.

When it gleefully leaped on him, he shouted. Then it began to draw blood aura from his wounds as though inhaling…and the longer it inhaled, the more of his power escaped. And the louder his scream grew.

The entire purpose of the Blood Shadow was to steal power by killing or possessing others and bring that power back to the Bleeding Phoenix, but Yerin hadn’t allowed hers to escape.

Not since it had killed her parents.

Yerin launched another Striker technique as fast as she could. Not at Calan. At the Shadow.

The smartest thing would have been to kill him and end the match, but she had reacted out of pure guttural disgust.

No Blood Shadow would have a meal where she could see it.

The Shadow sliced her technique in half with its black blade and winked at her. Uninterrupted.

This time, Yerin used the Endless Sword. The Shadow’s black blade was close enough to Calan; she could cut his throat from here and end the duel.

Yerin’s sword rang…and so did the Shadow’s.

Sword aura was agitated for a moment, but then it died out. The spirit had canceled her technique.

But Yerin had reached the limit of her patience.

She kicked off with all the power of her Steelborn Iron body, a dune’s worth of sand spraying up behind her. Bright specks of blood essence were flowing into the Shadow, and it was cycling its own madra to fight Yerin.

Yerin began cycling the Final Sword.

So did the Shadow.

In a frontal contest, Yerin would win. She was still stronger than the Shadow, and sword madra operated on a more spiritual level than blood madra did. But that was only in terms of whose technique would destroy whose.

The Shadow had a strong element of blood madra, which would tear flesh apart. What would happen if Yerin died while it survived? Would the match end? Or would the presence of Yerin’s Shadow be enough for Northstrider to continue the fight?

Yerin’s sword shone bright silver-white, and the Shadow’s was silver tinged with bright red. When Yerin landed, they were both a hair’s breadth away from completing the technique.

But Yerin didn’t finish it. She swung at Calan.

The Shadow read her intentions and stretched out to defend her meal, but there was one area in which Yerin clearly outmatched her copy: physical strength.

The Blood Shadow gained a measure of the Steelborn Iron body thanks to Yerin’s blood essence, but it was nothing compared to having the real thing and a corporeal body to back it up.

Yerin’s blow slammed the Shadow’s sword aside and split Calan into two pieces.

Instantly, his body blurred into white light. His legs shone as they were taken away as well.

In the moments after the Ninecloud Soul announced Yerin’s victory, Yerin stared into her Shadow’s eyes.

The Blood Shadow licked its lips and patted its belly.

She didn’t need the bond between their spirits to understand its intentions.

It was full.

17

How would I do against Calan Archer? Lindon asked Dross.

[He couldn’t even handle Yerin’s Blood Shadow. Do you think you can handle Yerin’s Blood Shadow? You can.]

Lindon sat in Yerin’s waiting room, watching the fight conclude on a projection construct. That made two members of the Uncrowned he was certain he could beat.

But only two.

Ziel was a mystery, and Dross agreed. His brief rampage against Brother Aekin had astonished Lindon, before Ziel had succumbed to spiritual injury. Whether Lindon won that battle depended on how much Ziel could express his power and how long he could stay whole.

But the fact remained that Aekin and Calan were the only ones that Lindon was confident against.

[You know, you can train against them some more if you’d like.]

Tonight, Lindon promised.

He wasn’t likely to fight Sophara anytime soon, and losing over and over to Dross’ illusory version of her was depressing him. If he fought outside of tournament rules, he could win, but he still had no confidence in defeating her in a straight-up fight.

He needed new opponents, and the two Uncrowned that seemed weakest would be perfect. He was growing tired of losing so much, even in practice.

The important thing was that Yerin had won.

She had grown stronger, which he was glad to see, so now she would enjoy the prizes of the top four. And she was the only hope remaining for the Akura clan to win Penance.

Now, they would spare no expense for her.

Lindon clenched his right hand. The Consume technique alone might not be enough to catch him up to Yerin.

His desire for the prizes of Sky’s Edge redoubled.

Yerin re-entered the waiting room with her body and spirit repaired. Not that she’d suffered much injury. She gave off the spiritual impression of someone in peak health.

Though she looked miserable.

Mercy screamed and cheered and clapped all at once when Yerin arrived, but Yerin didn’t bother to respond. As for the Winter Sage, she looked like she was ready to grind steel between her teeth.

“We must seal that parasite,” she said, the moment Yerin appeared.

“Are you crazy?” Mercy asked. “It almost beat the Stormcaller on its own!”

“It’s out of control!”

“Then we should help her control it!”

While they debated—Mercy not backing down in front of a Sage—Lindon watched Yerin. She looked like she’d just lost the fight.

He had to try something.

“I didn’t know your master,” Lindon said quietly, “but I know he would be proud.”

Her face wrinkled until he thought she might cry. “Would have been proud of me if I’d done it. Why would he give one thin hair for a match my Shadow fought?”

Lindon knew he might be stepping into hotter water, but from what he’d learned from Yerin, he thought he’d put together a decent picture of the Sword Sage’s personality.

“Apologies, but do you really think he would care how you won?”

She looked like she wanted to argue, but the cloud over her face slowly lifted.

“Adama would never have allowed your Blood Shadow to develop to this point,” the Winter Sage said with certainty.

Lindon wanted to punch her, Sage or not, as Yerin’s shoulders slumped again.

The Sage noticed and backtracked. “But he would have been proud of you, of course. Whatever the…means…you cultivated the Blood Shadow yourself, no different than a weapon you created. He would be very proud. But he would be more proud if—”

Maybe it was the look on Lindon’s face or maybe she realized what she was about to say, but the Winter Sage cut off her own words.

“Well, at least top four’s a treat,” Yerin admitted. “When do I get my prizes?”

Lindon had been wondering that already.

“There’s a ceremony for the top four tonight, but the prizes won’t be ready for a few days. We’ll have them sent to us back at the School.”

Yerin glanced up to Lindon. “Two weeks until the next round.”

That reminder raised complicated feelings in him.

On the one hand, he’d barely gotten to talk to Yerin at all since he’d been back from Sky’s Edge. Now that chance was over, and two weeks sounded like forever.

On the other hand, he was confident he could earn two thousand points in two weeks. Maybe a little more, since Abyssal Palace was supposed to receive reinforcements. That was one more prize, maybe two.

From that perspective, two weeks felt too short.

“We have the rest of the day,” he responded.

Then Charity swept in, one of her owls perched on her shoulder. “I’m afraid not. You’ll be accompanying my father back to Sky’s Edge immediately; we need him back in place without delay. Congratulations, Yerin. Your training has now become our family’s number one priority.”

Lindon was paying attention to Yerin’s reaction, so he felt when blood madra surged within her. She grimaced as she suppressed her Shadow.

He expected her to respond lightly, but she pressed her fists together and bowed. “I’ll be grateful.”

The Winter Sage looked delighted. “You’ll see amazing things if we can get her to Overlord, I guarantee it.”

The stirring blood madra inside Yerin stilled as she spoke. “Means I could use another training opponent, true?”

Lindon saw where she was going with this, and he brightened.

It would be a shame to give up the opportunity in Sky’s Edge, but if the full resources of the Akura clan were focused on Yerin, he could potentially get more from helping her train. Surely they would want her training partner to be as strong as possible.

And, of course, he’d be with Yerin.

“You will no longer have time for that,” Charity said, and Lindon’s vision was crushed. “Min Shuei and I will be handling your training directly. Sparring against others at your level will have only minimal impact at this point.”

The Blood Shadow went from silent to fighting so violently that everyone felt it.

This time, the struggle inside Yerin caused the air around her to glow red. She strained visibly, forcing the parasite down, but both Charity and the Winter Sage had their attention focused on Yerin.

“…and we’ll have to seal that thing,” the Winter Sage spat.

Charity shook her head. “On the contrary, we’ll need to improve its state of existence. It’s perfect willpower training, and I can’t imagine any advantage we could give her in only two weeks that is better than a more complete Blood Shadow.”

The Winter Sage staggered back in shock.

* * *

When Mercy had learned that Aunt Charity couldn’t transport them to Sky’s Edge on her own, she had felt a nervous fluttering in her stomach.

When Malice had sent word that she would be the one to cast them on the first leg of their journey, Mercy’s nerves had gone from fluttering to churning.

Then her mother had instructed Mercy to arrive early for a private talk.

That was when Mercy really began to feel sick.

The Monarch hadn’t spoken with Mercy since her loss, nor made her opinion known to the rest of the family. She had stayed as aloof and apart as ever.

As a result, Mercy didn’t know how her mother felt about the fight against Sophara. But she wouldn’t be pleased.

Mercy arrived in the floating Monarch viewing platform to find it occupied only by one person. Dozens of comfortable seats remained empty, the corners of the vast room were draped in shadows, and the silence echoed in the empty space.

Her mother lounged in a dark throne, hands folded in her lap, waiting for Mercy to enter.

Mercy had far greater access to Malice than most anyone else, but that still meant that months often passed with no contact between them at all. As she approached, she felt as much as she ever had that she was a stranger in the presence of her Monarch.

She went to one knee, bowing before her mother. “My greetings, Mother.” While she didn’t enjoy being so formal, she wasn’t sure what else to do.

“Rise,” Malice commanded.

Mercy did, hoping to see the Monarch soften into a mother. When her smile remained cold and distant, Mercy knew she was in trouble.

“How should I treat someone who let the family down so badly?”

Mercy straightened her back. “I know my weaknesses better now, and I’ve already started to train my Dream of Darkness again. In the future, I will do my best to represent you better.”

“In the future?” Malice asked. “You’ve failed already.”

The Monarch spoke offhandedly, but Mercy’s heart tightened.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered.

Malice sighed. “Failure can be a teacher, and of course one can try one’s best and still fail. There is no such thing as an undefeated warrior. But you have my Book. You carry my bow. You represent me. Should you be treated as though you were victorious?”

Mercy happened to think defeat was often punishment enough, and there was no point in disciplining someone who had tried their best.

But then…had Mercy tried her best? It could be hard to tell. She felt like she had, but what if she hadn’t been motivated enough? What if she could have done more?

“There is no physical punishment that could motivate you,” Malice went on, “but you must feel the sting of failure if you are ever to appreciate success.”

Around the room, shadows opened into windows that looked out onto other locations. Other people.

Purple eyes turned in surprise as miniature portals appeared next to other members of the Akura clan. Whatever was about to happen, Malice was displaying it to dozens of people, and Mercy’s cheeks began to burn in shame already.

Aunt Charity appeared, looking faintly disturbed, but she said nothing. When the window appeared next to Fury, he glanced at it and then waved it closed. Pride scowled through his own window.

Then Mercy saw a window opening onto Yerin and forced herself not to squeeze her eyes shut. Malice was spreading her punishment to a wide audience, not just the family.

And she dreaded the window that was going to open next. It would be Lindon, she knew it. Yerin was one thing, but if he witnessed Mercy being punished by her mother like a little girl, that would be even more mortifying.

She waited in agony for the next window to open.

It never did, which was one tiny relief.

Malice’s eyes shone purple in the darkness. “Mercy. Let the family witness my displeasure. You have dragged the Akura name through the mud. Though you use the Book of Eternal Night, though you carry my own bow into battle, even so you failed. You are a disappointment to me, and to all of my descendants.

“You have let me down, and you have let the family down. You will dedicate your mind and soul to repaying this debt, or you will no longer have the right to call yourself my daughter.”

Mercy kept her eyes fixed on the ground.

She said the only words she could possibly say in that moment: “Yes, Mother.”

* * *

Lindon stepped into a towering pillar of darkness alongside Eithan, Mercy, and Fury.

As he’d experienced back in the Night Wheel Valley, all his senses disappeared. He was blind and deaf to the world, unable to feel even his body. Only he and Dross drifted in endless darkness.

Not only did Charity have to stay and train Yerin, but Fury needed to return to Sky’s Edge faster than a Sage could carry him.

Even a Monarch couldn’t transport them there directly without a permanent portal, but she could put them on the continent at least. From what Lindon gathered, they would emerge somewhere in the western Blackflame Empire.

[I wonder if we’ll fly over your home!] Dross said happily.

With a strange rush, Lindon realized they just might.

Of course, they might not. They were talking about many thousands of square miles and hundreds of possible routes, so there was nothing to guarantee that they would come out anywhere near Sacred Valley.

But the idea of possibly seeing Samara’s ring in the distance as they traveled by filled him with a strange excitement.

When the darkness lifted, they were standing on the dune of a strange desert. The corner of a building stuck up from the sand alongside a startled-looking creature bigger than Lindon. It resembled a cross between a mole and a lizard, and when it saw them—or maybe when it sensed Fury—it clawed its way rapidly down into the dune.

Lindon felt power radiating from above him, and he looked up.

Miles across the desert, huge green stalks rose from the sand. They stood higher than Elder Whisper’s tower back home, and at the top bloomed massive flowers supporting what looked like cities.

If they hadn’t been under such a time limit, Lindon would have wanted a closer look. Mercy shaded her eyes to stare at the flowers and made noises of amazement.

Fury stretched his arms up and yawned. “Okay, let’s get on with it. Who’s got a cloudship?”

“I have been reliably informed that mine is one of the fastest in the world,” Eithan said. He swept his arm in a grandiose gesture, and a gold light manifested over the sand next to him. It looked like the Remnant of a ship for a moment, until it solidified into the real thing.

It was a sleek and opulent ship, made of dark polished wood and outlined in gold, and it looked sized to carry ten or fifteen people. The cloud beneath it was a bright white-gold, and the prow was carved into a snarling lion of white and gold.

“The decorations leave something to be desired,” Eithan observed.

Fury gave him a sidelong glance that Lindon would have called disgusted. “At least you’re good for something.” Then he leaped aboard.

Lindon had never heard Fury speak in a less than friendly tone to anyone but an enemy Herald. Mercy noticed his surprise and sighed.

“He doesn’t like anyone who gives up. For any reason.”

“I got his mother’s permission, but that doesn’t mean getting everyone’s approval.” Eithan shrugged. “Ah, well. I have nothing if not confidence in my likeable demeanor.”

Lindon suddenly worried if Eithan would survive all the way to Sky’s Edge.

The trip would take almost nine hours, which surprised Lindon. That wasn’t much faster than when Charity had taken him to Sky’s Edge before.

But, as Dross reminded him, there was a significant difference between transporting two people and four. If Charity had been the one to send them instead of Malice, it might have taken them an entire day to arrive.

For the first few hours, Fury napped as Eithan lurked nearby and made continual comments about how nice the weather was and how it would be a shame to sleep the day away. At one point, Fury tossed him off the side of the ship.

Lindon cycled the Heaven and Earth Purification Wheel until he could stand it no longer. Then he worked on his armor as Little Blue ran around the deck, which ended when she almost pitched over the railing. After that, he kept her in eyesight and chatted with Mercy.

Eventually, the topic turned to their purpose in Sky’s Edge.

“I was surprised to see that Fury made it to see your match,” Lindon said. “I thought he had to stay and keep the Abyssal Palace Herald in check.”

Mercy idly extended a String of Shadow and watched it flutter in the wind. “Everyone is playing by the rules for now because of Penance. If a Herald kills all our Lords, he’s made himself a prime target if we end up with the weapon.” She gave a heavy sigh. “But you can’t lean on your enemy’s restraint for long, so we still need to be back before the dragons get there.”

She was more subdued than usual, and Lindon knew she was thinking about her loss.

But he’d been wondering about the dragons’ strategy. It was too expensive to transport a whole flight of dragons through space, so they would be making a trip across an entire continent.

And…why? They had nothing to gain from the Dreadgod. They couldn’t even kill Fury, in case Yerin won the tournament and decided to get revenge by using it on their Monarch.

So what were they thinking?

When he asked Mercy, she gave a deeper, heavier sigh. “It’s like Northstrider told us: dragons would rather burn a field to the ground than give their enemies a bite to eat. Or however he put it. They have nothing to gain, but as long as we’ll lose out just as much, they’re happy to do it.”

That seemed unsustainable to Lindon. They had to gain more than they lost or their faction would never grow.

But Malice and Fury had been fighting the dragons for centuries, so they knew the nature of their opponents. There were more factors at play here than he could know.

Mercy gave a third sigh. The deepest and heaviest of them all.

Dross was concerned. [Do you think she’s having breathing problems?]

Even Little Blue scurried up to lay a hand on Mercy’s knee and let out a worried cheep.

“It’s difficult,” Lindon said, “watching and not being able to affect anything.”

Mercy patted Little Blue with one blackened finger. “I had my chance. And I just…” She spread her hands and mimed dropping something.

“We still have Yerin.”

Truthfully, Lindon understood how she felt. He hated leaving his fate in the hands of others. But if it had to be someone, at least it was Yerin.

“That shouldn’t be her responsibility. It’s mine.”

Lindon had intended to lighten the mood, but he couldn’t help but saying, “You made it further than I did. I think I could have beaten Calan Archer or Brother Aekin, but I don’t know if I’d have been any good against anyone else. I could never have beaten you, for instance.”

That should encourage her, but it was also honest. She had fought far beyond her level.

She looked at him out of the corner of her eye. “Did losing hurt you that much?”

“Oh, no, apologies, I didn’t mean to suggest that.”

“Aren’t you the one who fought an Underlord prince as a Truegold?”

Lindon hadn’t meant to make this about him, and he tried to backtrack, but she kept talking.

“I’m surprised to hear you say you could never win against someone, that’s all. If I asked you to punch a hole in the sky, I thought you’d say ‘Apologies, it might take me a few years.’”

Was that how she saw him?

Eithan and Northstrider had both encouraged him to think about himself from the perspective of others, so he probed a bit deeper. “I don’t see it like that. I try to do whatever I can, or whatever I have to, but even I know that sometimes there’s no way to win.”

Mercy released Little Blue and turned to look him in the eye. “Says who?”

The heavens? Lindon thought. Reality? Whoever decides what ‘truth’ is.

That would have been too rude to Mercy, so he didn’t say it aloud.

When he didn’t respond immediately, she continued. “You look different when you’re fired up to win and when you’re not. Did you know that? Usually your face is like this.” She scrunched up her eyebrows and firmed her jaw into an intense stare. “And then when you give up, you look like this.”

Her head drooped down and she used her fingertips to pull her lips into a frown.

Little Blue fell over laughing. It sounded like bells in a high wind.

Lindon couldn’t tell if Mercy was making fun of him or not. “Is that true?”

Dross popped into existence in front of him. [I’d say your face looks more like this.]

His mouth gaped open and his one eye grew huge, so that he looked like a shocked and betrayed child. A one-eyed, purple child.

“Do you think I wanted your best impression? Can’t you show me?”

[I can indeed! Thanks to Sir Northstrider, I now have the recordings from the Uncrowned King tournament.]

He projected an image onto the deck, though he used no light aspect, so Lindon was sure it was only an image in his mind.

It was a frozen image of Lindon in battle, dragon’s breath streaming from his palm, as he fought Naian Blackflame.

“That’s it!” Mercy cried, pointing to the projection. “That’s the face!”

So Dross sent it to her too. Lindon hadn’t asked for that.

The view changed. This time, it was an image of Lindon looking upward as Yerin fell toward him, sword raised. This came from one of the viewing constructs in the arena, so it was somewhat far back, but Lindon could see his own expression.

Dross had shown him this perspective before, and he remembered how weak and conflicted he looked.

Then he saw himself change.

Dross advanced the moment slowly, so Lindon watched as life kindled in his own eyes. There was no specific difference he could point to, but it was like a different person had taken over his body. Like his soul had been brought back from death.

[This next one is a creation of mine, but I think it’s even more accurate than a recording.]

Back in a small room in Moongrave, Lindon faced Charity and begged her to let him return home. The details of this one were fuzzier, slightly different than in Lindon’s memory, but he could see the weakness in his face. Doubt, hesitation; a slump of the shoulders, a flicker in the eyes as he tried to think his way free.

Nothing like the gaze of the man he’d seen before.

Dross released the projection, panting and leaving Lindon to think.

Was this what Eithan had meant about seeing himself as others saw him? Would this lead to his Overlord revelation?

“Gratitude,” Lindon said.

Mercy turned away and leaned both her forearms on the railing. Her hair blew behind her in the wind of their passage. “I can say all that to you, but I’ve thrown up three times since I lost.”

“You have?”

“Three times so far. I start thinking about mistakes I made, and that makes me think about what I should have done, and then it’s a spiral all the way down!”

Despite the subject, she still sounded pleasant.

“You’ve hidden it well,” he said. He wasn’t sure if she would consider that a compliment.

“Hmm…I don’t think I’m really trying to hide it, though. I’m just not letting those feelings decide what I do.”

At the front of the ship, Fury shot up. He went from loudly snoring to standing in a motion so fast that Lindon didn’t catch it.

His hair drifted up, and spiritual pressure weighed on them all as his veil slipped away. A shadow crept over the entire ship.

“Prepare for battle, kids,” Fury said. “They’re already here.”

At that, he kicked off the deck with such force that it sent the cloudship plummeting a hundred feet before it stabilized.

When they had all caught their balance—with Lindon sheltering a trembling Little Blue in his hand—Lindon turned to Eithan. “How long until we arrive?”

“Still four more hours. If you were wondering, I can’t see anything.”

The closer they got to Sky’s Edge, the more Lindon could see in the distance. And the more of the situation Eithan shared with them.

It always looked worse and worse.

Darkness collided with golden light in an explosion that lit up most of the horizon and pushed back entire banks of clouds. Even dozens of miles away, the spiritual sensations buffeted their cloudship.

This was why Heralds never came to open blows.

“They’re both holding back,” Mercy said. “If they weren’t, everyone below them would be dead.”

Eithan shaded his eyes as he peered at the battle. “Ideally, a balanced fight will look like this. The most advanced sacred artists will keep each other in check so that those below them are unaffected. Otherwise, all battles would start with the most advanced fighters annihilating the enemy’s entire force of Golds.”

Lindon supposed that made sense, but the problem was that the two sides were not balanced.

Fury wasn’t exchanging blows with the Abyssal Palace Herald who had been there before, but with Xorrus. The left hand of the Dragon King.

That meant at least two Heralds on one side against Fury, though the leader of Abyssal Palace didn’t seem to be taking part in the battle.

Worse, he was starting to see the hundred or so dragons flying circles around the floating Abyssal Palace fortress.

And even that wasn’t the end.

A towering red-tinged cloudship painted with a symbol resembling the Bleeding Phoenix obviously belonged to Redmoon Hall. A floating island covered by a giant pure-white tree must belong to the Silent Servants, as a halo of light that resembled their Goldsign crowned its branches. The Stormcallers were carried on a long storm cloud that drizzled a curtain of rain on the mountains surrounding Sky’s Edge. A number of structures had been built on the cloud itself, so that it looked like they traveled with their entire sect.

Lindon didn’t sense any more Heralds, but he suspected there was at least one. The Blood Sage had attended the tournament, which left the Herald to continue running Redmoon Hall; he couldn’t imagine the man not being here.

But this sight sickened him. Surely no one from Sky’s Edge had been left alive.

He turned to Mercy, but she seemed calm.

“Oh, our side is still alive,” Eithan explained while keeping his eyes on the horizon. “As Mercy told you, everyone is playing quite strictly by the rules. For now. While the battle below is quite heated, it is strictly between Golds and the weaker Lords. They toy with us.”

“For them to have beaten us here, they must have gone to great expense,” Lindon said quietly. “Are they positioning for the end of the tournament? If so, why didn’t we…pardon, Mercy, but why didn’t your mother see this coming?”

“My mother’s weakness is not a lack of foresight.”

Eithan flipped hair away from his face. “I suspect the situation is thus: they are poised to secure the labyrinth as soon as their champion wins the tournament. They have arrived so…aggressively…merely to express superiority and exert their confidence in Sophara.”

“That’s it?” Lindon blurted.

When he put it like that, it sounded…petty.

“I’m boiling down a great many factors, and of course this is all speculation on my part…but many Monarchs are such people. Those who enjoy throwing their power around. They would be certain that Fury can’t fight them all, and even if Yerin wins the tournament, there are so many together that they can retreat without reprisal.”

A hand of dense shadow madra struck a golden spear from the air before it could be fully formed, kicking up a wind that pushed the Redmoon Hall cloudship back.

[I have some idea of what it costs to move this many Heralds,] Dross said. [As you may remember, some of them were our guests in Ghostwater. They’ll have given up fights all over the world to make this demonstration.]

“What happens when Fury loses?” Lindon asked.

“This isn’t a fight,” Mercy responded. “This is him saying he won’t back down. But…I know him. There will be a fight.”

Lindon noticed they were still heading straight for Sky’s Edge.

[I appreciate how fast and fuel-efficient this cloudship is,] Dross said, [but don’t you think we should check its turn radius? For instance, we could turn around and go the other way.]

“You can drop me here,” Mercy said. She tapped Suu on the deck, and the staff’s dragon head hissed. “I’ll go the rest of the way myself.”

“There’s no barrier stopping us from entering?” Lindon asked Eithan.

“None. If I had to bet, they won’t mind our arrival at all. But they may take issue if we try to depart.”

“And the Lords are fighting on the ground?”

“The strongest participating in the battle are Overlords. They would very much appreciate the arrival of a few more skilled combatants, I suspect.”

“No,” Mercy said firmly. “I have responsibilities here, but there’s no reason for you two to risk your lives.”

Lindon continued speaking to Eithan. “If Sophara wins, are we all going to die?”

He would happily put his faith in Yerin, but he didn’t want to bet his life on the Uncrowned King tournament if he didn’t have to.

Yerin hadn’t even made it through the top four yet.

“Malice has certainly prepared for this, which means that Fury has a way to escape. It’s probable that we will have an opportunity to survive, even if the worst happens and the Monarch is killed. But…” He shrugged. “We will certainly be safer if Yerin wins. Or if we don’t go down there at all.”

Lindon thought of his expression in those tournament recordings.

And he thought of what he’d felt when Suriel gave him a second chance.

He looked down into his palm, where Little Blue was hugging Suriel’s marble. The tiny blue candle-flame matched her perfectly.

“Apologies, Little Blue,” he said. “I need your help.”

She dropped the glass ball and gave a whistling cheer.

There was only one step he could take at the moment to improve his power, and Dross had confirmed it would work. He had hesitated only out of fear for Little Blue’s safety.

But she was eager to help, and he needed her.

“I swear to open my core to you and share my power,” Lindon said, for the second time in his life.

Little Blue regarded him solemnly as she knelt and pressed both hands to his skin.

Then she gave one bright, piping note of agreement and their contract was complete.

Deep blue power slid into him; not an overwhelming amount, certainly not compared to the sea of pure madra he already contained. But more than he’d expected from the Sylvan Riverseed, and more than enough to stain his pure core a deeper blue.

As it did, his own power crashed into the Sylvan Riverseed.

She fell over on his hand, and if Lindon could have interrupted the process, he would have done so out of panic. Her color brightened to a lighter shade, but she became clearer, more solid, more defined. Her eyes gained a new shine, and legs and feet appeared beneath her long skirt.

She doubled in size until she was about a foot tall, and Lindon wondered if she might grow to human size until her form settled.

When she stood on his hand, he felt her weight more than he ever had before.

A new sensation settled in his pure madra as it took on a cleansing, emptying aspect. It wasn’t entirely like her original power, but not exactly the madra he was used to using either. A combination of both.

Little Blue lifted both her eyes and gave a loud chime.

He didn’t hear words, but now he could vividly understand the emotion behind them.

Victory.

Now, after so long being carried around, she could help carry him.

18

Pride trembled, bruised and panting, on the stony ground. He wanted to sink to his knees, but he would rather die than kneel to these opponents.

Not that they seemed likely to kill him.

Most of the Akura forces were inside the fortress walls that the Seishen king had raised in Sky’s Edge, but Pride and his team had been caught on the stony hills outside when the dragons had arrived.

The mine was all but empty, everything of value stripped from the town, and they’d evacuated everyone for miles. The territory was ready for the Dreadgod to arrive, and Pride had only been supervising the return of the Gold workers.

When dragons had swooped in, cutting off their retreat, he hadn’t been too alarmed at first. They would receive support, and there was no one in this group of dragons above Overlord. And they clearly weren’t thirsty for blood, or their Herald would have annihilated them from a thousand feet up rather than sending her descendants.

Then the other Dreadgod cults had arrived, and his heart had fallen past his knees.

Even when Uncle Fury had begun fighting, it hadn’t helped Pride’s position at all. A dozen Lords sat on clouds or floating mounts around Pride and the others, watching. Four of them were Overlord. Five times that many Truegolds and Highgolds watched from further back, a mix of cultists and dragons of all colors.

They just kept sending Underlords forward to duel. There was some joke about reenacting the Uncrowned King tournament for themselves, but really they just wanted to see their opponents suffer.

There were no rules. Whenever it looked like one of them would win, an Overlord on the bench would throw in a Striker technique and claim he was swatting a fly.

Every one of the Underlords on Lindon’s team was beaten and bloody. Grace had a cloth wrapped around a missing eye that became harder to heal with every passing second, Courage was unconscious with a mangled lower half of his body, and one of the Maten twins was covered in burns.

Pride had just been forced to fight, even with his core almost empty and his flesh battered, and he thought he’d made a good accounting of himself. One of the green dragons, in a humanoid form, was now missing a tail.

She’d have it reattached, but it had felt good to tear it off with his bare hands.

Naru Saeya was fighting now, hammering away at an Abyssal Palace priest with a chipped and broken rainbow sword that was slowly losing light.

The priest weathered the blows, but they were beginning to draw blood. Saeya was spattered in more blood than anyone, most of it belonging to others, but she was running more on anger than on madra by this point. She used no techniques, screaming as she hacked at her opponent.

The enemy Lords and Ladies laughed and shouted bets.

Pride was certain he would already be dead if not for his name. While the enemy at large was hesitant to end too many lives before the tournament concluded, there had been a handful of deaths among their Golds. Courage and the Frozen Blade woman would die if they weren’t healed.

This was a game for them. The Akura sacred artists would be humiliated and eventually released.

Pride would have greatly preferred a straightforward fight to the death.

Their side was surrounded, their retreat cut off, and the dragons controlled the air. Archlords were rare, so there were none close, but enough Overlords were here to make reinforcements almost impossible.

Pride had to hope that Uncle Fury would conclude his fight and come to save them. Without teaching the other side a lesson and wiping them all out.

As cathartic as that would be for Pride, it would ensure that an enemy Herald would kill an equal group of Lords in retaliation.

Saeya’s scream cut off, and Pride’s gut tightened as he thought she’d been hit by some weapon he hadn’t seen.

She sagged to the ground with an expression of great relief, panting, letting her sword hand drop. “Sure took their time,” she muttered.

A few of the Overlords launched Striker techniques into the distance, and Pride followed them.

A gold speck in the distance resolved into a small cloudship speeding toward them. The dragons that filled the skies struck at the ship, but they were mostly Truegolds; they were driven away by dark arrows and beams of black dragon’s breath.

Instead of relief, Pride filled with anger and despair.

What were they doing here? The second they dropped off Fury, they should have turned and run away!

The first Overlord technique—a crimson bird launched by a member of Redmoon Hall—landed on the cloudship and burst harmlessly against the hull. Pride couldn’t tell if the ship itself was protected or if Eithan had extended his pure madra to cover the entire vessel.

A ghostly rain of swords struck next, but they were overwhelmed by a wave of pure madra. That was certainly Eithan, unless Lindon had added a new Striker technique to his arsenal.

Then an arrow of light shot toward them, fired by an archer among the Silent Servants.

An Overlord presence bloomed on the deck of the ship, and the shining arrow was overwhelmed by a volley of hundreds of violet arrows heading the other direction.

Mercy’s bow.

A dozen other Gold-level techniques crashed against the ship and did nothing, but none of the Archlords made a move. Either they were still strictly adhering to the unspoken rules of honorable combat, as Pride hoped, or they didn’t think the passengers of this ship posed a significant threat.

Probably both.

The Overlords all defended their side from Mercy’s volley easily enough, but the cloudship made it over Pride’s head.

As soon as it did, it vanished in a flash of gold light and the three passengers fell from the sky.

Pure ego and foolishness. The fall would be no threat to any Underlord, but they had made themselves easy targets for every sacred artist on the enemy side.

Sure enough, all the Lords and most of the Truegolds launched attacks at the falling trio. The air shook with the power of so many techniques at once, and the glow actually outshone the Herald battle in the distance.

Mercy would be fine—her armor was perfect for this—and Pride had no idea what the limits were to Eithan’s defensive technique. But if Lindon was counting on the healing from his Iron body…

Well, he might survive, but he’d be a useless pile of meat. Maybe one of the others would cover for him.

A blue sphere of pure madra surrounded Lindon, fifteen feet in every direction, covering all three of them. It was deeper blue than the madra Pride had seen from him before, and it carried a different impression. Like it would scrub everything clean.

And while the ball of light surrounded him, his eyes turned solid, oceanic blue, as though they were made from sapphires.

The strongest attacks hit first, and they crossed the bubble and weakened visibly, but they did penetrate. Eithan blasted a few apart and Lindon absorbed one into his hunger arm, but two or three landed.

Pride expected to see wounds.

But it didn’t look like they suffered anything worse than ruffled clothes.

Maybe not even that.

Some Underlord techniques were wiped out a few feet into the blue sphere, but the others were destroyed by Eithan or Lindon with little effort. The Truegold attacks vanished the instant they touched the bubble.

Mercy seemed to simply be enjoying the ride down.

The blue field of madra vanished before it touched the ground.

Lindon landed with the subtlety of an ape.

Eithan drifted down next to Naru Saeya on a flow of wind aura so tightly controlled that he kicked up no dust. “Were you winning?” he asked cheerfully.

“I heard you advanced,” Saeya said from the ground. “Huan is going to put you to work.”

Mercy rode Suu down toward Pride, concern filling her eyes, and she was already rummaging in her pocket for some healing salve or pill.

He stopped her with a raised hand. “Fools. You’ve trapped yourselves.”

She removed the stopper to a white bottle. “This will make you feel better. I’ve got plenty to go around.”

“Take care of them first, if you want to do some good.” He knew what his sister was like, but he still couldn’t believe they’d come without help. “You should have brought reinforcements.”

She looked confused. “We did.”

Lindon walked into the open space where Naru Saeya had been fighting. His eyes had faded back to normal. “Pardon, but is this a game?”

Pride would have shouted at him not to be an idiot if he thought that would help. But then, Lindon gave off a different impression than he had before.

Normally, he felt domineering and aggressive when he held Blackflame, but now he gave off a similar impression with pure madra.

Pride doubted his own spiritual sense.

Some of the enemy camp laughed, but many didn’t. A few of the Overlords muttered to one another.

If they hadn’t seen the recordings of the Uncrowned King tournament, they had at least heard the reports. Some of them had undoubtedly watched the fights live.

They knew who Lindon was.

An Overlady from Redmoon Hall called out, “A bit of sport to liven things up. Would you like to play?”

“What are the prizes?” Lindon asked.

This time, there was more laughter, and even the Redmoon Hall Lady’s lips moved up. “You fight as long as you can. While you’re fighting, the rest of your team gets to rest.”

“Apologies, but that isn’t a prize.” Lindon reached around his neck, pulling up a chain that hung inside his robes. The chain was usually hidden beneath the shadesilk ribbon that held his halfsilver hammer badge, but Pride knew what it was even before Lindon held up the bronze key for inspection.

His void key.

“How about the winner gets to keep whatever the loser has on their person when they enter the ring?” Lindon suggested.

The Redmoon Lady’s eyes lit up, and she laughed. “Wonderful. Now, who among us is brave enough to face someone who was almost one of the Uncrowned?”

Half of the Underlords raised their hands.

Including the priest from Abyssal Palace already in the arena. His yellow eye blazed, and he looked at Lindon hungrily.

The Overlady waved him back. “You’ve had your turn. What about one of the Servants? Juvari, how about you?”

A woman with dark skin and eyes stepped forward, all her other features obscured by either her robes or the cloth wrapped over the lower half of her face. A ring of light floated over her head.

Pride recognized her, of course. She had been eliminated in the fourth round of the competition.

A dream artist.

Pride began to feel some hope. Lindon’s mind-spirit could fight against dream techniques, though Pride didn’t know how effective it would be in direct combat against a Silent Servant.

Naturally, she removed a number of artifacts and jewelry and left them on the sidelines before she entered their makeshift arena.

Obviously she would. Lindon’s “prizes” were idiotic at best and naïve at worst. The enemy would just leave their valuables behind before entering.

But Lindon didn’t protest. He tucked his key back into his robes.

Pride wondered if he was too embarrassed to say anything. While it would be gratifying to see Lindon lose after that arrogant entrance, Pride still held on to some hope that his confidence was justified.

As nice as it would be to see Lindon’s opinion of himself taken down a notch or two, Pride wanted the enemy to lose.

An orange barrier appeared in the air in front of Juvari as she began weaving dream aura. There was nothing so formal as a signal to indicate the start of the match.

A bar of Blackflame punched through the barrier, but the Silent Servant had already completed her Ruler technique. She held out her hands, and while it was invisible to Pride’s mind, he sensed an overwhelming, tempting dream.

Even on the sidelines, he wanted to give in, to see whatever vision she was going to show him. He blinked his way free.

Lindon’s white hand was already around Juvari’s throat.

And he was draining her.

Power flowed into him, just as Pride had seen before, but this was somehow even more frightening. It was powerful and thorough, and Pride couldn’t help but wonder if he himself could escape if he found himself in Lindon’s grip.

Spikes of dream madra pierced Lindon’s head, but he ignored them completely.

Juvari’s spirit became weaker and weaker. Even her lifeline faded in front of the horrified onlookers.

One of the Overlords Forged and threw a spear, but it was knocked aside by a blast of pure madra.

“Did you see that mosquito?” Eithan shouted.

Lindon released the woman in his grip, and she crumpled to the ground. She was still alive. Judging by what Pride saw of her life and spirit, she would live, but it would take expensive treatment to return her to fighting shape.

Pride expected the dream madra to vent out of Lindon’s arm, but instead it cycled up to the base of his skull. Where his mind-spirit lived.

Lindon looked to the Overlords and bowed with his fists pressed together. “Gratitude. Who’s next?”

Pride’s opinion of Lindon went up a level.

They didn’t play the game after that, of course. They blasted Lindon until he was forced to retreat, mocking him and shouting names.

The thunder from overhead slowed as the battle from Heralds began to die down, and the enemy grew restless. They lobbed techniques at the Akura Golds, forcing the combat-capable Lords to defend them.

Lindon had ruined their game, which made them angry. And they couldn’t send an Overlord into the ring either, with Eithan standing there grinning like he was waiting for a chance.

As the uneasy peace deteriorated further, Pride walked up to Lindon. “Open your void key,” he said.

Lindon eyed him. “Why?” he demanded.

Pride couldn’t stand his attitude. Why did Lindon treat everyone else with respect except him?

Then again, Pride hated the way he apologized for everything just as much.

“I have something to give you.”

That brought a greedy glint to Lindon’s eye, which made Pride reconsider what he was doing.

When Lindon opened his closet-sized void key, Pride opened his own…and withdrew the Diamond Veins.

Lindon’s brow furrowed. “Pardon. You trust me to carry these now?”

Every word stuck in Pride’s throat, but they had to be said. “Is there anyone else on our team who can put them to better use?”

“Gratitude,” Lindon said, and Pride had never heard him sound so sincere. He pressed his fists together and bowed.

That improved Pride’s mood immensely.

“Is your uncle still paying out contribution points?” Lindon asked, when the icy blue crystalline construct was in his hands.

“He hasn’t said anything. But if I know him, the situation getting worse will only make him more generous. He loves it when people do well in a fight.”

“Good.” He surveyed the forces surrounding them. “It takes three days to process these Veins. Then I’m going hunting.”

A gold light shimmered in the open space they’d been using as an arena, and the cloudship appeared again.

The enemies immediately began hammering it with techniques, but Eithan waved them all aboard. “This was one of Reigan Shen’s pet projects. It can withstand anything short of a Sage or a Herald, so have no fear and get aboard!”

A hatch opened in the side and a ramp extended down to the cloud bed. No less than three attacks flew across it: a flying sword, a beam of blood madra, and a ball of fire. They would have struck anyone crossing the ramp to board the ship.

“Have no fear, I said!” Eithan announced more loudly.

Pride lifted Grace with one arm and Courage in the other, using wind aura to support them more comfortably. The other able-bodied among them carried them up to the ship.

The surrounding enemies had held back up to this point for fear of killing their quarry, but now that safety was nearby, they let loose. Forger, Ruler, and Striker techniques lit up the air, and weapons rained down.

It was only thanks to the combined defensive techniques of all their Lords, including Lindon’s dome of blue light, that they made it aboard without losing more lives. There were still injuries, but no further deaths.

Lindon was the last one, staring out the hatch and back down, and Pride found himself wondering what he was thinking.

An Overlord spirit flared, and Pride shouted a warning. An arrow, shining with golden light, blasted into the open deck.

It hit the edge of Lindon’s blue field and weakened, but not enough to stop it. It flew forward, still a deadly attack.

A blue nimbus sprung up around Lindon as he used his full-body Enforcer technique, and with his white hand he snatched the arrow out of the air. The force carried him backwards five feet, but it didn’t hit him. It didn’t strain his spirit. It didn’t tear his arm off.

He landed, examined the arrow, nodded appreciatively, and then tucked it into his void key.

* * *

Back in the Frozen Blade school, Yerin sat in front of a pile of presents wondering where to start.

Before she’d been taken in by the Sword Sage, Yerin’s parents had celebrated her birthday by hiding a few small toys or trinkets for her around the house and setting her loose to go find them.

She hadn’t felt anything like that since. Until now.

After agonizing deliberation, she decided on the package she wanted to open first. It was wrapped in Forged life madra so dense that it looked like a nest of real, living vines, and an accompanying card of polished wood showed the name of the sender. Or so the Winter Sage said.

Yerin tore away the vines around Emriss Silentborn’s prize, revealing a shimmering brick the size of her palm. It carried veins of every dark color, and it pulsed eagerly in her hand.

A quick scan of her spirit told her it was a dream tablet, but more complicated and deeper. It felt almost like a hundred dream tablets all nestled into one.

The Winter Sage ran her own perception over it and gasped. “That is a sword codex. It contains the memories of thousands of sword artists of all advancement levels as they practiced or meditated on their techniques. It’s invaluable for any sword Path. Can I…could I borrow it when you’re not—”

Charity, who was sitting in a chair nearby sipping tea, cut her off. “Any codex provided by Emriss will be of the highest quality, and this will help you develop your connection to the Sword Icon. However, it requires years of practice to show its full value.”

“No matter how the tournament turns out, life goes on!” Min Shuei said, then she clapped a hand over her mouth. “Oh, Charity, I’m…I wasn’t thinking. Your grandmother will be fine, I’m sure.”

Charity didn’t seem to care any more than Yerin did. “I suggest you move on, Yerin, so that we can see what we’re working with.”

It seemed like they were trying to drain all the fun out of this, but Yerin wouldn’t let them.

She skimmed across the memories in the sword codex. It contained experiences from swordsmen executing techniques at every stage, from Copper to Archlord. She noted a few that she wanted to dive into later, but ultimately she set it aside. There were more to open.

A rather plain—but intricately carved and decorated—box came from the Arelius family. She didn’t have to break it open, though she almost did so by accident while trying to slide out a panel.

This one held an ordinary dream tablet containing a soulfire control art. This time, Min Shuei dismissed it while Charity examined it appreciatively.

Any soulfire art would improve Yerin’s control, allowing her to slip soulfire into techniques more efficiently and control aura more powerfully. The hard part was matching the right art to the individual. The Arelius family had put either a lot of thought or a lot of research into preparing one for Yerin.

The Akura clan had thousands of soulfire arts, so it wasn’t the value of the object itself that Charity praised, but the care that had gone into its selection.

She was still going on about it when Yerin reached for the next container.

This was a mechanical box of brass and steel that hissed and vented madra essence every few seconds as pistons worked in and out.

Opening it was as simple as activating a script-circle, which made the whole box fold backwards on its own and reveal a…thing.

Yerin didn’t have the words for it.

It was clearly a construct of some kind, because it was made out of madra, but it looked like an ever-shifting and folding network of purple, pink, and violet light. It felt like dream madra, but also like life and some other, subtler minor aspects that Yerin couldn’t begin to name.

Yerin looked to the Sages for an explanation, but they had both begun shouting at her immediately.

“Take it! Take it now!”

“Absorb it into your core, as you would aura…”

“Now! Now!”

“…and hurry, because it will dissipate slightly by the second.”

“Take it!”

Their words tripped over one another, and when Yerin finally decoded them, she hurried to cycle her madra and reach out for the power she sensed inside the box.

The construct, which now looked like a dozen flowers folding in and out of each other, dissolved into essence and flowed into her spirit.

It nestled near her core, but it didn’t seem to want to stay there.

“Cycle it to your head,” Charity instructed, with Min Shuei nodding rapidly behind her.

Yerin did so, and the light settled like there was a notch inside her skull where it was specially designed to fit. The room immediately changed.

It wasn’t as though Yerin could now see more than she could before, but her spiritual sense felt clearer, her thoughts came more smoothly, and she felt somehow more awake. Like she had just risen from a perfect night of rest.

The Winter Sage took a deep, relieved breath. “They should have warned us!”

“The Eight-Man Empire is not known for its meticulous attention to detail,” Charity said. “Still, this is exactly the sort of gift we were hoping for. It will allow your mind to keep up with the speed of your body and spirit. The effects are subtle, but you will begin noticing it in small ways.”

“That sounds all shiny and sweet, but I’m not sure how thrilled I am about some construct tinkering with my mind.”

“It will do nothing more than help you stay at peak concentration and reach decisions more quickly. It will have no effect on your judgment whatsoever.”

“Even when your judgment could use some help,” the Winter Sage put in.

Yerin ignored that, moving on to the next gift.

Which Min Shuei opened.

It was from the gold dragons, and it came in a thick wooden box carved heavily with sealing scripts, so she and Charity contained it in power first.

They didn’t expect a trap. If the dragons gave an explosive construct disguised as a gift, then who would ever accept a gift from them again? The Dragon Monarch considered such tricks to be beneath his dignity.

Still, there was no telling what he might try with Penance on the line.

The box revealed nothing harmful…and the feeling of power it gave off made Yerin’s hopes rise even higher.

The prize within resembled a nest of tubes made out of crystalline pure madra, like the Diamond Veins she’d used already. But before she could reach for it, Min Shuei showed clear disappointment, and Charity a cold anger.

“It’s a Madra Engine,” Charity said, before Yerin could ask. “A Divine Treasure of great value, using as it does dead matter of pure madra.”

Yerin understood the implications of that, and she felt her own disgust.

They had made this from the Remnants of human children.

Charity wasn’t finished. “On top of which, it converts life and blood essence to madra faster, increasing the speed at which your spirit refills your core. Sophara has one of these, and it provides a beneficial effect, so they can claim that it was a gift in good faith. But she has the body of a gold dragon, and it is eating into even her lifespan. For you, it would kill you in ten years.”

“And with the Blood Shadow?” the Winter Sage pointed out. “You’d be lucky to survive the year. It’s worthless.”

Yerin’s anger reached new heights. “And they can just do that? If they’re allowed to send us garbage, what good are the prizes?”

“As I said, it’s technically a very valuable gift. And you didn’t see what we sent Sophara.” Charity gave a cold smile. “I made it myself.”

The Winter Sage was looking into a corner, where another container was veiled in hazy rainbow light. “It’s the responsibility of the host to ensure that the prizes aren’t lacking.”

Naturally, that drew Yerin’s attention to the Ninecloud Court’s present next.

At the touch of her spirit, the voice of the Ninecloud Soul echoed throughout the room. “Congratulations, Yerin!” the construct said warmly. “Reaching top four in the Uncrowned King tournament is an accomplishment reserved for the elite. We have prepared an appropriate prize for you, taking your other gifts into account, but first it is my pleasure to announce your opponent for the semifinal round!”

Yerin leaned forward, and so did both of the Sages, though it wouldn’t help them hear any more clearly.

They had known they were going to receive a message from the Court containing the identity of Yerin’s next opponent, but who would have expected it to come with the prize?

“You face Yan Shoumei of Redmoon Hall, chosen of Reigan Shen,” the Soul said, and Yerin felt an odd mix of relief and frustration.

She was glad not to be fighting Sophara, but at the same time, she wanted to get that battle over with.

But her fighting Shoumei meant that Sophara would be fighting Brother Aekin, and unless he was also a Monarch in disguise, Sophara would tear him apart like a pack of wolves on a lamb. So Yerin’s match would determine who faced the dragon in the finals.

“…and we hope this rare and valuable treasure will assist you in your victory!” the Soul finished, and the rainbow light fell away.

A fruit sat on an ornate platter. It looked like a fat pear, there was a piece of the branch still attached with a single leaf, and its skin was an artistic swirl of red and green.

Min Shuei laughed aloud, clapping her hands, and even Charity gave a small smile, but this time Yerin didn’t need the Sages to tell her how valuable the prize was.

She could feel it. This was a powerful spirit-fruit of blood and life, and even her Blood Shadow stirred at its smell. The interior of their cabin was filled with the complex scent of a dozen rich, ripe fruits.

“The Heart-Piercer Fruit,” Charity said, and Yerin imagined that was what the characters written in gold on the platter said. “It comes from one tree that blooms once a year in a single garden in Ninecloud City. This is the last elixir for life or blood essence you will ever need.”

The Winter Sage knelt to admire it, as the platter hovered over the floor. “With just this fruit, you would have the lifespan of an Archlord as an Underlord. Or…you could run the Madra Engine with no harm to yourself.”

Yerin had thought she couldn’t be more excited about the fruit, but her expectations shot through the roof. “My heart won’t stop if I take a bite right now?”

“I might stop your heart if you don’t,” Min Shuei said.

Yerin devoured it. Its flavor seemed to change from one fruit to another every second, but she didn’t take the time to savor it; she wanted its power.

She could feel the essence flooding her, filling her body, but it would take a while to process it all. Maybe weeks.

“It’s going to be a wait and a half before it soaks in,” Yerin warned.

The two Sages exchanged glances.

“That is one issue facing us,” Charity said. “We need you to advance to face Sophara, but we risk destabilizing your spirit by pushing so fast. And you need time to adjust to these gifts, which will put an additional burden on your soul.”

“How much time do we need?” Yerin asked.

“By traditional wisdom, even a year is too fast to guarantee your safety and your future advancement. In terms of maturing your power and skill, it would be better to take ten years. Even if we accept a critical instability that will harm your future advancement, then we still need at least a month.”

The last gift began to flash and pulse with madra.

Yerin had left it for last because it was the least exciting to look at. It came from Northstrider, and was just a plain ceramic tile with a script on it. It looked like he had pulled it off a roof.

A three-inch projection of Northstrider appeared above the tile. “Use this device as a key to open a separated space.”

The Winter Sage reached for the tile, but Charity snatched it up first. “Why don’t I handle this, Min Shuei?”

“You think I can’t do something so simple?”

Charity stood straight and focused on the empty air in front of her.

“Don’t ignore me!”

“Open,” Charity said.

A swirling green light appeared in the center of the room, widening into an emerald plane roughly the size of a doorway.

“There is no gift I can offer you more valuable than time,” Northstrider said, and Yerin wondered if this was a recorded message or if he was communicating to them directly.

Either way, it had incredibly good timing.

“The temporary pocket world before you has been untethered from the normal flow of time. It can support three to five people for one day, after which you will be ejected.”

Yerin was about to ask what good that was, but the tiny image of Northstrider looked to her as though he could read her mind. “In that time, thirty-six days will pass inside.”

The Winter Sage, who had been reaching for the portal, jerked her hand back. “You can’t be serious.”

Charity dipped her head to Northstrider. “On behalf of my family and my grandmother, I thank you.”

“I cannot demonstrate any less than total commitment when my own life is on the line,” Northstrider said. “The decay of the world will begin when you enter, and I have prepared a full training course for her within. With two Sages to guide her, she will be as prepared as possible.”

He turned back to Yerin. “Work hard. Do not let us down.”

Then he vanished.

At least that answered the question of whether it was a recording.

Yerin looked at the portal. “Well, that’s an easy fix.” At least there was a training course inside; she was looking forward to whatever the Monarch had left for her.

“I’m concerned you don’t appreciate how rare this opportunity is,” Charity said. “There is nothing more valuable than time. He no doubt intended to use this himself.”

The Winter Sage visibly steeled herself. “We must be fully prepared before we enter. Which means we need the last prize.”

Yerin had wondered about that. There were supposed to be seven prizes, but they’d only opened six. The one from Reigan Shen was missing.

Charity waved the tile and the portal closed. “We can’t allow him to see this. Send up the signal.”

The Winter Sage removed the veil around her spirit, and the temperature in the room dropped dramatically. She kept her power in check before ice began to form, but Yerin noticed icicles growing quickly outside the windows.

Only seconds later, a powerful presence landed outside with a thump. Snow blew away, and Yerin sensed the disgusting power that she associated with her Blood Shadow.

The Sage of Red Faith didn’t knock. He pushed the door in, snapping the lock and causing a script-circle to fuzz out.

His feet were still bare, but he had drawn himself up to his full height, so that now he looked like a lanky skeleton with skin stretched over his bones. His white hair hung down to the backs of his knees, and he looked straight to Yerin. The red tracks down his face made him look like he had been weeping blood.

Yerin had to suppress anger and disgust every time she saw him. This was not only someone who reveled in the power of his Blood Shadow, but someone who encouraged others to do so. A ghoul who fed on carnage.

“It is my right to deliver this prize in person, as it was I who provided it in the name of the Monarch who sponsored me,” Red Faith began. He had started lecturing the second the door opened, and he hadn’t once glanced at either of the other two Sages in the room.

“You have enough wisdom to use my techniques, but not to seek my guidance. If I cannot force a fool to drink from the deep well of my insight, perhaps I can entice her.”

He was calling her a fool right to her face, and he expected her to be grateful for it? She hoped the prize was trash so she could throw it back at him.

The other two Sages looked no happier. Charity had raised one eyebrow, and Min Shuei had a hand on her sword and her madra was cycling faster and faster.

Without a glance to them, Red Faith reached into a small hole in space and pulled a container from his void key. It was a glass cylinder large enough to contain a small dog, and it was covered in sealing scripts. At the center of the mostly empty cylinder floated a single drop of blood.

But it gushed blood aura. The building filled with it, so that the sensation of blood outweighed even the power from the Winter Sage’s spirit.

“This is a Heart’s Gem,” the Blood Sage said, “the ultimate source of blood aura. As Heaven’s Torch is the pinnacle of fire aura and Titan’s Bone is of earth, this is the greatest natural treasure of its type in the world. Furthermore, it is condensed from the blood of the Redmoon Herald, who was once my own Blood Shadow.”

Yerin’s Shadow stirred at the feeling of the aura in the air, and it began pulling power to itself without Yerin’s intervention.

She let it happen. Even Yerin knew the value of this gift, and she was surprised to see it come from Reigan Shen. Or from Yan Shoumei’s master.

“You’re giving this to me out of the sweetness in your soul, then,” Yerin said dryly. “So I can use it to beat your apprentice like a rented drum.”

Red Faith loomed over her so suddenly that her hand shot to her sword.

Another white blade was already pointed at his neck, and dream aura danced around his head, but he hadn’t even touched his madra. He leaned down close to her, eyes wide.

“What is this tournament? What are the lives and deaths of Monarchs? In my youth, I devised a method to fuse with my Blood Shadow instead of my own Remnant to grant me the power of a Herald. When I became a Sage, as I knew I would, I could then ascend to Monarch as easily as slipping on a new robe.”

His face contorted like it was being pulled in three different directions. “But the treachery and selfishness of my Shadow knew no bounds. It fled from me until it had become a Herald in its own right, so we could no longer become one.

“Hear me, girl: feed your Shadow, but do not trust it. Use this aura for its nourishment that it may become a potent weapon, but your will must remain dominant. And do not fuse with it until you become a Sage. Your will is not developed enough, so the blending will result in an imperfect fusion when your Shadow fights you.”

He stuck a finger in her face, and this time Yerin couldn’t resist. She shoved it away from herself.

Not that it stopped him from speaking. “No one else other than myself has reached your stage. They were devoured by their Shadows because their wills were weak, or they lacked the insight to become a Sage, or they fell in battle, or they succumbed to their own lack of discipline or talent. It is your duty to complete this process. Prove to the world that it can be done, and usher in a new generation of Monarchs born from the Bleeding Phoenix.”

A crazed fervor had grown in his eyes, and Yerin had finally had enough.

She snatched the cylinder from his hands. “Your duty can go die and rot. The first chance I get to send my Shadow out on its own, I’m jumping right on it.”

“No…” the Blood Sage whispered, “…you won’t. The lure of power is too much for you, as it is for all of great ambition. You will soon manifest the Sword Icon, perhaps before Archlord, and you will know that your genius has given you a unique opportunity. You have a path to Monarch that none others have achieved, and you will give in to—”

“Do people dress up like you to scare children?” Yerin interrupted.

His face twitched.

“You look like you sleep under someone else’s bed. Do mirrors break when you walk by? I figured why your Shadow left: it couldn’t stand looking at its own face every day.”

She lifted up the cylinder. “Thanks for the jar. Now take a step back, then keep doing that until you freeze to death in the snow. Or else have mercy and cut my ears off so I don’t have to listen to you talk.”

Yerin knew it was dangerous to provoke a Sage, but she had two of her own for protection.

And she hadn’t been able to stop herself. Every word from his mouth made her sick.

The Winter Sage shoved him back from Yerin with a smug look. “You heard her. You’ve delivered the prize, now get out of my home.”

He didn’t look as furious as Yerin had thought he would. He didn’t try to strike her down or swear revenge. His face rippled again, like a puppeteer was pulling at his cheeks and couldn’t figure out how to make a human expression, and Yerin sensed nothing in his spirit but dead calm.

Then he turned and walked out the door. A moment later, he vanished.

“That was unwise,” Charity said, picking up her cup of tea and taking a sip. “And not nearly as harsh as he deserved. Before we begin your training, let me help you work on some better insults for next time.”

19

Sophara held a ball of Forged madra in her palm. It would have been hard for an observer to notice, but the madra trembled ever so slightly.

Now that she had reached Overlord, her spiritual imbalance was becoming more obvious by the day.

It wouldn’t slow her in combat, but she could tell. Souls didn’t age quite like bodies did, but her channels were starting to feel…worn. Old. As the Symbiote Veins wrung them out, they could only take so much more abuse.

She would last through the end of the tournament, but then she would begin falling apart. After that, she might only live…ten more years? It was hard to say.

She ran a hand over Ekeri’s Remnant to drive off her fear, as the glowing dragon-spirit nuzzled her side. This tournament was all she needed.

If she won, the Monarchs could fix her spirit.

And by winning, she would be humiliating her enemies. Those who sought to humiliate her.

As her rage burned, she looked over her prizes.

Reigan Shen had given her a doll, seemingly made of clay, that made it easier to shift forms. It resembled a dragon when she was in human form and a human when she wore her dragon body. He appreciated how difficult it was to shift as an Overlord, and he knew that she had already received all the combat gifts she could handle. It was her favorite prize.

The Arelius family, poor and hostile to her cause as they were, had admittedly given her a pleasant gift as well. The Dawn Sky Palace was a tiny pocket world—smaller than some void keys—containing only an opulent home. It had once belonged to Tiberian Arelius’ wife, and it was gorgeous.

She lounged in it now, and they had even redecorated for her, lining all the furniture in gold and planting trees that shone with a golden light. She would have to think of a gift to send them as thanks.

The Eight-Man Empire had given her a Tear of the Deep, the highest grade natural treasure that produced water aura, though it would be useless to her without the fire equivalent. Her Monarch should be able to track down a Heaven’s Torch, so that was useful enough.

It was the gifts from her two enemies that grated on her.

Northstrider had given her a thumb-sized bottle containing a drop of luminous white liquid, and she had been shocked when she opened it. He must have sensed her mind-enhancing elixir and sent her another dose.

Then she’d read the note accompanying it. “This is called ghostwater. It is the prize your sister failed to win.”

If it hadn’t been such a powerful weapon, she would have shattered the bottle against the wall.

Not only was he mocking her, but the mental elixir she had relied on to make it so far had been a product of Northstrider’s.

If she had known that this “ghostwater” came from Northstrider, she would never have taken it.

Her King would say that pleasure could be found in taking the enemy’s weapon and turning it against him, but she could only see the shame that she’d needed help from their great enemy to succeed.

Of course, that was nothing next to the Akura clan’s gift.

It was a life-size statue of Ekeri made of goldsteel, crafted by the Heart Sage herself.

Sophara tore it apart with her bare hands.

* * *

About a week since the dragons had come to pen them inside their own fortress, Seishen Daji lost his patience.

The dragons and cultists outnumbered them at least four to one, and with Fury in the fortress they couldn’t attack. According to the reports, they hadn’t even attacked the shelters containing the evacuated civilians, which Daji thought was too good to be true.

Dragons had no compassion. Neither did Dreadgods or those who worshiped them. If they were sparing the evacuees now, it was for something worse later.

When they couldn’t attack the fortress, they had resorted to taunts. Volleys of insults peppered the fortress at all hours, along with bright lights and loud noises to stop them from sleeping. Corpses of dreadbeasts or of their own dead were hurled over their walls to be incinerated by defensive constructs, leaving a stench that hung in the air everywhere.

They had lost relatively few lives—only a dozen or two between all the Akura loyal factions, hardly worth mentioning—but being sealed up in the fortress had chafed Daji raw. He was restless, and he was sick of being disrespected.

Only a day or two ago, the enemy had started a new tactic: trying to lure them out.

They would slam a valuable weapon onto a hill visible from the fortress walls and dare the Akura sacred artists to come take it. Or they would send out a duelist who would swear to veil himself, or wear a blindfold, or tie one hand behind his back.

No one ever took them up on the offer. Not even when a Highgold Abyssal Palace acolyte challenged any Underlord. Daji himself had picked up his swords and started to leap out, but his father had grabbed him from the air.

What kind of fish knowingly bit a hook?

Daji knew what was wise, but he hated how often what was wise and what was cowardly looked like the same thing.

Meira reacted to the siege the same way she’d reacted to anything since Kiro’s death: quietly. She trained every day, performed tasks as assigned, and tended to a garden that she’d started inside the grounds.

His father had wanted to execute her, when he learned of Kiro’s death. He’d held a blade against her neck.

She hadn’t even tried to resist.

That had won Dakata’s pity. And Daji understood.

Even when he saw her out there by herself, the glowing flower in her hair blending with those she’d planted, she didn’t look happy. She looked like she’d given up.

He avoided her as much as possible. His own grief was hot and angry.

The Blackflame Empire had humiliated Kiro before they’d killed him. They had embarrassed him and Meira just as much…and then shamed him again only weeks ago.

It had done nothing but stoke his hatred hotter. He had seen the reports from the Uncrowned King tournament, but that opportunity should have been his. Or at least Meira’s.

Knowing that Akura Mercy and Lindon Arelius were in this fortress with him made the days of suffering unbearable. He’d even seen Mercy, who had the audacity to smile and wave at him when she saw him, but he hadn’t sensed the Blackflame.

Still, he had to get out. He would do anything to escape.

That was when he overheard the newest scout report: Abyssal Palace had grown complacent and had placed one of their pointless collection towers just out of sight of the fortress. Fury was looking for a team of volunteer Underlords to wipe it out and return, and had placed a bounty of contribution points.

Points were scarce since the battle had died down, and Daji leaped at the chance to persuade his father.

It was the lowest risk possible, being close enough that King Dakata could rescue them if something went wrong. And it would give Daji a chance to do something.

Daji intended to take the assignment whether his father approved or not, but the king needed little persuading. He wanted to demonstrate the value of the Seishen Kingdom to Fury, and contribution points were valuable to anyone.

So Daji chose his team. Meira came with him almost by default, and he picked the other four youngest Underlords he could find. He wasn’t eager to split the prize six ways, but he also wasn’t an idiot. He knew he couldn’t do this on his own.

As soon as night fell, he and his team snuck out.

The outer wall had been designed with several hidden entrances, so they essentially melted the wall and passed through it before it re-formed. He also carried a construct designed by the Seishen Kingdom Soulsmiths to hide them from observers in the air; it bent the light around them and assisted their spiritual veils, so they would be all but invisible unless someone scanned them directly.

Creeping over the hill in the dead of night went without a hitch. The squat tower, made of packed earth pulled up from the ground with a Ruler technique and scripted in haste, stood there as though to mock them.

The script around the top of the tower prevented his perception from entering, but their scouts had reported no more than two Underlords and a handful of Golds. They could destroy it from here, if the scripts didn’t stop them.

But the towers were made to take a beating, so the easiest way to destroy them was from the inside. They would go in, kill the inhabitants, take their masks, and then blow up the tower. Simple, easy, effective.

Although it concerned Daji that there didn’t seem to be any guards or lookouts posted around the outside. Their reports were clear that six people had gone into the tower, and there was no other exit. Were they all just huddled up inside?

That ceased to matter when a line of script lit up beneath Daji’s feet.

He shouted a warning and drew his swords, but he needn’t have bothered. It was an alarm.

Nearby, a flock of dragons unveiled themselves and swooped closer. Underlords.

“Retreat!” Meira shouted, but he cut her off.

“Not yet!” There were four Lords with the dragons and two more in the tower. If they could deal with the group in the tower first, then they could accomplish the mission and still avoid fighting an equal group. The dragons would have to wait for backup, and by then Daji and the others could be back to the fortress.

He dashed for the tower as soon as the thought occurred to him, swords drawn. The others would have to follow him. They couldn’t abandon their prince.

This plan required them to obliterate the two Lords inside the tower as soon as possible, so he began rousing the bindings in his swords. Lightning, light, and force crackled down the weapons.

He’d had them made with the same blueprints as his first pair, which had been stolen. By the Blackflame.

He was about to blast through the door when it opened, and he was so astonished at the face on the other side that he came to a stop.

Lindon Arelius filled the doorway, shuffling half a dozen Abyssal Palace masks in his hands. He tossed them into a closet-sized opening to his right, through which Daji caught a glimpse of metal and glowing dead matter. Pieces of his own armor.

His spiritual sense couldn’t pass into the tower, but he saw bodies piled behind Lindon, and the interior of the room was scorched. He couldn’t tell if they were dead or alive.

Daji remembered the ease with which Lindon had dispatched him before, and glee rose up as he realized that this time he had the advantage. And he had five allies backing him up, while Lindon was alone.

Seishen Daji launched the two Striker attacks with all the force of his spirit, blasting two streams of bright, crackling madra as though he meant to blow up the entire tower.

At the same time, a great force slammed into the back of his head.

He landed face-first in the ground. There was heat nearby, like someone had lit a fire, and panic seized him.

How had Lindon hit him in the back?

He scrambled to his feet, preparing a defensive technique, only to see Meira—in full armor—pressing her fists together before Lindon.

Meira. Meira had hit him.

He ignited his swords, ready in his fury to turn them on her…and then he saw the deep groove burned into the ground in front of him. A bar of black dragon’s breath had passed inches in front of his face.

“I apologize,” Meira said quietly. “Please let him go.”

Lindon watched them both for a second or two. “I expected you to be the one coming for my head.”

Daji couldn’t see her expression, but she dipped her head deeper. “We are not all idiots blinded by revenge.”

Daji bristled at that, but then Lindon stepped from the doorway. Blackflame raged through him, and the spiritual pressure stopped Daji in his tracks.

When he’d tried to ambush Lindon before, he had sensed only his pure madra. His black dragon madra was far, far more frightening.

It felt like a flame with an endless hunger that would burn without stopping.

Daji’s fear was like a bucket of cold water over his anger, and Lindon wasn’t even looking at him.

“Gratitude,” the Blackflame said to Meira. “Please keep him restrained. If he attacks me again, I will have no choice.”

“I’ll keep him on a tight leash,” Meira promised, and under other circumstances Daji would have resented that.

“If you would allow us to deal with our pursuers, we will leave you alone,” Meira continued. “We have dragons coming in.”

“Not anymore,” Lindon said. He had already begun hiking back up the hill.

Sure enough, the sensation of the dragons was growing more distant in Daji’s perception. He didn’t understand it. Other enemies had unveiled themselves nearby, even Overlords, but none approached.

Lindon spoke over his shoulder. “Those dragons were in the tournament.”

Then he waved behind him, and Daji realized for the first time that a vortex of fire and destruction madra had gathered over the tower. He hadn’t sensed it before because it was still within the effect of the sense-dampening script, but he also hadn’t seen it as they approached. Lindon had begun the Ruler technique while speaking with them.

A column of dark, spinning fire consumed the tower.

When it dissipated, Daji saw that only the walls had been destroyed by the Ruler technique. The interior of the tower was intact, including the pile of enemies. He’d left their bodies in one piece.

Daji ran his perception over them and realized they were all still alive…but barely. He didn’t even know if you could call that living. They felt like husks.

Lindon hopped onto a green Thousand-Mile Cloud and flew away. Daji started to follow, but Meira held out a hand.

“He took our points,” Daji muttered, but only once Lindon was out of earshot. “And he made some deal with the dragons so they wouldn’t attack him.”

Meira pulled off her helmet specifically so she could glare at him with withering fury. “How did you survive to Underlord? How do you survive getting out of bed every morning? If you were the smallest fraction of the man your brother was, your father wouldn’t have to cry himself to sleep every night.”

Her anger built with every word, and Daji’s pain gave birth to a sudden ugly rage. He swung his sword, striking blindly. There was no plan behind it, and no Enforcement, just anger.

The end of her scythe was unlit, making it a staff, and she swept his feet out from under him before he could react. He caught himself on his palms, flipping in the air and beginning to cycle his madra.

He was in the right. Meira was a coward. She had given up on avenging Kiro, but he hadn’t. He was strong.

“Someone carry him back,” Meira ordered, and then her staff clipped him on the chin.

It wasn’t the first hit that did it, but somewhere in the ensuing rain of blows, he lost consciousness.

* * *

Mirror images of Yerin surrounded her, each showing different perspectives of her taken from her own memories.

She saw herself across the table from Lindon at the Sundown Pavilion, and her face looked unfamiliar to her as she was animated and laughing.

She watched as she knelt in the snow as a girl, shivering and covered in cuts, wanting to give up but terrified that if she did so she would be left alone again.

Yerin saw her own look of serenity from the outside as she opened her eyes facing Calan Archer, calmly crushing all his techniques at once.

She focused on her own connection to the aura around her. I am the next Sage of the Endless Sword, she said in her mind.

The aura remained calm.

I am the champion of the Uncrowned King tournament.

No change.

I am about to gouge out my own eyes.

That one produced a change, but not in the aura. It finally made her frustrated enough to stand up, breaking the boundary field in which Charity had trapped her.

Northstrider’s pocket world looked like Ghostwater in miniature. She knelt on the sand surrounded by stalks of drifting seaweed as high as trees, and they were covered by a dome of aura that held back an ocean’s worth of water.

But Lindon had described the water around him as utterly dark and swimming with creatures, while this was bright blue and clear. There were no monsters here that Yerin had found.

The entire space was only as big as what Yerin would call a large house. It was divided roughly into quarters: the sandy area where she was now, a forest of blades that was thick with sword aura, a cave containing two wells of glowing water, and a fenced-off living area.

She walked away from the boundary field Charity had set up, heading over to the cave.

Lindon had mentioned three wells, but there was no life well here. Not that she needed one anyway; since she’d eaten the Heart-Piercer Fruit, her lifeline had become thicker by the day.

Having almost died of a severed lifeline once before, she felt that as a breath of fresh air.

She dipped a bowl into one sink-sized well, the one that shone purple. This water refreshed her like a night’s sleep, sharpening her focus.

She didn’t need it so much since she’d absorbed the thought construct from the Eight-Man Empire, and as an Underlady she could go without sleep longer than before, so as a result she’d slept an average of maybe one hour a day since she’d gotten here.

Charity insisted she sleep a little. Apparently, no matter how effective an elixir was, there was no total substitute for true rest.

When she felt awake again, she dipped into the blue well. Her veins were cleansed, her core replenished, her spirit refreshed…

But she still wasn’t quite at the peak of Underlord.

Even so, Charity and Min Shuei had both directed her to spend an hour or two a day hunting down her Overlord revelation. Any insight she could glean would make it easier once she really needed it.

She finished off the bowl of spirit well water while ignoring the battle thundering behind her.

The Winter Sage was using no techniques, only raw strength and sword skill, and the Blood Shadow was under the same restrictions.

So naturally, the Shadow was getting battered all the way around the sword training area. It was impaled on a thicket of sharp blades, screaming in pain as the Winter Sage danced past and lopped off its hand.

“Wrong!” the Sage shouted, grabbing Yerin’s Shadow with one hand and tossing it to the ground so hard that it sounded like thunder. “You have no grace! No thought!”

The spirit panted and shoved its severed hand back onto its stump. It looked so human now; its red hair was matted with sweat and stuck to the back of its neck, and it glared at the Winter Sage in furious frustration.

The Shadow snatched up its black blade and attacked, but the Winter Sage slapped the attack away contemptuously and then clubbed the spirit on the head.

“Mindless beast!” She slapped it with the flat of the sword. “Clumsy ape!”

Yerin retrieved a round circle of bread and began piling grilled meat and vegetables on top. She needed a snack to go with the show.

Charity was making notes nearby, and after a moment she folded them up to join Yerin. Every day in here, she wore an outfit like what Yerin had first seen her in: plain gray clothes and a stained artist’s smock, with her hair tied up and out of her way.

“Did you feel any progress?” the Heart Sage asked.

Yerin spoke from around a mouthful of food. “Right in the middle between zero and none.”

“Thinking about yourself on a deeper level always brings some benefit,” Charity said. “Of those attempting to reach Overlord, most fail because they lack the talent, the foundation, or the resources. You, of course, are in none of those categories. Those who knowingly discovered their Underlord revelation are almost always capable of discovering their Overlord insight as well.”

The Winter Sage kicked the Blood Shadow away, and a red blur crashed into the sandy beach. “As I said, this thing has no sword authority at all. You will never touch the Sword Icon with it inside you.”

“That seems hasty,” Charity observed. “It’s rare to have any stable connection to the Sword Icon before Archlord.”

Min Shuei slammed her sword back into its sheath. “I’m taking a break,” she announced, stalking off and leaving the Blood Shadow to clean itself of sand.

“Is it really going to keep me from the Sword Icon?” Yerin asked, her voice low.

“The only thing stopping you now is that your willpower is unfocused, but your will is refined as you advance through the Lord realm. Bringing you to Overlord accomplishes both goals.”

“Didn’t think we’d made it that far yet,” Yerin said. The Akura clan contribution to her training was an absolute trove of advancement resources; they were going to force her to advance to Overlord if they had to cram her to the gills with elixirs day and night.

But there was only so much she could process at any one time.

Charity reached into the black hole that was her void key and withdrew the blue crystal nest of tubes. The Madra Engine.

The Blood Shadow looked up sharply at the Divine Treasure’s power.

“The power of the Heart-Piercer Fruit has matured inside you sufficiently,” Charity said. “We need to introduce the Engine now to give your spirit time to adjust, but I must warn you again: I would ordinarily advise you to stay an Underlady for at least another year to integrate all these changes and the sudden growth to your spirit.

“Pushing you to Overlord so quickly and with so many added powers will make it more difficult to reach Archlord. Then, even if you manage to manifest the Sword Icon, you will never become a full Sage. Unless you win, and the Monarchs reverse the injury.”

Undoing the damage she was about to do to her spirit would require not only spiritual surgery, but rewriting the fundamental principles of madra at a level only several Monarchs working together could achieve.

As long as she won the tournament, it would be no problem.

Yerin could easily see a future in which she couldn’t keep up with Lindon. Her fear said that he would leave her behind, even if her head knew it wasn’t true. He would spend the rest of his days looking for a solution before he abandoned her.

Then there was the fear that they might go to all this trouble and expense and find out that she couldn’t handle it. That they were wrong, that the Sword Sage had been wrong all those years ago. That she wasn’t good enough to justify their faith.

“No point in stewing on it,” Yerin said finally. “There’s no backing out now.”

The dice had left her hands as soon as she’d beaten Lindon in the fourth round.

Charity swept a spiritual scan through Yerin, checking her condition. “While that’s true, the Madra Engine will settle faster if you are at peace with this.”

“I’m more at peace than a frozen corpse.”

So Charity sank the Madra Engine into Yerin’s midsection.

The process didn’t feel like much. The construct settled into the center of her madra channels, surrounding and containing her core. While her core was full, it wouldn’t do anything.

Charity warned her to use as little madra as possible for at least a day or two, to allow the bond to settle with minimal chance of failure. So Yerin spent the rest of the day bored, cycling sword aura amid a forest of blades.

She usually spent two hours a day harvesting aura, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t boring. It just meant she’d gotten used to the boredom.

She didn’t know how many hours had passed when she felt a disturbance next to her. Not much, nothing so sharp as danger, but just enough of an annoyance to break her out of the cycling trance.

Finally, she looked over to see her red-haired twin in a cycling pose next to her.

That was startling enough on its own, but the Blood Shadow was also blindfolded, and balanced a dark, shimmering brick in its lap. The sword codex from Emriss Silentborn.

Yerin watched for a few minutes as the Blood Shadow cycled aura under its own power. Then it rose and—still blindfolded—pulled its black sword.

It went through the motions of several sword styles. One would be fast and aggressive, another had wide circular motions, and a third had sweeping patterns that were clearly meant to launch Striker techniques.

Each one was visibly distinct, and the Shadow executed them well. Too well. Maybe as cleanly as Yerin could have done herself.

“You seeing if you can beat me to Sage?” Yerin asked.

The Shadow tore off its blindfold to scowl.

“Heaven’s luck to you. Maybe you can go off on your own. Then you can eat all the babies you want. Me, I’m going to win a tournament.”

She closed her eyes before the Shadow could respond, reaching out for sword aura. Though she still kept her perception extended in case of an attack.

But her madra froze inside her when she heard a perfect echo of her own voice speak.

“Well,” it said, “cheers and celebrations for you.”

20

Northstrider resented anyone summoning him.

Especially if that “someone” was a low-ranking Abidan who saw everyone still in Cradle as misguided infants.

He stepped through the Way into the audience chamber of the Ninecloud Court, where the Monarchs usually gathered. Shen was already there, for once without his golden stage or other ostentatious prop, though he still swirled wine in a jeweled goblet.

Seshethkunaaz lounged against a pillar, glaring up into the center of the room. In his arrogance, he didn’t even spare Northstrider a glance.

He was confident in his own invincibility. But one way or another, he wouldn’t be for long.

Northstrider turned his attention to the white-armored, rat-faced Hound looking down on them like they were all his subjects. He longed to punch this sniveling messenger out of reality, but that would only invite someone higher up on the food chain.

One day, Northstrider would join them. Not the low ranks of Abidan drones, but the true world-striding champions.

“What is this about?” Northstrider demanded, but Kiuran held up a finger.

“Patience. We’re waiting on one more.”

That tone brought Northstrider’s patience one step closer to its limit, but he had assumed they were waiting on three more. If only one more Monarch had been summoned, then it had to be Malice.

Sure enough, the woman herself strode from the shadows a moment later. She had chosen to wear dark blue instead of the usual purple, her hair streaming behind her like cloth woven from the shadows themselves.

He sometimes wondered why the other Monarchs cared so much for their appearance. No one judged them on their dress when they could shatter fortresses with a word.

Even the dragon cared about his physical image, or he wouldn’t always run around in the same form.

With Malice’s arrival, Kiuran finally began to speak. “It has come to my attention that you are hedging around the borders of my instruction not to interfere with the tournament. Positioning yourselves to take advantage of the outcome, moving your pieces around the board.”

Of course they had. It would have been idiotic not to, and the Abidan would certainly have seen that before he made his restrictions, especially as one of those with the power to read and direct the future.

But Northstrider didn’t point out this hypocrisy, only waited.

“I’ve allowed it thus far because nothing has been too flagrant a violation, and because your games amuse me.”

Northstrider could destroy this man. He could do it. He didn’t know if Kiuran would stay dead, but he was willing to put that to the test.

“I’m becoming concerned that the temptation to interfere will be too great, and that you will continue to push my instructions until I am forced to punish you. Since I would rather not be so harsh, I’ve brought you all here to discuss a mutually beneficial arrangement.”

Northstrider sensed a chance.

He had expected the Hound to impose some extra restriction, or just to toy with them for a while, and he was prepared to tolerate it.

But this could be exactly what he and Malice needed. What they had planned to instigate.

Maybe the Abidan could be useful after all.

Malice played her part perfectly, drawing herself up and turning a venomous glare on the Hound. “You forced us to obey you, and now you want to dictate our every action? Do the Abidan wish to move us like puppets?”

They couldn’t, Northstrider knew. It was one of their restrictions. They were limited in their ability to interfere somehow, though he hadn’t successfully determined their laws yet.

“It can be hard for some of us to keep our impulses in check,” Reigan Shen said, sipping his glass of wine.

On cue, Malice widened her eyes in anger. It was nice to have an ally who could play a role well.

Kiuran scoffed. “You should take your own lesson, Shen. You’re the one moving your Heralds as though the tournament is already over.”

The lion tilted his glass in acknowledgment. “Very well, then, we require an equal restriction on the four of us. By mutual agreement, we can confine ourselves and our powers to this city. Unable to act until the conclusion of the tournament, when we will free each other together.”

A smile played on the dragon’s childish face, and his eyes shone as he looked to his enemies.

They couldn’t have played into Northstrider’s hand more perfectly if they had tried.

“No,” he said, because that was what was expected of him. In a head-to-head confrontation, the dragon could defeat either of them, while the cat had a thousand weapons and could escape any trap. If it came to a fight between the four of them, Northstrider and Malice were clearly the weaker side.

So it was natural that he would resist.

Malice played along. “You want me to leave my children surrounded by enemies while I lock myself away?”

Reigan Shen turned to Seshethkunaaz. “I believe we can arrange an agreement between our Heralds, can’t we? No aggressive action until the conclusion of the tournament.”

“That sounds civilized,” the dragon agreed. “I can’t imagine the humans having any further objections.”

“Good enough,” the Abidan said impatiently. “Do it now.”

Northstrider and Malice both objected again, putting up a token resistance, but with the Abidan in support the issue was closed.

Together, they contacted their Heralds and Sages, limiting their actions until the conclusion of the tournament.

With that settled, they needed the permission of the Ninecloud Monarch to seal themselves in the city, which they received in a matter of seconds. Sha Miara was delighted by their arrangement.

As well she might be. Four of her rivals were locking themselves away from the world for another week.

Finally, the four of them bound their wills together to one purpose.

There was little they could not accomplish with such unity, and the restriction settled in an invisible column surrounding Ninecloud City. The barrier was perceptible only to the four of them and affected them only, but now it was literally impossible for them to touch anyone outside without first removing the restriction.

It was perfect. Northstrider had already done all the work he needed in the world at large, and now his plans were falling into place.

Though he was certain the other Monarchs were all thinking the same thing.

* * *

“So go get them,” Yerin demanded.

“I can’t,” Charity insisted. “Do you understand? I am not capable. If I could go snatch my family from under the noses of hostile Heralds, I would be on my way right now. A Herald may not be able to travel through space directly, but they can stop me from doing so, so if I showed my face I would be trapped.”

It was the most agitated Yerin had ever seen the Sage, but that was tough for Charity, because Yerin had plenty of her own agitation to work through.

Charity had received a message from her mother only the day before, when Northstrider’s training world had finally collapsed, but it had been sent two days prior. Malice said that Fury and the others were now pinned in Sky’s Edge by the gold dragons and all the Dreadgod cults and that she couldn’t help because she had somehow agreed to nail herself in place.

Yerin must be a long way from understanding the ways of Monarchs, because that sounded like sheer idiocy.

But the rescue Charity described didn’t sound impossible, it sounded very difficult. Which meant they were leaving Lindon, Mercy, and Eithan in a dangerous situation that could technically be solved.

“There’s two of you,” Yerin pointed out. “How many does it take?”

Charity was really wrestling to keep up that icy mask of hers. “How can I make you understand that you are not the only one with loved ones in danger?”

“Difference is, you can do something about it.”

The only reason the enemy Heralds hadn’t attacked Fury already was the threat of Penance. Meaning that if Yerin left, she’d be signing over her friends’ lives.

If she left…or if she lost.

For once, Min Shuei was the one to play peacemaker. “We all know that Malice wouldn’t have allowed this situation if Fury didn’t have a way out. She didn’t tell you to go save him, did she? No. So we have a very simple situation.”

She clapped her hands together. “Yerin, you just have to win two fights.”

That didn’t calm Yerin down. Even her Blood Shadow was boiling.

The Sage noticed. “You want to go save them? Perfect! That’s what you’re doing by fighting Yan Shoumei.”

The statement didn’t instantly solve all of Yerin’s worries, but it was true. How often in her life had she wished she could fight her way out of a situation?

Tomorrow, she could.

She dipped her head to Min Shuei, but turned to Charity. The Heart Sage was taking deep breaths, visibly trying to master herself.

She needed something to do just like Yerin did.

“Run me through a course,” Yerin demanded.

There was little chance of making any kind of breakthrough overnight, but a small chance was better than none, and it wasn’t as though either of them would be resting.

Charity silently agreed, leading the way to the training facilities inside the Akura guest tower.

The Winter Sage beamed.

* * *

Yan Shoumei noticed that they had started putting her in a sealed-off arena for every one of her fights.

She couldn’t blame them. Crusher demonstrated power beyond what any Underlord Blood Shadow should be capable of.

The arena this time was like a huge cave with thickets of blood solidified into razor-sharp blades. Sword and blood aura were thicker than air here, which meant there would be no escaping from Yerin’s Endless Sword.

Shoumei had a plan for that.

As usual, Northstrider stood in the center of the arena with an invisible wall dividing the space in half. With his shaggy hair and rugged, unshaven look, Shoumei had always thought he was the most handsome Monarch she’d had the privilege of seeing.

Not that she would ever say so out loud. He might hear it.

Powerful golden eyes fixed her. “Are you prepared?”

She nodded once, feeling Crusher’s eagerness for battle. He was ready to be unleashed.

Northstrider looked to Yerin, who looked like she hadn’t gotten a wink of sleep in days. She paced nervously, her hand clenching and unclenching, her hair was disheveled, and there were bags under her eyes. Even her black sacred arts robes were in disarray.

Yerin had obviously never put much stock in her appearance, but this still struck Shoumei as strange. Had she been fighting already? Had someone threatened her?

Shoumei focused. Every win for her was safety, prosperity, and a bright future for her family.

And while Yerin could beat Shoumei in any one-on-one contest, this was two against two.

Yerin’s Blood Shadow flowed out of her, carrying a black sword from Yerin’s soulspace, and the spirit’s state of existence had clearly improved. It barely had a pink tinge to its skin now, its crimson hair and eyes being the biggest difference from Yerin herself.

The Shadow looked just as unruly as Yerin did, prowling and snarling like a caged beast. Something had Yerin’s soul in disarray.

When her Blood Shadow was summoned, Yerin nodded.

Northstrider told them to begin.

As the command still hung in the air, Yan Shoumei unleashed Crusher.

There were three methods for cultivating a Blood Shadow…although since the clone technique always failed, there were really only two. The most common was raising the Shadow as a weapon, a shifting tool, and it was this method that Yan Shoumei had used through Truegold.

But when she’d been given the opportunity to enter the Ghostwater facility, as part of preparing her for this tournament, the Sage of Red Faith gave her special instructions.

In his pocket world, Northstrider kept samples of rare and powerful sacred beasts. Some were the only individuals remaining of their kind, while others were unique in their own right.

When she retrieved blood samples from those ancient and powerful creatures, the Blood Sage showed her how to integrate them into her Shadow, creating a spirit whose power dwarfed her own.

She called him Crusher.

A monstrously muscled humanoid body formed from the blood madra she usually wore as a cloak. The Shadow inherited its body from a Deepwalker Ape that had mutated its spirit to focus entirely on physical strength.

Crusher’s fur was thick and shaggy, taken from the blood of a bear dreadbeast that had inherited power from the Wandering Titan itself.

The spines that rose from his back and the claws on his long fingers came from the diamond dragon, who had been the only member of its species.

The wolf’s muzzle and tall, rabbit-like ears must come from the other, more common blood samples that were mixed into the spirit for balance and tempering.

Crusher’s final, hulking form stood more than twice Shoumei’s height, and its strength…

As sacred artists advanced, the line between sacred artist and sacred beast became more difficult to distinguish. While humans and beasts advanced differently, there were fewer and fewer differences at each stage until the differences disappeared at the peak of Archlord. Everyone reached Sage or Herald the same way.

But as a result, it could be hard to pinpoint a sacred beast’s exact strength relative to a sacred artist. You had to measure the relative weight of the madra you felt.

Crusher did not feel like an Underlord. She didn’t know how to describe his power, but he gave off the spiritual impression of overwhelming, impossible physical power.

The moment Crusher manifested, he roared.

The ground shook. The aura quivered. The light in the cave-like arena trembled.

Yerin and her Blood Shadow, both of whom had rushed forward immediately, staggered as blood aura caused the roar to affect their bodies directly. Blood streamed from Yerin’s ears—madra usually preserved a sacred artist’s hearing during combat, but the roar was too powerful. Yerin should have focused her spirit to protect her ears. Now it was too late.

Crusher appeared next to her.

He didn’t have a spatial artifact…or any sacred arts at all, really. He did have incredible leg strength and dexterity.

Yerin managed to spin and get her feet beneath her, raising her sword to block. The blade began to glow with an Enforcer technique.

Crusher slapped her.

Yerin caught the blow with both hands on her sword.

And stopped it.

Shoumei’s shock froze her thoughts. Crusher’s strength was so great that it worked on a conceptual level, according to the Blood Sage. It could bend the rules of the physical world with its strength, as Heralds or Monarchs could.

Crusher couldn’t do so to such a degree, of course, but no one below Herald should be able to stop his attacks. No one.

The ground shattered beneath Yerin’s feet, and if ordinary laws still held sway, she would have been sent flying into the distance by the difference in their weight alone. But there was the clearly impossible scene of Yerin taking a blow the size of her entire body and not budging.

Until a moment later, when Crusher put more power into his hand.

Then he hurled her entire body across the arena, and Shoumei could breathe again.

A rippling crescent of sword and blood madra came at her like a wave, and she Forged a Red Crystal to protect herself.

Shoumei didn’t practice a Path, exactly, but a collection of blood techniques intended to synergize well with a Shadow. This one created a multifaceted diamond of red madra around her, protecting her as Crusher did the fighting.

The Striker technique from Yerin’s Blood Shadow hit the Crystal, shattered it, and crashed into Shoumei’s unguarded body.

If she had met Yerin in an earlier round, this might have been the end. But she had made it to the top four, so she had earned her own gifts.

The technique hit Yan Shoumei and launched her backwards without penetrating her skin. It stung, but not a drop of blood was drawn.

The Silverscale Iron body was common for fishermen. Many sea creatures developed madra attacks when they grew old enough, so fishermen needed to be able to endure those techniques with their bodies. It fortified her spirit’s natural control inside her own body, creating resistance to spiritual attacks.

But even that wouldn’t have been enough against a Striker technique from Yerin, so the Dragon King had chosen his prize for Yan Shoumei carefully. He left her the Ancient Scale, a Divine Treasure that added further protection.

Together, that combination meant that she could wade through Striker techniques from a crowd of Underlords without a scratch, and as she advanced, it would show even more dramatic effects.

Her enemies would have to use Ruler techniques against her, or they would have to get in close.

Which was where Crusher came in.

Yerin’s copy didn’t hesitate as Yan Shoumei weathered its technique. It had already covered the gap between them, sword aura gathering around its blade as it prepared the Endless Sword.

Crusher leaped on the Shadow.

Yerin’s Shadow twisted and swung its blade with both hands, slamming against the monster’s plunging body. The air twisted with an explosive crack, wind blasting away from the blow, and Crusher was sent flying.

But the other Blood Shadow’s head exploded too. Crusher had managed to release a kick as he was knocked away, and it popped the Shadow’s skull like a grape.

Its body collapsed as blood madra sprayed all over the arena. The Shadow’s head began to writhe and re-form immediately, but Yan Shoumei stood over it.

A rain of bloody needles fell from her hand, shredding Yerin’s clone.

As she stood there and waited for Yerin’s Blood Shadow to lose its form completely, she casually turned to regard the blinding silver light gathering in one corner of the arena.

Yerin was gathering up madra and aura into her sword, growing in power and density as it threw off waves of silver-white energy. The technique was radiant to Shoumei’s eyes, and her spiritual sense cried a warning.

Shoumei didn’t move.

Crusher charged into Yerin like a bull. She released her technique into him from close range, a deadly sword of madra that lanced all the way across the arena, carving up the ground and shattering the red blades that filled the battleground. The point of the technique shattered a crater in the wall, revealing the humming purple wall of the barrier beyond.

Half of Crusher’s ribs had been carved out by the Forger technique, but he had accepted that hit.

His claws raked at Yerin.

Her sword chimed, and invisible sword aura deflected Crusher’s claws. Shoumei was surprised that Yerin was able to use another technique so quickly after such a massive blast, but mild surprise was all it was.

While his slash was deflected, Crusher punched Yerin with the other hand.

This time, Yerin went flying.

Crusher was on her in an instant, and while she struggled for another few seconds, Yan Shoumei returned her attention to the Blood Shadow at her feet.

The body no longer resembled Yerin, but rather a mass of wriggling madra. As Shoumei continued pouring needles from her hand, the Blood Shadow could finally hold on no longer. It flowed back in Yerin’s direction.

Until the arena rang with another blow from Crusher, and the Ninecloud Soul’s voice echoed through their cave: “Victory! Yan Shoumei, chosen of Reigan Shen, has defeated Yerin Arelius!”

Shoumei waited to be transported away.

She had won easily, but that was how she always won these days. If she was ever forced to really exert herself, that would mean Crusher had been defeated.

Most importantly, she had won without revealing the Archlord weapon in her soulspace. After she’d been forced to reveal Crusher to get into the Uncrowned, that weapon was now her one remaining hidden card.

In the finals, it would give Sophara a surprise.

* * *

Back in the waiting room, Yerin’s Blood Shadow shouted at her.

“That’s the power we could have, that’s the power we should have, if your spine didn’t shake when you looked at me!” The Shadow’s voice grew more hoarse and harsh by the word.

“Then stay on your leash,” Yerin spat. “Her dog doesn’t bite back.”

Yerin’s anger was more than a match for the Shadow’s, because hers was born from the fear that filled every inch of her spirit. One more loss. That was what stood between her and the death of everyone she cared about. One more mistake.

They had prepared against Yan Shoumei, based on the records of the previous rounds, but information on her Blood Shadow was sketchy at best. They had trained against Shoumei’s techniques, taken her Iron body into account, and speculated on the sorts of prizes she might have gotten in the last round.

Those prizes would be publicly announced…eventually. After the round was over.

Something to strengthen Shoumei’s Iron body wasn’t out of their expectations, but Crusher’s power was wildly beyond their highest estimates.

Then again, they knew almost nothing about Shoumei’s Blood Shadow. They had only discovered its name thanks to Charity’s investigation.

The Winter Sage had trained against Yerin and her Blood Shadow, adjusting her strength to the greatest level they estimated Shoumei’s Shadow could reach. By pouring madra into her Steelborn Iron body, Yerin could keep up.

Then, in the actual battle, she had only blocked one attack with the full strength she could muster. Just one.

Yerin had no idea how Shoumei was keeping such a beast from hollowing her out, but she had to assume the Blood Sage was involved.

Charity cut off their argument by speaking from the shadows of the waiting room. “We don’t have time for unproductive discussions. You will coordinate to kill Yan Shoumei before her Shadow kills you both, or you will lose.”

Killing Yan Shoumei quickly was easier said than done. All her techniques and abilities were designed to make that impossible.

And even with everything at stake, Yerin still couldn’t bring herself to back down before her Blood Shadow. She glared into a red-eyed mirror and neither retreated.

“I have a suggestion,” the Winter Sage said. “Burn it.”

Yerin and her clone both turned to her.

“We had discussed it for an emergency,” she said coolly. “This is an emergency. Burn the Shadow.”

There was a technique that Redmoon Hall could use that involved breaking down the Blood Shadow for power. It was more difficult the more complete the Shadow, as you had to overwhelm the Shadow’s will with your own, so it was most often done by those who kept their Blood Shadow in the form of a weapon.

But, using the dream tablets that Eithan had given her long ago, Yerin had pieced together how to do it. If she beat her Shadow in a head-to-head clash of wills, she could add its power to her own.

That would win them this fight, almost certainly.

But it would permanently weaken the Shadow. They would be giving up a weapon against Sophara in the finals.

Her Blood Shadow stalked closer to Min Shuei. “You have had your—”

“Silence,” the Winter Sage commanded.

The Shadow’s voice seized up, and she even stumbled in its step.

“I don’t need advice from parasites. Yerin, it’s win or die. And with the Shadow’s influence in your soul weakened, you will find it even easier to sense the Sword Icon.”

Yerin couldn’t rid herself of the Blood Shadow entirely this way, at least not without injuring herself. It could only be drained so far.

But she could weaken it. Change the power dynamic between them forever, so that Yerin was always the one in charge.

And it would win them this fight.

She walked up to the Shadow until they were almost nose-to-nose. She remembered all the times that it had tried to swallow her up. She still remembered the sticky, wet noise of her parents’ blood hitting the walls.

But it had been a long time since then.

She also remembered the spirit blindfolding itself and straining to reach the Sword Icon. Emerging from her spirit to save her from Meira’s scythe. Fighting by her side to save Lindon. Drawing power from Yerin’s life and spirit…only to leave her alive when it could have killed her. Slipping out of her spirit in the middle of the night to change a wounded animal’s bandages.

When was the last time the Shadow had really tried to take over?

“Let her go,” Yerin said quietly.

An imperceptible force disappeared from around the Shadow’s throat, but the spirit still didn’t speak, watching Yerin in silence.

Yerin looked into red eyes. “You need a name.”

The Winter Sage protested, but Charity held her back. “Coordination would be easier if they worked together.”

Min Shuei glowered but didn’t object any further.

“Can’t name myself,” the Shadow responded, but Yerin felt a wary hope from her.

“Hourglass is running down,” Yerin warned. The first named spirit she thought of was Little Blue, so she threw out a suggestion. “Big Red.”

The Shadow flinched back.

Yerin didn’t appreciate the reaction. “Not your mother, am I? How about just plain ‘Red’?”

“Scarlet,” Charity suggested.

“Blood Yerin,” the Winter Sage put in. “You could call her ‘Blerin.’”

Everyone stared at her.

“You think I care what you name it?” She muttered. “Nobody names their tapeworm.”

Yerin couldn’t stand to waste another second. “We could list out red things all day. Let’s pick something and be done.”

“Ruby,” Charity said.

The Shadow nodded slowly. “Ruby. Yes.”

“That’s the one you like?” Yerin had just sworn not to spend any more time on the Shadow’s name, but she couldn’t believe it. It sounded too…frilly, like it was the name for some little girl’s doll.

“Rubies are worth a pile of gold, and people can’t get enough of them, and they’re nice to look at. I like Ruby.”

“I can’t believe this is how we’re spending our time,” Min Shuei muttered.

“Names are important,” Charity said. “But we need a new strategy. Yerin, the binding of your sword should trap even a Blood Shadow as developed as Crusher.”

“It will,” the Winter Sage confirmed. “If the Shadow can cover you while you activate the field.”

“Ruby,” the Blood Shadow corrected.

“Can you?” Yerin demanded.

Ruby gave her a disturbingly familiar grin. “We can take turns.”

21

As they’d learned in the last fight, Yerin could stop the first of Crusher’s strikes.

During their training inside Northstrider’s pocket world, Ruby had absorbed enough blood aura from the Heart’s Gem and enough essence from Yerin that it had developed a copy of her Steelborn Iron body.

It wasn’t as perfect as Yerin’s, because the Blood Shadow hadn’t evolved enough to have earned a true human body, but it was more than good enough for their purpose.

So even before the fight began, Yerin started channeling madra to her sword. It struck her how ridiculous it was that she was betting not just her own success, but Lindon’s and Mercy’s lives, on her Blood Shadow.

But she continued when the wall dropped and the hideous beast leaped at her. Her decision had been made, and there was no time to question it.

Ruby’s dark blade crashed into Crusher’s claws, and the air exploded again. Yan Shoumei fired a huge red needle—a Striker technique—and Crusher landed to swing at Ruby one more time.

But the Shadow had done her job. Yerin had needed only moments.

Frozen Blade madra and icy aura erupted from her sword.

White blades hung in the air like snowflakes as restrictive force enveloped them all. Yerin had an easier time controlling the madra than she had before, but it was still like wrapping her arms around the neck of a mad bull and trying to steer.

Ruby dashed through the aura as Yerin forcibly kept the technique away from her. She still had to dodge the madra crystals in the air, but that wasn’t too difficult.

Yan Shoumei had pushed the technique away, surrounding herself with that gem-like barrier of blood madra, but Ruby crashed through it. Her dark blade swung for Shoumei’s throat when the Redmoon artist’s hand came up in a claw.

Blood aura seized Ruby, and she froze.

Yerin gritted her teeth at the effort of maintaining the Winter Sage’s technique, and her core drained quickly. The Madra Engine would restore her when she had a moment to breathe, but it hadn’t done anything for her total capacity. She wasn’t Lindon.

Meanwhile, Crusher’s arms were starting to move. The monster growled and snarled as it shoved against the restriction of the technique with brute force. When its fur came in contact with the floating razors of ice, blood sprayed, but the creature kept pushing.

Yerin didn’t know if Crusher would break the technique or shred itself to pieces first, but she didn’t intend to maintain the stalemate. Shoumei was preparing another technique against the frozen Ruby.

Yerin prepared to drop the boundary field…and then a surge of madra from Ruby caught her attention. The Blood Shadow was speeding up their plan.

After the second round, Yerin had chosen the black sword from the Archlord vaults on Charity’s advice.

Honestly, she hadn’t been happy about it.

There had been swords of every description, and Yerin could have wandered through the vaults for hours in awe, but Charity had restricted her to the most boring option. A sword that could fit in her soulspace and could be used by her Blood Shadow.

It was like showing her a beautiful steak and then feeding it to a hungry dog right in front of her.

The black sword was called Netherclaw, named for the beast that guarded the Netherworld in the mythology of some culture Yerin didn’t care about.

It was used by a slaughter artist centuries ago, an Archlord on a Path of blood and sword madra that had murdered anyone he came across to harvest their aura. He had eventually been stopped by a Sage…the Sage of Red Faith, in fact, though Yerin had a hard time imagining him saving anyone’s life, even by accident.

Its binding was an advanced Forger technique, filled with the will of the murderer who had left it behind. Yerin had tried to activate it herself, but her compatibility with the sword was pitiful. The only reason she was able to use her master’s sword was her long history with it, and her familiarity with its power.

Ruby could use the technique just fine, but she couldn’t survive doing it.

Until now.

Her copy of Yerin’s Diamond Veins had finally progressed far enough, her body was solid, and the spirit well had strengthened her madra.

Scarlet madra Forged in lines over Ruby’s sword, weaving itself strand by strand, growing in power and intensity.

A Striker technique from Yan Shoumei pierced Ruby’s chest, but she didn’t falter.

Yerin, however, was starting to shake. As Crusher pushed against the technique in her sword, it put more and more pressure on her spirit. Any second, she would lose control of the field.

Ruby’s technique finished Forging.

The lines snapped into the shape of a clawed hand bigger than Yan Shoumei’s entire body, and the claw swept down with an Archlord’s power.

As with all the bindings in these weapons, Netherclaw’s technique would be more powerful when Yerin was an actual Archlady, but it was still a devastating blow. The claw hit Yan Shoumei like one of Crusher’s own strikes, crashing through her diamond-shaped madra shield and landing on her skin.

Her resistance to madra was enough to prevent the strike from shredding her to ribbons.

But blood still sprayed from her body in three lines as the claws sliced through her skin. Her body tumbled back, and her Ruler technique broke.

Ruby dashed after her in an instant, and though Shoumei reacted quickly, she was pinned to the ground with Netherclaw.

Before her Remnant could rise, she dissolved into white light and vanished.

Just as Yerin gave out. She released the Frozen Blade technique, heaving for breath, holding her sword out in case Crusher could still resist.

But to her relief, the monstrous Blood Shadow disappeared at the same instant.

The Sages had speculated that the match would be over when the sacred artist was defeated, but ultimately it was up to Northstrider to determine what counted as defeat. Yerin sagged with relief as the Ninecloud Soul declared her victory.

That made one fight each. One to go.

* * *

Yerin knew better than to rely on the same opening tactic again, but now that they were certain Ruby wouldn’t be able to keep fighting after Yerin’s defeat, the Blood Shadow had to take on the riskier role.

They started in similar positions, with Ruby in front and Yerin behind, but this time Ruby attacked.

As expected, Crusher defended.

They didn’t know what Yan Shoumei’s Archlord weapon was, nor all her prizes from the previous round, but they knew she had more in store. She had played carefully the entire tournament, keeping her cards secret, but now she had no choice.

So no one was surprised when she took a weapon from her soulspace, but Yerin was somewhat surprised to see it was a bow.

Archers weren’t exactly rare, but they weren’t common either. You could use a Striker technique with any weapon, and a sword was still useful up close.

But Yerin knew better than to underestimate any Archlord weapon, especially when sword and blood aura began flowing to the bow from all over in the arena, condensing into a red-white light.

It was more complex than a simple arrow, reminding Yerin of Mercy’s bow when she layered many techniques into one, but Yerin didn’t care to find out what it did.

Ruby had already clashed with Crusher, but instead of using the time to activate her own Archlord binding, Yerin took the opening to dash right by.

Crusher tossed Ruby aside, but not quickly enough to stop Yerin from closing the gap with Yan Shoumei.

Her sword rang.

The Endless Sword technique rippled through the dense sword aura, which Shoumei had already begun gathering to herself.

Since it was under the control of her Ruler technique, the Endless Sword didn’t have as much impact as Yerin had hoped. She’d hoped it would cause the mass of aura to explode and tear Shoumei in half.

But it still opened up bleeding wounds all over Shoumei’s body, and her spirit trembled. Yerin would have finished her off, but her spirit warned her in time to spin her around and send as much madra as possible into her Steelborn Iron body.

Crusher’s fist slammed down onto her upraised sword.

Yan Shoumei had named her Blood Shadow well.

Yerin was crushed down, cracking the ground beneath her feet, and her entire body screamed under the impact.

But she only had to endure it for a moment as Ruby dashed back into the fray, red hair streaming behind her.

Her own sword rang.

Dozens of wounds cut Shoumei all over her body, cutting her more deeply this time. She cried out in pain, and the Archlord technique pulsed, ready to escape her control.

Crusher swiped back at Ruby, but with its other hand it struck Yerin’s sword again.

It felt like her bones would break under the impact, and it was all she could do to endure.

Then Yan Shoumei released her bowstring.

A lance of dense silver-and-red aura lanced out straight for Yerin, and there was nothing she could do. She still hadn’t recovered from Crusher’s last blow, and he loomed over her, prepared to land another.

Until something hit him from the side.

Ruby tackled Crusher, staggering him just enough to knock him into the path of Yan Shoumei’s Ruler technique.

A full Archlord using the weapon would have launched the technique faster and with more focus, but Yan Shoumei had enough trouble controlling its power at all.

Both Blood Shadows fell in front of the technique.

Needles erupted from their bodies, shredding them from the inside out.

The aura controlled the blood inside them, sharpening it and bursting through their skin. Ruby was annihilated in an instant, and Yerin felt her scraps return; without Northstrider’s restoration after the battle, it would take her weeks and specialized resources to recover.

But Yerin was untouched. Ruby had succeeded.

Mostly.

Clumps of Crusher oozed together, forming into a massive lump. She could already see hair growing on what looked like a limb.

But Crusher wasn’t her target.

Yerin looked to Yan Shoumei, who had dropped the bow and raised both her hands into claws. She was covered in wounds, her face was torn beyond recognizing, and she shook as though she could barely stand. From head to toe, she was soaked in blood.

Pain erupted all over Yerin’s body as her own flesh turned against her, seized by Yan Shoumei’s own Ruler technique. She’d burned soulfire for this, as it affected Yerin quickly, making her muscles twitch and her heart convulse.

But Yerin didn’t need to move her body.

Aura echoed from the black sword that had fallen at Yan Shoumei’s feet. The Endless Sword rang out, opening the Redmoon artist’s throat.

* * *

From his viewing platform, Reigan Shen let out a disappointed tsk.

It seemed that everyone who owned a powerful weapon fell to the same mistake: relying on it. Yan Shoumei had so many other options, but she was blinded by the power of her Blood Shadow and of her bow.

Then again, Yerin was perhaps her natural enemy.

Yerin could match up to Crusher’s strength, however briefly, and her own Blood Shadow copied a large measure of that same power. That alone mitigated Shoumei’s biggest advantage.

In virtually every other category, Shoumei was outmatched. Yerin had more powerful techniques, more combat experience, and a powerful will for her level.

He had hoped for a win, and even coached Yan Shoumei personally for a few days, but ultimately it affected little.

He had always been playing for second place.

He sent Seshethkunaaz a message through vital aura.

“Are you going to buy her out?”

The reply was quick in coming. “I have no interest in bribery. Whoever wins the contest is most worthy of possessing the prize.”

Reigan Shen chuckled. That was an easy stance to take when you were almost guaranteed to win.

“I think I’ll try my hand, then,” he sent.

“Do as you wish.”

Malice would never allow her final representative to give in to temptation, but it couldn’t hurt to try. A victory that was almost guaranteed still left too much room for error.

* * *

Instead of reappearing in her waiting room, Yerin re-formed in a room she’d never seen before.

Instantly, she drew her sword.

It was a small sitting-room filled with blankets and plush furniture, and everything was some shade of purple, black, or silver. From silver lamps covered in purple shades to purple tapestries hanging on the walls sewn with images in black.

A moment later, a woman emerged from a door in the corner, wearing a simple purple dress.

Yerin had never seen Akura Malice up close with her own eyes before, only from a distance or in the blurry memories of others.

This was clearly her.

She looked like Mercy’s older sister, with the addition of black lips, amethyst nails, and hair flowing behind her like shadows. She looked Yerin up and down with eyes an even brighter purple than her children’s.

“Don’t be startled,” she said. “Shen was trying to contact you, so I decided to keep you close.”

Yerin slid her sword back into its sheath, but she shivered at the thought of Reigan Shen’s contact. If a Monarch wanted revenge for the defeat of his champion, she was in for a rough life. And probably a short one.

“Thanks for cutting that off,” Yerin said. She collapsed back onto a purple-cushioned couch.

Though her body and spirit had been restored by Northstrider, she was still mentally tired. It had been a long day.

Malice looked surprised for a moment. Maybe Yerin hadn’t been supposed to sit, but she felt like she should have some privileges as Malice’s only remaining fighter, so she sank even deeper into the cushions.

It was the most comfortable seat she’d ever experienced. She tried not to sigh in relief.

“I’ll have to hold you here for a moment so Shen gets the message, and it’s about time that you and I got to know each other anyway. Which means you now have a Monarch at your disposal.”

Malice sat in a throne-like cushioned chair, crossed one leg over the other, and leaned one elbow on the armrest. “How can I help you win this tournament?”

“Expect you’d know better than I would.”

Malice’s smile was slow and showed no teeth. Yerin didn’t trust it.

Or anything else about this woman, really.

“Charity and Min Shuei can teach you almost anything I could. Though I have more skill and experience than they do, imparting it to you is another matter. You must advance to have the tools to win, and if you somehow fully manifest the Sword Icon, you will of course win handily.”

Malice gave a frustrated huff. “But no one develops such stable authority before Archlord nowadays, sadly. It used to be more common, but then Paths had a much lower survival rate.”

A question occurred to Yerin, but she wondered if she had enough spine to ask it.

Then she remembered that this Monarch’s life was currently in Yerin’s hands. If she didn’t take advantage of it now, when would she?

“Found a question for you,” Yerin said casually. “Why do you treat your daughter like your second-favorite dog?”

Malice’s smile didn’t slip, or even flicker. “Should I have rewarded her for failure? The world is not so kind. She had every advantage, just as Sophara did, and yet she came up lacking. Should I have soothed her feelings by pretending there are no consequences when she put our family in danger?”

“She’s your family.”

Malice’s easy, casual acceptance was only making Yerin angrier. Charity came across as cool and distant, but genuine. Like she was really that detached from everyone else.

This Monarch struck Yerin as an experienced liar.

“She is a member of my family,” Malice corrected. “A valuable member, and one who I’m very fond of and in whom I have invested time and attention. I would be devastated to lose her, but if I did, the family would continue. The Akura name is greater than any one member. Even me.”

Bold as she was being, even Yerin wasn’t so cracked in the head as to call a Monarch a liar to her face.

But she came close.

“Say I lose, and Sophara gets Penance. She kills you. Heralds crash on Fury, kill him, kill Mercy. You’re telling me the Akura clan doesn’t slide right down after House Arelius?”

Malice waved a hand lazily, still unshaken. “Of course the family still needs a Monarch. It’s the position that’s important, not who fills it. You also must know that I wouldn’t allow myself to bet everything on one turn of the cards. I have plans to account for your loss.”

That let off some tension Yerin didn’t realize she was holding.

“But those are a last resort. If you lose, then your failure still puts my family in danger.” There was no extra spiritual pressure and Malice’s face didn’t change, but her words carried an extra edge. “If I had to give up Fury and Pride and Mercy for the good of the family, it would tear my heart out, but I would do it. So I suggest you fight as though your life is on the line, because if you don’t, you can imagine my…disappointment.”

Maybe Yerin’s survival instinct had been knocked askew by her fight today, because she felt no fear at the threat, only anger and disgust.

“You can bet I’ll bring everything I have,” Yerin said, “because it’s not my life that’s on the line.”

Whatever plans Malice had, it was clear that Lindon, Eithan, and Mercy would be safer if Yerin won. So she would win even if it killed her.

“Wonderful,” Malice said pleasantly. “I’m glad we understand each other.”

Yerin was certain they didn’t.

“Now, as I said, Charity has been doing a fine job putting you in a position to advance, but I could give you my perspective.”

“…please,” Yerin said grudgingly.

She didn’t like this woman, but she wasn’t so upset that she couldn’t recognize an opportunity.

“An Icon, as I’m sure you’ve picked up, is a symbol of a powerful concept. The more you represent that concept, the better. In your case, you yourself must become a symbol of swordsmanship. Not in the eyes of mankind, but by the measure of something deeper.”

“Heard that one,” Yerin said.

Malice’s smile widened. “You have to. Imitating another symbol isn’t good enough.”

“True enough.” That was why Sages didn’t take apprentices. Anyone they trained would just be a weak copy of themselves.

It was the whole mountain Yerin had to overcome.

“You know this, but have you become a symbol of swordsmanship? Or a copy of your master? What is your signature?”

Bleed me if I know, Yerin thought.

The Sages had taught her that it was easier to manifest an Icon the more advanced she was, and since she was already sensing it distantly, she was probably straight on the path to becoming the next Sword Sage as soon as she reached Archlord.

Anything she gained earlier than that was a bonus.

Malice leaned back in her chair. “You’ll have to meditate on it. I can’t give you more time, as Northstrider did. Becoming a Sage takes mostly individual insight and accomplishment, so there’s only so much that can be taught or trained.”

If not for the rest of their conversation, Yerin would say the Monarch was looking on her fondly. “You’ve already done the Akura name proud. Under other circumstances, I would reward you handsomely, win or lose. In this case, I will treat you like Mercy’s sister if you win.

“You can marry into the head family. Take Pride, if you want. Take any of the Akura men who catch your eye, and your children will be considered full-blooded members of the clan. I will grant your every wish.

“Don’t fail.”

She sounded pleasant, not as threatening as she had before, but Yerin still didn’t back down.

“Might be I’ll take you up on that,” she said. “But I can’t be sure. I’ve seen what you think of your daughters.”

22

As Yerin and everyone else in the world expected, Sophara obliterated Brother Aekin.

She didn’t use any techniques other than her Enforcer technique and her dragon’s breath, so Yerin learned nothing from the fights. Both of them together took about twenty total seconds.

That evening, she found herself once again floating on a column of rainbow light in the center of the arena, being celebrated for her accomplishments in having made it to the top two.

She was deliberately placed so that she faced away from Sophara, which was good, because her eyes would ache if she spent the whole ceremony glaring.

There was much greater fanfare for top two than there had been for the top four, meaning it took over an hour for the Ninecloud Soul to get to the point.

“And now the time has come,” the Soul announced, “to award the prizes!”

Yerin’s attention stopped drifting.

“The Divine Treasures, which will be awarded to our fighters, have been crafted by the finest artisans of the eight factions with these individuals in mind. They are custom pieces, unique, never to be seen again!”

Though the crowd was much smaller than it had been before, their roar was still impressive.

“These are guaranteed to improve combat ability, so they are being revealed publicly now, to avoid imbalance in the final round of the Uncrowned King tournament!”

You’re fine with imbalance in the other rounds? Yerin thought.

“First, for Yerin Arelius!”

Yerin perked up and looked to the cloud of multicolored light hovering over the stage. She had expected to be awarded second.

A shimmering ball of pale white madra streaked down from above, leaving a trail like a comet. She couldn’t quite pin down what kind of madra it was, but it looked like a misty star.

“The Moonlight Bridge!” the Soul announced, and for some reason everyone cheered at the construct’s name. “This Divine Treasure allows near-instant transportation anywhere in the world! Special credit is given to Reigan Shen, whose personal attention was crucial to the…”

Yerin’s ears blanked out as her mind went still.

Instant transportation?

Anywhere?

Her own master had admitted that his skills in spatial transport were pretty poor, which meant they walked or flew most places instead of taking portals, but she knew Sages had limits on how much they could walk through space.

This sounded like a power of a Monarch. Or even the heavens.

With this, she could save Lindon. And Eithan and Mercy.

How was this possible?

“There are some restrictions, of course, on such a miraculous power!” the Ninecloud Soul went on, and Yerin quenched her expectations. “Yerin cannot bring anyone along for the ride, and the Treasure cannot be used in quick succession. If she moves all the way around the world, the Moonlight Bridge can take up to three days to recover. But traveling within sight? That, she can do as much as she likes. Imagine the possibilities!”

The Ninecloud Soul went on listing those possibilities, but Yerin’s racing heart returned to normal.

This was still a prize worth calling a real Divine Treasure, but it didn’t solve Yerin’s current situation. She could go visit Lindon, but what good would that do if the Bridge couldn’t take him back with her? She would risk getting trapped by Heralds with no chance of bringing him away.

“Which brings us to Sopharanatoth!”

Yerin and Sophara had been turned to face the same direction, so Yerin looked to her left to see the prize drifting down from the sky.

It was a small statue of a boy with broad dragon’s wings. Made of gold, of course. Yerin wondered if Sophara knew there were other colors.

“The Totem of the Dragon King releases a projection of the Dragon King that carries a measure of his spirit and his authority!”

An illusion gave a demonstration, as a majestic serpentine gold dragon roared over the crowd. This one didn’t come with any spiritual weight, but Yerin was still shocked.

She had been so excited about the ability to move anywhere just a moment ago, but the fight wasn’t held “anywhere.” It was in a small bowl that she couldn’t leave. And she was going to be locked in there with someone who could carry a toy Monarch in her pocket?

Yerin would have appealed the injustice of the situation if there was anyone who would listen.

“The limitations of this Treasure are simple: it exerts only as much power as Sophara can control. The more powerful she is, the more powerful the Totem grows!”

Sophara cradled the construct in her hands, looking at it in awe, and Yerin looked back to her own glowing ball.

She supposed there was no reason to wait, so she began absorbing the Moonlight Bridge into her spirit. To her surprise, it slid in easily, clicking into place as though it was made to fit her.

Then again, she supposed it was.

* * *

When the ceremony finally ended, the Ninecloud Soul moved Yerin directly back to her room. She started rummaging around for food immediately; she needed to fill her stomach before the Sages arrived and took her for training.

Since the Moonlight Bridge had settled into her spirit so easily, she was eager to practice with it. The Soul had said she could use it “whenever she wanted” in short range. How short? How long did the ability take to return after she used it? How quick was the actual transportation?

Come to think of it, how did she target it? She could look at a place and will herself there, she guessed, but then how would you travel all the way across the world?

She was tempted to try it out herself in her room, but reason prevailed. It would be much smarter to try out spatial transportation with two Sages around to supervise.

Her Blood Shadow rolled inside her, and rather than resisting, Yerin let her out.

She was trying to work with Ruby, so that meant giving her some time to walk around.

The red-haired Yerin appeared in a state of obvious excitement. “This is a gem and a half! Why are we waiting around?”

Yerin found a platter of fruits that had been delivered fresh that afternoon. She wasn’t really in the mood for fruit, but it was there, so she picked one up and took a bite. “You want to move straight into the side of a mountain?”

Ruby’s brow furrowed. “Doesn’t work like that.”

“And you’re an expert?”

“Open up and sense it yourself. You don’t have to steer it, you just tell it where you want to go.”

Yerin was tempted, but she was still waiting on the Sages. Especially over the word of her Blood Shadow.

Ruby shifted from foot to foot impatiently. “Come on, let’s go to Lindon!”

Yerin stopped chewing.

She had been wary of the way the Shadow looked at Lindon for a long while now. Was that something Ruby developed on her own, or was it some embarrassing reflection of Yerin herself?

Definitely on her own, she decided.

“We can’t bring him back,” Yerin said firmly.

“You think I give one burnt hair about that?”

Yerin did not like arguing with herself at all.

“The Soul said three days, and cheers for us, three days is what we have,” Ruby continued. “We can train with him!”

Now that Yerin thought about it, she could imagine how the Blood Shadow must see Lindon. Not only had the spirit’s mind developed by copying Yerin’s own thoughts and feelings, but Lindon had been the one to pull the Shadow out of Yerin’s spirit and manifest it in the first place.

And wherever Yerin had gone, Lindon had been there too.

Other than enemies and Yerin herself, Lindon might be the only person that Ruby felt any connection to.

Even with all that, and even if the Moonlight Bridge worked, it didn’t make any sense to go. They could do their best work here.

Yerin sympathized, and though she knew she wasn’t the most compassionate person, she tried to inject some understanding into her tone. “That would be all flowers and rainbows if that were possible,” she said with a sigh. “But it’s not. We have to train with the Bridge, we can’t have it down for all three days. And I still need to try to touch the Icon.”

Ruby gave her a flat stare. “You don’t need me for that.”

And, so suddenly that Yerin was caught off-guard, the Moonlight Bridge in Yerin’s spirit activated.

She tried to wrestle control back, but in a flash of sparkling white light, Ruby was gone. Yerin felt emptier, as though a big chunk of her spirit had vanished.

And left her alone, in her room, holding a half-eaten pear.

* * *

The black dragon slammed into the rocky ground. Lindon rode on top of it as it crashed, his hunger arm latched onto black scales.

The Heart of Twin Stars churned away inside of him, sending black dragon madra to his Blackflame core. He was assaulted by memories, but only flashes, a confusing jumble that he left to Dross to sort out.

The one impression that seeped through clearly, too strong for Dross to suppress, was an overwhelming fear. The black dragon panicked as it tried to escape from the hungry thing on its back, all the way to the end.

Life and blood essence flooded into him, but they did little good. This dragon had only been an Underlord.

He walked away from the corpse, still cycling, as another presence tried to seize control of his spirit. His fingers twitched and his body shuddered, but the will of the black dragon was easily overcome.

Lindon had been practicing.

The dragon’s chest rose and fell as it lay in the dirt. Whatever uneasy truce kept the other Heralds and their factions from collapsing on Fury, Lindon didn’t want to push it too far.

Then again, he wasn’t so concerned that he intended to stop.

[Oh, here’s an interesting tidbit!] Dross said excitedly. [This dragon is a regular critic of the gold dragons’ rule, he had no desire to be here, and he adopted several human children. Isn’t that amazing?]

“He’ll recover,” Lindon said defensively. “And it’s not like I can pick my targets.”

He needed a black dragon’s madra for the current step in his advancement.

Not to add to his core, exactly; his Blackflame core had reached its limit just as his pure core had. As far as he could determine, he had reached the very peak of what an Underlord could reach.

The Consume technique in his arm made his advancement so quick that it sometimes brought tears to his eyes. It was addictive, draining power from others and making it his own.

Which still left the bottleneck to Overlord.

He sat cross-legged and meditated, tracking down the intentions embedded in his madra.

More than just their aspects, madra carried deeper impressions. His Blackflame madra felt angry, aggressive, and his pure madra—since his bond with Little Blue—felt like a cleansing tide.

There was a connection there, and he was sure that diving into it would provide his Overlord revelation.

[You already know what the link is,] Dross insisted. [I’m telling you, your Overlord revelation is that you are my host body, born to carry me around.]

Lindon stretched out his spiritual perception, reaching not further, but deeper. The Path of Black Flame burned away the physical form, and Twin Stars now wiped away the spirit. Those had clear similarities: he could see them as direct opposites, one destroying the body and the other the spirit.

Pure madra even had parallels to water madra, which he’d known since he was a little boy begging a bowl of madra to freeze. Seven Principles called it the Principle of Fluidity, but he found it made a nice balancing contrast to Blackflame.

Which would have been perfect, if those were his only two sources of madra.

But his hunger arm was in the mix too, a ravenous presence at the end of his elbow. Northstrider had even emphasized discovering the common ground between his three madra types.

Maybe Blackflame devoured the material, pure madra devoured the spiritual, and hunger madra devoured everything?

That sounded like it could work, but Lindon found himself pushing for some confirmation. He sensed no trembling in the aura around him, as he had when he’d discovered his Underlord revelation, but he did feel something.

There was a deeper principle, a concept tickling his mind like a whisper just out of hearing.

He concentrated harder on his spiritual sense, pushing harder, trying to break through a barrier he didn’t understand. He strained to focus on all three types of his madra at once, drilling down, forcing a connection…

A crackling noise and a bright light filled the dusty clearing.

Lindon rolled to his feet, Blackflame running through him and dragon’s breath kindling in his left hand. He hadn’t felt anyone nearby, but he’d left himself open for an ambush by focusing his perception inward.

Stupid, he berated himself. He had wanted to chase down a moment of inspiration as soon as possible, but he should have at least gone back to shelter.

Yerin stumbled out of the light.

She felt exactly like Yerin did when she had her Blood Shadow out, a mix of sword and blood madra, but her hair and her six extended sword-arms were all bright red. His eyes and perception clashed for a long moment, as he tried to reconcile the strange details with the sense of familiarity.

When she saw him, red eyes widened.

“Lindon!” she shouted. He managed to stand up and cancel his dragon’s breath as she flew into him, wrapping arms and legs around him. “I missed you!”

Dross cleared his throat. [Ah, Lindon, I don’t want to bear bad news, but this isn’t—]

I know.

A sick feeling started to grow in his gut. “Apologies, you’re…”

She looked up at him with Yerin’s face and spoke in a satisfied tone. “Ruby!”

The sickness grew.

This was what Yerin might look like if she’d been taken over.

He tried to stay calm—he didn’t know anything yet—but Blackflame was still in him. His eyes heated up as they turned black, and what he had planned as a cautious question came out as a demand. “What did you do to Yerin?”

Her bright expression died. She pulled away from him, taking several steps back and holding her Goldsigns at the ready as though she thought she might have to defend herself. “Not one thing. Bet my soul against a dead leaf that you haven’t heard the report from today’s tournament.”

“I wasn’t expecting a report until at least this afternoon.” It was early in the morning, and not only was there a gap in time between Sky’s Edge and Ninecloud City, but it took time for news to travel.

Now anxious uncertainty joined his sick premonition. What had happened to Yerin? She was supposed to fight Yan Shoumei; had the Blood Sage done something to her?

“We won,” Ruby said flatly. “Yerin stayed back to train. You’ll see what’s true when you get the news.”

[That’s not Yerin’s body,] Dross confirmed. [Well, I mean, it is. It’s an exact copy. But if she had taken Yerin, she’d be a lot more solid.]

That was a relief, but to the naked eye, it was hard to see how her human form could possibly be more complete.

She stood with her arms crossed and Goldsigns at the ready, not meeting his eyes. It looked like she was shivering.

In spite of himself, he felt bad for her.

And unbelievably curious.

Cautiously, he asked, “You’re really just her Blood Shadow?”

“Ruby,” she muttered.

“That’s…incredible!” He swept his perception over her in awe. “You have a madra system! I never imagined that a spirit could be this complete before Herald. And your voice…you sound just like Yerin!”

The Shadow’s Goldsigns eased up a little, and she slipped a step closer. “We can talk now.”

“Yes, we can!”

It was crashing over him what kind of an opportunity this was. Not only was this the chance to study a fully manifested spirit in preparation for eventually advancing to Herald, but he could ask her about her unique perspective as a spiritual parasite, about her memories, about the Bleeding Phoenix. Even about Yerin.

“I have so many questions, it’s hard to narrow them down.”

But it wasn’t. After only a moment of thought, he realized that Ruby could help him with his current project.

As much as he thought of her as being made entirely from blood madra, blood wasn’t her only aspect. The Bleeding Phoenix was a Dreadgod, and like any dreadbeast, its madra had a hunger component.

The Blood Shadow’s original purpose was to drain power and bring it back to the Phoenix. At its core, it was a hunger spirit.

He dipped his head to her. “Pardon, Ruby, but I’m trying to determine the…meaning…behind hunger madra, if that makes sense. The deeper aspects. The intention. Thus far, all I can determine is that it’s hungry, but there should be more to it.”

She nodded eagerly, moving still closer as she did so. “It’s like a hungry stomach, isn’t it? Always greedy for more. Can’t be filled up, or it isn’t hunger anymore.”

He lost himself in thought.

That did fill in some of the connection he’d sensed. Blackflame was a ravenous fire that left nothing behind, and his pure madra now emptied foreign madra. Maybe you could see it as emptiness waiting to be filled.

But how did he actually connect the three?

“You’re asking me, but there’s somebody bigger you could ask.”

He shook himself out of his trance to realize that Ruby was standing right up against him, looking up. Her chin touched his chest.

He took a polite step back. “Who?”

“The Titan. I feel him napping the day away over there.” She slid after him, this time grabbing fistfuls of both his sleeves.

How do I ask the Titan anything? he thought.

[There’s a clear answer, but I’m afraid to give it to you.]

As soon as the question occurred to him, an answer suggested itself, but it was stupid and maybe suicidal.

[And that’s why I didn’t want you to have it.]

He would have to think it through. He needed more information, not to mention permission.

Though there was a more immediate issue to deal with first.

“Pardon, Ruby, but you’re…very close.”

“True.” She nodded. “Most times, I don’t get to see or feel anything myself. Just bits and pieces from Yerin, while I sit there in the dark.”

She gave him one of the broadest smiles he’d ever seen on Yerin’s face. “I’m not stuck in the dark anymore.”

* * *

Fury yawned. “Busy? I’ve never been more bored in my life. What’s up?”

Lindon had needed no help finding the Herald. Everyone in the camp knew he was napping on the roof of the highest point in the fortress, but everyone who came up here with work was tossed back down. The Archlords complained about it day and night.

Considering the Dreadgod sleeping on the other end of the city and the cults floating in their headquarters overhead, Lindon would have expected Fury to be on his guard every hour.

Still, he’d judged this worth getting the Herald’s permission for, and he hadn’t wanted to be thrown off the roof. So he had first gone to find Mercy.

“Lindon has a request,” Mercy said, “and it’s pretty crazy, so I thought you might like it.”

“Crazy?” Red eyes lit up. “Let me hear it! I was about to go beat on Xorrus some more, but not being able to kill her takes all the fun out of it.”

More than just Mercy and Lindon had made it up to see Fury. When Pride saw his sister headed somewhere with Lindon, he had invited himself along, and was now a disapproving presence brooding on the edge of the roof.

Ruby had come too, sticking to Lindon’s side. Often literally.

“Gratitude. I apologize for bothering you, but I was wondering if I might have permission to drain madra from the Wandering Titan.”

Pride made a choking sound, but Fury gave a thoughtful “Hmmm…”

Mercy shrugged. “I thought you might enjoy it, but I didn’t think it would work either.”

Dross and Lindon had spent most of the day running through their reasoning, and Lindon thought they had a solid case.

“It’s more plausible than it sounds. First, the area immediately around the hand is clear.” Nobody wanted to be camped next to the Wandering Titan when it woke, not even Abyssal Palace. “Second, Northstrider regularly Consumes madra from the Dreadgods to help determine when they’ll wake up.”

That had been Dross’ contribution; another fact he’d learned from Northstrider’s collection of memories.

“That’s Northstrider,” Pride said.

“I’m not saying I can perform as well as he can, but it does show that I won’t wake up the Titan.” That had been one of Lindon’s primary concerns. “I’ll be like a flea, and I will be taking only the smallest possible amount, even for me.”

“I don’t know,” Mercy said doubtfully. “I don’t see why you’d take the risk.”

Ruby spoke up from her position clinging to Lindon’s left arm. “What’s life without an edge of risk?”

Mercy shook her head. “Ruby, that is just uncanny. You sound too much like Yerin, it’s twisting my brain.”

“I want to take the risk because I think it will benefit my sacred arts,” Lindon said, steering the conversation back on track. “But we could all benefit. I can read my target’s strongest emotions and memories, so we should be able to get a sense of the Wandering Titan’s goals.”

That was why Northstrider did it, after all. Dream oracles could suggest when and where the Dreadgods would attack, but they were always vague and subject to change.

The Monarch of the Hungry Deep preferred more specific, immediate information.

“Hmmm….nope,” Fury said at last.

He flopped back onto the warm tiles, crossing his arms behind his head like a pillow.

Ruby’s Goldsigns slipped out, stabbing Lindon in the side. “You mind giving us a notch more than that?”

“Uncanny,” Mercy muttered.

“Sure! Lindon doesn’t understand where the real danger is. Yeah, the enemies probably won’t stop a single Underlord from walking right up to the Dreadgod. Their own Underlords were doing it now and then. I let it happen because even if they attacked full-force, there’s nothing they could do to make the Titan notice.

“So Xorrus won’t murder you, and the Dreadgod probably won’t crush you in its sleep, and even if you drink so much of its madra that it would pop you from the inside, your arm would break before you were hurt too badly.”

Fury had already shut his eyes, but he cracked one open to look at Lindon. “You have to wrestle with the wills of the people you drain, don’t you?”

“It’s never been a problem. The less I take from them, the less I have to fight them for control.”

“Yeah, you’re underestimating the will of a Dreadgod.” Fury’s eyes closed again, and he settled back against the tiles. “Even the smallest, tiniest, little grain of it will leave you drooling on the floor. Trust me and drop it.”

Lindon supposed a Herald would know best, but he hated to give up just like that. This could be the key to his revelation. And how many more opportunities would he get to learn directly from a Dreadgod?

“There should be a solution. I believe I could prepare myself, or create some kind of filter—”

Fury cut him off. “Okay then. Why don’t we see how you do, huh?”

Spiritual pressure pushed down on Lindon. The phenomenon was nothing more than the spirit recognizing superior power, but he’d seen some people—like Eithan—use pressure as a focused weapon.

Though Fury still lay with his arms crossed behind his head, his attention pushed in on Lindon from every direction. Ruby was shoved away, and even his madra moved sluggishly in his channels.

“It’s harder than people think,” Fury went on. “Everybody thinks they can…” One eye opened. Then the other eye.

Then he was standing opposite Lindon. “Hey now, you’re pretty good.”

Lindon knew this was just a test, but he still felt like the Herald was underestimating him too much. This was nothing like the weight he’d felt from Northstrider.

Fury rolled back his sleeves. “I’m going to go a little harder, so don’t blame me if you forget how to breathe.”

The pressure redoubled, and this time Lindon had to grit his teeth and push against it. It felt like forcing the Heaven and Earth Purification Wheel, or like when he’d tried to keep Dross away from Northstrider.

“Mercy, you were right!” Fury shouted. His eyes were shining, his hair dancing in the wind. “This is fun!”

“Uncle Fury, no!” she shouted.

Even Pride yelled at him to stop, and Ruby dove at him, pulling a black sword from her soulspace.

They were all shoved back, and the burden on Lindon increased once again.

He was being squeezed in the fist of a giant, and he strained for every ounce of power and concentration to push the closing walls away from him. Dross was yelling at him, but Lindon’s consciousness was a blur, his entire being narrowing down to his struggle to push.

Then it was over, and he took in a long, shuddering gasp.

He was on his knees, sweat running down his face onto the tiles. The setting sun hadn’t moved, so at least he hadn’t lost much time.

[Only a few seconds, but…are you…I mean, I couldn’t even move.]

“Well, when you’re wrong, you’re wrong!” Fury said cheerfully. “Let’s give you the night to recover and then you can head out in the morning, what do you think?”

Ruby leaped at Fury, but he shoved her down with one hand.

“Gratitude,” Lindon forced out.

He couldn’t wait to go lie down.

Fury started fumbling in his pockets. “Oh, right, I just remembered. You guys must have heard by now that Yerin won again, right?”

Mercy cheered, though she’d heard from Ruby already, and the last knot of worry in Lindon’s chest loosened.

“Aha! Got it. Here, you should look over these.” He tossed a pair of dream tablets to Lindon. “Records of the round. Make sure you share! And then hand them over to Justice when you’re done, he was looking for them earlier.”

Dross, Lindon thought, and the spirit connected to the tablets eagerly.

[Mmmm…delicious memories.]

Dross memorized both tablets in seconds, and though Lindon wanted to view them himself, he would have to do it when he wasn’t about to collapse. Dross could bring the experience up for him anytime, so he handed the tablets to Mercy after only a few seconds.

When he got back to his tiny, cramped room tucked away in the back of the fortress, he was surprised to find that Ruby immediately followed him inside.

[No, go away!] Dross shouted. [Shoo! Don’t eat Lindon!]

Lindon very much doubted that was her intention. For one thing, she was munching on a haunch of roasted meat that she must have snatched on her way down.

But she also didn’t act like she had any hostile intentions toward him. He might say it was the opposite.

She finished the meat, tossed the bone aside, and sat on the edge of the bed. The cot was barely big enough for Lindon, and the room contained nothing else aside from a rug and a small shelf.

He was afraid of where the conversation would take him if he spoke to her, so instead he turned and opened his void key.

Little Blue, who still sometimes surprised him with how tall and bright she was, stared at Ruby from within.

Blue ran out of the storage space, chimes ringing in a warning.

Ruby scooted up on the bed, farther from the Riverseed, pushing her back against the wall. Lindon couldn’t tell if she was afraid of Little Blue or trying not to hurt her, but he scooped Blue up anyway.

The cheeps, chimes, and whistles from Little Blue came in a constant stream, telling him not to trust the Blood Shadow, that it was evil and vicious, and reminding him of what it had tried to do to Yerin.

Meanwhile, Lindon ran his eyes over the belongings in his void key.

It took him a minute to find what he was looking for, as it was perfectly ordinary and felt like nothing to his spiritual perception, but he finally reached out with a gentle grip of wind aura and pulled a roll of blankets from beneath a pile of boxes and packages.

“Why don’t you take the bed, Ruby?” Lindon suggested. “I don’t mind staying on the floor. If you need to sleep, I mean.”

Lindon himself intended to only rest for an hour or two and then head out to work on Soulsmithing. He knew Little Blue slept, and even Dross rested when Lindon did, but he had never considered what a Blood Shadow needed.

Ruby was still warily eyeing Little Blue, who stood like a guard dog between him and the Blood Shadow.

“I sleep,” she said. “Mostly that’s all I do. And I never guessed how having my own body would tire me out.”

She looked up to Lindon. “Don’t leave, you hear me?”

“I’m going to take a nap myself,” he said, rolling out the blankets. “Right here. On the floor.”

He didn’t want there to be any confusion.

Ruby curled up into a ball over the blankets. “If it looks like I’m going to slip back to her spirit, you’d stop me, true?”

Lindon hesitated. “You’ll have to go back eventually.”

“Two days,” she sighed. “Still got two whole days.”

23

In one of the broad, open training rooms provided by the Ninecloud Court, Yerin sat in a circle of natural treasures and tried to advance.

“It’s not always about making guesses until one feels right,” Charity said. “Sometimes you can look at yourself from a new lens and the answer will suggest itself.”

Charity had given Yerin access to the records of the Uncrowned King tournament, showing her how the crowds thought of her. She’d shown Yerin memories from her own viewpoint and from Charity’s.

Both Sages had even shared with Yerin the memories of their own advancements to Overlord, though those were hard to store in a dream tablet. There was so much context missing, and the memories relied so much on personal viewpoint and interpretation, that Yerin was sure she didn’t get the full meaning out of either event.

But Yerin tried her best. Meditation and training helped her forget that Ruby had used the Moonlight Bridge to run off, and stopped her from imagining what she could do to the Blood Shadow when Ruby returned.

Or where she might be at that moment.

“Not every revelation is verbal either,” Charity continued. “They often are, but many Lords and Ladies advance without knowing exactly what their revelation was.”

“Don’t know that I can boil myself down to a handful of words,” Yerin said.

They’d had this conversation already, but the Heart Sage responded patiently. “The Overlord revelation does not sum up your entire self. How can one statement do so much? Instead, it gives you a new insight into how you relate to the world.”

I will stab anything in my way, Yerin thought.

No reaction from the aura.

Shame. That one had felt right.

Min Shuei walked up carrying two identical swords and tapped Charity on the shoulder. “How about we tag out? I’m sure the Akura clan is falling apart right about now.”

Charity gave her a cool look. “The Akura clan is perfectly capable of operating on its own in times of crisis. While we give the clan insight and guidance, we are hardly—”

“Yes, sorry, I’m sorry, but nonetheless I’m sure you’re very busy.” The Winter Sage tossed Yerin her master’s sword. “Why don’t you go get some work done, and I’ll hold it down here?”

“We have less than thirty-six hours left,” Charity said. “I’ll be back in one.”

She looked over the both of them as though expecting an objection, then swept from the room.

Yerin let out a breath. “I owe you. Don’t know what else I can shake loose on my own.”

“Oh, this isn’t a break. Just a change of pace.”

The Winter Sage came at Yerin—no Enforcer technique, but she had the strength of an Archlady. Yerin had to fuel her Steelborn Iron body just to turn her first blow aside.

“Did you know how Adama advanced to Overlord?” the Winter Sage asked casually, as she swept Yerin’s counterattack aside.

Yerin groaned inwardly. She did know the story.

Not from her master, who didn’t like sharing stories about himself, but from the Winter Sage. She seemed to think she could hammer Yerin into his mold by sheer repetition.

“He dueled every sword artist he could reach.” It was impressive seeing Min Shuei keep up a chat while landing a blow that launched Yerin to the ceiling. “Overlords, Underlords, even Lowgolds.”

Yerin herself found it hard to listen when she was desperately trying to defend herself. She focused on the fight, letting the words flow past her.

“After every duel, he would ask the other person what they thought of his style.”

Yerin tried to be clever by catching one strike on her Goldsigns, but the Winter Sage retaliated by reaching out with one of her own: a four-foot-long claw of ice extending from her forearm.

“He wasn’t as powerful as you are, you know,” she went on. “He was disciplined. He was renowned.”

Yerin leaped back, creating space. “Thought my Overlord revelation was supposed to be about me.”

“You think you know better than I do?” Min Shuei snapped. There were no Striker techniques allowed, but it looked like she was about to throw one. “Who better to give you inspiration? You have his Path, his sword, his Remnant, his clothes.”

“I hear you,” Yerin muttered. She moved in for a halfhearted strike, trying to start the fight up again, but the Winter Sage slapped her blade aside.

“He is the reason why you are alive, not to mention why you have any connection to sword authority at all. Do you think you have nothing to learn from him? Do you think that because you have more power than he did at your age, that means you have more wisdom?”

“I get it!” Yerin shouted, using more power into her strike than she meant to.

The two blades clashed like thunder, but this time the Sage had put more than just physical strength into her block. She didn’t move an inch, though her white hair rippled in the shockwave, and she looked furious.

“You don’t want to hear about him, you don’t want to talk about him, but you want to succeed him. Well, if you want to be the next Sage of the Endless Sword, you should know everything about him! You should remember him!”

Yerin hurled her sword.

It wasn’t an attack—the blade tumbled over the Sage’s shoulder and stuck in the wall.

She’d just had enough.

“I’m not him!” Something flickered in her spirit, but she kept going. “Not trying to be him, am I? He would have wanted me here, so I’m here. All he wanted was to pass on his Path, and I’m going to do it if I bleed for it! But I’m not him!”

Her spirit trembled again, and this time she noticed.

The blood had drained from the Winter Sage’s face.

“Cycling position,” she ordered. “Quickly.”

Though she felt numb, Yerin followed instructions. She sat down in the center of natural treasures she’d felt earlier, sensing the unity of aura around her, creating a bridge between the soulfire inside her and the artifacts all around her.

They crumbled away, turning to gray fire and sweeping through her.

Advancing to Overlord wasn’t as dramatic as the transition to Underlord, but Yerin couldn’t feel it either way.

Her own thoughts sat there like a limp corpse.

I’m not him. That was her revelation. I’m not the Sage of the Endless Sword.

Why was that it?

She’d known that.

She had never tried to be a little copy of her master, even when he was alive. She respected him, she loved him, she admired him. He had cared for her like a daughter.

This was the truth that was supposed to advance her and connect her to the rest of the world?

It wasn’t even about her.

“Congratulations,” the Winter Sage whispered.

Even she didn’t seem to feel it.

“The most important thing about me is that I’m not somebody else,” Yerin said dully.

“What? No! That’s not what the Overlord revelation is. It’s a way to recognize and refocus who you are, it’s not the most important fact about you.”

Still sitting in a cycling position, Yerin looked up to the Sage. “Not two seconds ago, you were saying how I’d taken everything I have from him.”

“That’s…I was only saying you should learn from his example, that’s all I meant.”

Yerin pushed herself to her feet, limbering up. “Well, I’m an Overlady now. We should work on settling my spirit now, true? Not much time left.”

The Sage nodded, but she was clearly shaken. Maybe by what she’d said, maybe by Yerin’s reaction, or maybe by the revelation itself.

Yerin shoved it all to the back of her mind. She’d have plenty of time to search her soul once the fight was over. Now, she had enough weapons to win.

But she’d expected that to bring her some satisfaction.

She only felt numb.

* * *

Lindon didn’t end up Soulsmithing anything, and he rested for more than the hour he’d planned. Not entirely out of his own choice.

Ruby woke up struggling only minutes after she’d gone to sleep, shredding a blanket with her Goldsigns.

Sleep had reminded her of being back in the dark, she said. She’d thought she was alone again.

Lindon tried not to feel bad for her, but he didn’t quite make it. It was hard to convince himself that she was just a Blood Shadow, especially when she looked so much like Yerin. He held her hand as she fell asleep again, just so she could remember someone was there.

Little Blue did her best to tug their hands apart.

It was almost dawn when Ruby woke again, and this time she sat bolt upright. Lindon had already sensed a change in her spirit, but he’d assumed it was another dream.

“Yerin’s an Overlady,” she said.

“Already?” Lindon had the advantage of Northstrider’s hunger madra technique, so he couldn’t imagine anyone gathering power faster than he had, and still Yerin had beaten him.

The Akura family would pump all their resources into her now that their family prosperity was directly in her hands, but even so, elixirs and spirit-fruits could only do so much.

“What about you?” he asked curiously. The Blood Shadow had shared Yerin’s advancement, but that had been before Ruby was…herself.

“Not yet. Not until I go back.” She hopped out of the bed and tugged on his shoulder to pull him to his feet. “It’s morning, true? Let’s get on the road.”

Little Blue objected loudly.

There were a number of preparations to make before they could leave. Lindon washed up, checked the contents of his void key just in case, and gathered up the team that would be going with him to the Dreadgod.

Since his return, the actions of teams had been limited. There weren’t many assignments when they were all locked up in the same fortress most of the time. He still saw his former team members often, especially Grace and Naru Saeya, but he spent most of his time operating on his own.

This time too, though he needed people to back him up, he tried to limit the number of people attending.

Fury had to watch over them, to prevent another Herald’s interference, though of course he wouldn’t be following them down to the beach personally. He’d seen enough Dreadgods, he said, and they were far more fun when they were awake.

Lindon was glad to have Mercy at his side, and he doubted he could prevent Ruby from coming. With the two of them together and Fury watching for Heralds, he felt much safer.

And it was to no surprise whatsoever that he walked up to the gate leading out of the fort and saw Eithan waiting for them.

The Arelius Overlord swept his long blond hair away from his face and affected an offended expression. “I’m afraid your invitation never reached me. Your many messengers must have betrayed you, or been waylaid by enemies.”

Lindon pressed his fists together and bowed. “What need is there for an invitation between brothers? I know that wherever I go, you go as well.”

Over the years, Lindon had learned how to handle Eithan.

Eithan laughed loudly and threw his arm around Lindon. “Well said! Now, I understand there isn’t supposed to be danger to anyone but you on this mission, but when I look at your three companions, I have to assume you’re preparing for combat.”

Three companions? Was Eithan counting himself?

No, Lindon realized with a sigh, he’s warning me. Dross, why didn’t you tell me someone was following me?

[It’s because I thought you’d enjoy a surprise, and not because I wasn’t paying attention.]

Now knowing that he’d been spotted, Pride strode from the shadow of a nearby building, straining for every inch of height. “I heard the entire story; I don’t know why you bothered trying to leave me behind.”

Lindon considered a number of responses to that, but none were constructive, so he said nothing.

Ruby didn’t feel the same. “You want to follow at our heels, I can find you a leash.”

“Delightful,” Eithan said with a sigh. “She really is like having a second Yerin. Not that you aren’t wonderful in your own right, Ruby.”

Ruby narrowed her eyes. “I don’t remember caring much for you.”

Eithan clapped a hand to his chest and staggered as though suffering a wound.

“She’s just kidding, Pride,” Mercy said. “Of course you can come along!”

“I am coming, whether she’s kidding or not.”

“You tell me what part sounded like a joke, and I’ll change it,” Ruby said.

The section of wall that served as a gate melted away, and they passed through the new opening.

It was a good thing the plan called for them to openly walk down a street with no attempt to hide, because this was perhaps the farthest thing from stealth that Lindon could imagine.

“Ha, yes, by all means let’s continue to make jokes at Pride’s expense,” Eithan said, “but is that how you think of me, Ruby, or how Yerin does?”

“Take three guesses, then pick the answer you like best.”

“I’m the son of a Monarch,” Pride reminded them.

Mercy patted him on the arm. “I know you are!”

The stone hand was visible above the ruined homes of Sky’s Edge, and there was a completely straight road from the fortress straight to the tip of the middle finger. Cracks running through the street made their footing uneven, but Lindon was less concerned about their route and more about the skies around them.

The headquarters of Abyssal Palace, Redmoon Hall, the Stormcallers, and the Silent Servants surrounded the valley, and dragons flitted across the sky. Every time Lindon’s spirit shivered, indicating that someone had swept him with their perception, he tensed and readied himself for battle.

But no one attacked, so he took the opportunity to ask some questions.

“Pardon if this is too personal, Ruby, but do you remember Eithan? Or does that come from Yerin?”

“Hard to separate one from the other,” she said immediately. “By and large, it’s the same thing. Not even fair to say we’re completely different people, so much is the same. Only a little is totally mine or totally hers.”

“That is almost exactly the question I asked,” Eithan pointed out.

Ruby linked an arm around Lindon’s elbow.

“I have a question!” Mercy said, with her hand in the air. “Do you like being on your own?”

Ruby nodded. “It’s me and her now, not all us.” She squeezed Lindon’s arm, and he sensed more fear in the gesture than anything else. “Now I have something for me.”

Mercy melted. “Awww!”

A dreadbeast hurtled out of the darkness, but a casual black arrow pinned it against a nearby wall.

“What do you think your odds are in the finals tomorrow?” Pride asked, immediately throwing cold water over the conversation.

[I can answer that!] Dross spun out onto Lindon’s shoulder and made a show of coughing into the end of one of his tentacles. [And I will, because you’ve been speaking without me for too long. Based on Sophara’s match against Mercy, Yerin’s advancement, and Ruby’s…entire existence…we have a good forty or fifty percent chance of victory!]

He said it so proudly, but those numbers weighed heavily on Lindon.

Fifty percent chance. Who wanted to bet their lives on the flip of a coin?

“That’s not too bad!” Mercy said.

[Now, that is assuming Sophara will make no further improvements. I can’t account for those. Don’t blame me for anything I couldn’t know about!]

“Wonderful!” Eithan agreed. “If only there were something one of us could do to influence that outcome in our favor.”

Ruby stabbed at him with one of her Goldsigns.

“Uncanny,” Mercy whispered again.

Dross, Lindon asked, can you give Ruby a simulation against Sophara?

[Not as well as I can you,] Dross warned, [and not for long. But yes, I could do that, theoretically speaking. I mean, absolutely yes! I’m almost certain.]

When we get back.

He wasn’t sure Ruby would want to spend her one and only holiday training for this fight, but they needed to give Yerin any edge they could.

A number of Abyssal Palace collection towers had been erected over the homes of Sky’s Edge, identical to the other towers that Lindon had destroyed. Like the others, these were scripted to prevent spiritual detection, but Eithan assured them they were empty.

These towers closest to the Dreadgod would be operated remotely, once the Titan awakened. They would be destroyed in seconds, at most, but those were seconds in which they could collect Dreadgod madra for their sect.

Only when Lindon stood against the Wandering Titan’s finger, which loomed over him like a black stone wall, did his situation become fully real to him.

Ruby patted him on the shoulder and released him, taking a step away.

The moment had come so much more quickly than he’d expected. For some reason, despite knowing the plan, he had thought they would have to fight their way through guards or…something. He had expected something to go wrong.

Gingerly, he extended his right hand, stretching fingers of white madra. The arm wanted to shoot forward and feast, but he had such control that the limb didn’t even tremble.

Ruby and Mercy called encouragement, while Pride stayed icily silent.

“Soothe yourself,” Eithan said. “Relax. Pretend that you’re not doing something monumentally dangerous.”

[Oh, that’s good advice! Try that.]

Lindon shut them out and placed his Remnant hand against the Dreadgod’s.

With as little madra as he could use, he activated the binding in his right arm. A tiny spark of power trickled into him.

His consciousness disappeared.

Sleep had held him for too long, but he had almost shaken free of it. Soon, he would walk again. And this time he was hungry for more than just the delicious powers he could feel within the earth.

He smelled the one thing that could fill the endless hunger inside of him. He pictured himself wading through mountains like tall grass, tossing them aside, and finally finding the one meal that would put an end to his eons of starvation.

Home.

He would find what he needed at home, in the tunnels where he had been born.

Home.

He was going home, to his brother tucked away between four peaks.

Home.

Lindon fought his way back to awareness as though struggling to the surface amid storm-tossed waves.

He was lying on his back. He tasted blood. Dross was screaming at him, and Ruby stood over him with teeth bared and Goldsigns extended, a fence of blood and sword aura shredding anything that came close.

All around, dreadbeasts threw themselves at him like they’d gone insane.

Lindon tried to push his way up to fight, but his body wouldn’t listen. He was still swallowed in the vision, in the overwhelming desire to get home.

He was starting to separate his own memories from the Dreadgod’s now, but that only made his fear sharper. More real.

The Dreadgod’s home was his home.

When it woke, it would head straight for Sacred Valley.

Before he could speak, he passed out.

24

When Lindon woke again, it was to find nine eyes staring at him.

He was lying in a bed in some kind of makeshift medical center, with Ruby, Mercy, and Eithan all leaning over his bed. Little Blue stood on his chest, and Dross hovered over his face.

The second he woke, they all made some kind of noise.

It was almost enough to knock him out again.

“Knew that wouldn’t bury you,” Ruby said, squeezing his hand.

Little Blue chimed her relief and threw her arms around his neck in a hug.

“How are you feeling?” Mercy asked. “Are you thirsty?”

[Physically, you were totally unhurt. Mentally, it was like you were…well, how afraid are you of death?]

Eithan beamed. “Pride owes me ten scales.”

Lindon sat up, careful not to dislodge Little Blue, who refused to let go and ended up dangling from his neck. “The Titan is heading east. It’s not going to get distracted, and it could wake up within the week.”

Home. It echoed through his spirit.

And once again, he saw himself as the Dreadgod, wading through mountains.

The vision overlapped with his memory of Suriel’s vision of the future. Something incomprehensibly gigantic tramping Sacred Valley.

He turned to the side of the bed, and Eithan pulled Ruby out of the way.

Lindon vomited all over the floor.

When he could speak again, Eithan handed him a handkerchief and a mint leaf. He took them both.

“Gratitude.” Given that he owed them some kind of explanation, he spoke. “The Dreadgod is heading home…for my home. The valley where I was born.”

“As expected!” Eithan said brightly. “Still, it’s good to have confirmation.”

Lindon couldn’t put his feelings into words. It was one thing to slowly, intellectually realize that Sacred Valley had a connection to the Dreadgods, and that his vision of the future was one of them devastating his home one day in the distant future.

It was entirely something else to feel it happen. To know that it could be only days away.

He wiped his mouth clean, popped in the leaf, and slid out of his bed. Little Blue climbed to his shoulder, and Ruby moved as though to support him.

“Apologies, but I have to go. If I warn them in time, they can still leave.”

Mercy put her hands out to stop him. “We’ll help you. We won’t leave anyone in the Dreadgod’s path if we can help it. But…you know you can’t leave.”

On some level, he did. The Archlords and Heralds might not interfere with one Underlord running around while he was still in their grip, but they would stop anyone trying to escape. There was no point encircling the Akura encampment if anyone could just slip away whenever they wanted.

“There has to be a way out,” Lindon said firmly. “I can sneak away.”

“You won’t need to!” Mercy assured him. “We’re evacuating everyone in the Dreadgod’s path.”

That was some relief, but in the future Suriel had shown him, Sacred Valley hadn’t been evacuated.

Dross waved a tendril. [Ah, about that. Actually, Lindon’s home is designated a special danger zone, so in fact it is illegal to enter that area for evacuation purposes. Interesting how the law works, isn’t it?]

Lindon straightened and readied himself to leave. Ruby turned as though to follow him.

Eithan raised a finger. “Ah, but there is a way! Once the tournament is over.”

“My mother did give us a way out,” Mercy said hurriedly. “Uncle Fury told us. We’re just staying here to keep the enemy Heralds here. Once the tournament ends, no matter how it…turns out…we have a way to evacuate anyone who needs to leave.”

Lindon made himself breathe, concentrating on his cycling.

“If I stay here, can you guarantee me that we will make it to Sacred Valley before the Dreadgod does?”

“Lindon…” Mercy began, but stopped herself.

[I don’t think anybody can tell you that,] Dross said. [Except maybe the Dreadgod. You didn’t ask him, did you?]

Eithan met his eyes, and with complete confidence, answered “Yes.”

Lindon watched him for a long moment before deciding to trust Eithan.

“All right. I still need to advance.” And he’d have to cash in his points with Fury. Assuming they were still split among his team, he’d have to find out exactly how many points they had.

Ruby looked to her feet. “I’ve got to run back. The Bridge is up again, and my three days is almost burned up.”

Lindon looked into Ruby’s red eyes, and he remembered his worry for Yerin. At some point in the next few hours, she was going into battle against Sophara.

Saying good-bye to her felt too much like saying good-bye to Yerin.

“Don’t worry about us,” he assured Ruby. “You two will bury her.”

Ruby gave him a familiar smile. “I look worried to you?”

Then she leaned in close, and Lindon had an uncomfortable premonition.

Sure enough, she went on tiptoes to kiss him.

With a hand on her shoulder, he held her back, conscious of all the eyes on them both. “Ah…apologies, but…”

She looked hurt and confused, but he had to go on.

“You’re…not Yerin.”

Ruby dropped back down. For a second, she shifted her weight from one foot to the other, and then she nodded. “No, I’m not…I’m not. I’m me.”

She forced a smile that was painfully different from the last. “Bye, Lindon.”

Then, in a flash of moonlight, she vanished.

Leaving Lindon standing in a circle of onlookers.

[Oh, that was cruel. Just shattering a spirit’s heart right before the biggest fight of her life. You’re not going to do that to me, are you?]

“Don’t try to kiss me,” Lindon muttered.

Little Blue chimed in her encouragement. He was right to turn her away.

“You did the right thing,” Mercy agreed. “But poor Ruby! But you had to let her down. But that must have hurt so much!”

That didn’t help Lindon feel any better.

Eithan waved a hand vaguely in the air. “It makes me wonder about the ethics of the whole situation. Is a copy of Yerin still Yerin? From a certain point of view, the heart you broke may have been Yerin’s. Do you think she feels a sense of absolute, crushing rejection right now without even knowing where it came from?”

Lindon walked away.

* * *

Calan Archer had seen Reigan Shen before, but he’d never met the Monarch in person.

The Monarch transported him to an opulent, gold-paneled display hall where weapons and constructs of every description were sealed in transparent cases or hanging from the wall.

Under other circumstances, he would have enjoyed looking at each one, but it seemed he was last to arrive.

Aekin stood nearby, still totally covered with one eye of his stone mask glowing yellow. Shoumei was next to him, and she glanced up at Calan through her long black hair. The Blood Sage crouched on his heels at the feet of the Monarch.

Reigan Shen looked over them all, his hands clasped behind his back. He nodded his white-maned head to Calan, so Calan immediately bowed and saluted.

“Now that you’ve all arrived, I’ll get right to it. You have each done me and your masters proud. No matter who ultimately wins, the world will know that three of the eight Uncrowned belonged to me.”

Calan didn’t feel like he’d been given any support from Reigan Shen at all, but he knew that even the thought was dangerous.

There was no contradicting a Monarch. If he claimed responsibility for Calan’s success, then he was responsible.

“I have one final assignment for you. I will provide you with a gatekey that I created long ago. When the tournament concludes, you will travel through it.” He held up the key. “And you will kill Malice’s youngest children.”

Calan’s mind immediately flashed to Mercy’s fight against Sophara.

There was no way he could keep up with that.

If Shen had some way to prevent Mercy from getting any backup, then the three of them combined could probably kill her. Maybe.

He had to speak up.

“I apologize, Monarch, but I’m not sure we’re capable.”

Shen turned to him, and to Calan’s relief the Monarch didn’t seem angry. “I have agents in place. One of them will summon you when Mercy and Pride are as isolated as possible, and you will be accompanied by Overlords who will deal with any interference. The Sage of Red Faith will lead your expedition, and he will prevent higher-level intrusion while I hold Malice here.”

Calan tried to rearrange his thoughts, to ask for clarification without looking like he was questioning the Monarch, but Reigan Shen waved a hand covered in jeweled rings.

“Malice crossed me,” he said simply. “She interfered with a message I meant to send, so now my Uncrowned will kill hers. This has nothing to do with Penance, so the heavens will not stop me. And if anything goes wrong…well, that’s why Red Faith is there. Not to mention the other sects.”

Calan felt like a worm while the fisherman explained why he was being placed on a hook. Whatever justification Shen had, Calan was going to be personally responsible for the death of a Monarch’s daughter.

“Please forgive one more question, but if you’re sending a Sage, why do you need us at all?”

“As I said, I don’t need you. I have chosen you because the parallels are pleasing to me.”

He supposed that was as much answer as he would get.

“And when you return,” Shen went on, “I will give you anything you desire.”

Calan’s breath stopped.

“Shoumei, you can have Anagi’s head on a plate. Calan, you grew up in my city of Rak Jagga. You can have it. The whole city. Brother Aekin, your master recently suffered a crippling injury? It’s healed.

“Do any of you fear reprisal from Malice? It is likely she will be dead before moonrise tonight, but even if she lives, you are mine now. I do not give up what is mine.”

Like the others, Calan Archer fell to one knee.

* * *

Sophara could feel her spirit unraveling piece by piece.

When she cycled, she could see the cracks in her madra channels shine brightly. They were still hair-thin, but they would widen with time.

They didn’t weaken her. If anything, the leaks made her stronger as she burned through more and more of her power.

While she wouldn’t last for long, her performance in this next fight would be extraordinary. Her battle was imminent. Not just her battle; her victory.

The King’s eyes glowed as he looked down on her. “When you win, we will make your body and spirit anew. You will become the next Monarch from my bloodline. There is no failure in you.”

Sophara’s breathing was even, her madra calm and her heart full of joy. The Totem inside her carried an echo of the same power that now stood in front of her.

“What do numbers mean to you?” Seshethkunaaz whispered. “What is strategy? You are the hunter. She is the prey. And now, the hunt is here.”

Sophara was ready.

* * *

Yerin and Ruby marched down the tunnels to the waiting room side-by-side.

“We’re hitched to the same wagon,” Yerin said. “Couldn’t say why you wanted to stab yourself in the back.”

“There’s a chance you wouldn’t have advanced with me around,” Ruby responded. “Couldn’t say why you blame me for leaving.”

“You’re the reason we can’t practice moving with the Bridge!”

“Didn’t need practice to use it myself, did I?”

Yerin still hated arguing with a copy of herself.

The Sages had consulted with Northstrider and confirmed that he would restore the Moonlight Bridge so Yerin could use it during the fight. Ruby claimed to have expected that all along, but she was a liar.

Charity had been forced to restrain Min Shuei so she didn’t beat Ruby to death for endangering all their chances, but Ruby hadn’t come anywhere close to apologizing.

And she wouldn’t give Yerin a hint of what had happened in the three days while she was gone, except saying that she was with Lindon.

Which drove Yerin to pulling out her own hair.

“Shape up,” the Winter Sage snapped as they approached the waiting room. “Time for you both to show what you can do.”

When they arrived in the waiting room, Charity sat them down. Since Ruby had returned the night before, they’d spent every moment catching her up to Yerin’s status as an Overlady.

Since Yerin could use the Blood Sage’s technique to send power straight to her Blood Shadow, it hadn’t been much of an issue, but that didn’t make Yerin any happier about having to do it. If Ruby had just stayed, she would have advanced the moment Yerin did.

There was nothing left to discuss, but Charity ran them through the plan again. She even placed her hands on their foreheads, soothing their anxiety.

Ruby claimed that Dross had given her his analysis of Sophara’s fighting style, but she’d been unable to teach Yerin, and their general strategy remained in place.

The Heart Sage lectured them, but Yerin had already honed herself to a sharp edge.

She’d done everything she could do.

The arena was sealed off again, and it looked so different that Yerin could imagine it was a separate world. Shining, burning waterfalls cascaded down from a ceiling that was out of view, crashing like pillars into pools in the ground. They lit the whole place brighter than noon.

Sharp blades drifted through the air, high overhead, like razor-winged birds. They made the place rich in sword aura, but they weren’t so close that Yerin could dice Sophara to pieces from the start.

This time, Yerin and Sophara walked out at the same time.

The dragon wore a sacred artist’s robe instead of her usual jewels and silk. Gold, of course, matching her shimmering hair and the thin tail that lashed behind her.

The scripted golden disc floated above her, and Quickriver—her liquid metal whip—was already in her hand.

She met Yerin’s gaze not with fury, as Yerin had expected, but with smug confidence.

Yerin felt her own feelings echoed in Ruby.

They both wanted to knock that look off Sophara’s face.

For the finals, even Northstrider had changed his normal appearance. He must have shaved at some point, because his scruffy beard was trimmed, his hair controlled. He wore black pants that looked as though they’d been made that morning, tied with a red cloth belt, and a spotless white shirt.

The clothes were largely ordinary, but they made a huge contrast to the Monarch’s usual appearance. The man wearing them hadn’t changed. He speared Yerin with a dragon’s glare.

“Renew,” he commanded, and Yerin could feel the Moonlight Bridge in her spirit glow bright again. Everything about her felt fresh-made, from her spirit to her mind, so it was like she’d just woken from a restful sleep.

Northstrider didn’t do anything for Sophara, but Yerin didn’t sense any problem with the dragon Overlady’s spirit. Either she was in top condition already, or her own Monarch had restored her.

Yerin’s perception pierced that space so easily that Yerin realized Northstrider hadn’t put up a barrier. There was nothing separating her from Sophara.

Not that they could just begin brawling with a Monarch between them anyway.

Yerin didn’t hear the Ninecloud Soul at all, and for the first time, Northstrider was the one reminding them of the rules.

“The finals are the first to three victories out of five. As before, you have half an hour in between each fight to develop your strategies.”

He looked to them both. “This is traditionally the first time I would reveal to you the nature of the grand prize, but this year few traditions were respected. The winner of the tournament will come before the collected Monarchs and be granted one request.”

Yerin had known for some time that the winner would earn an audience with the Monarchs, but she hadn’t been sure what that entailed.

She felt Ruby’s amazement…and her sudden desire.

Yerin couldn’t read Ruby’s mind, but she knew what she would want in Ruby’s position, so it was probably what Ruby wished for.

Complete separation from Yerin.

Come to think of it, that wouldn’t be a bad wish for Yerin.

“You cannot make a request that harms another Monarch, and there are wishes that even we cannot or will not grant. Victors often desire unparalleled weapons, secret knowledge, rank and territory, or protection.”

He tilted his head up. “This year, there is an additional grand prize, but that is not in my power to assign. Whichever of you defeats the other will receive both prizes. Now…with the eyes of heaven and the world upon you, prepare for battle.”

Yerin, Ruby, and Sophara all began cycling madra for their techniques. Aura swirled and gathered from all over the arena, thickening around them.

“Begin.”

He vanished, and so did Yerin.

Liquid golden fire thundered out from Sophara, but Yerin used the Moonlight Bridge.

Ruby was right; it was easy to use.

Sophara’s back was in front of her. Her blade already shone with the Flowing Sword Enforcer technique, and she stabbed at Sophara from behind.

A golden tail slapped her away, but then Ruby fell from the sky with her own Flowing Sword, having leaped over the dragon’s breath.

The three clashed at once.

Sophara’s movements were so fast and fluid it was like she could see the future, so Yerin knew she was burning ghostwater. Without the mental enhancement the Eight-Man Empire had given Yerin, she wouldn’t have been able to keep up.

Alone, she would have been overwhelmed as well.

But she wasn’t alone.

Their blows thundered, sending shockwaves through the air. When Ruby was knocked away, she used the Moonlight Bridge to return in a flash, driving her black blade down on Sophara.

Every blow Yerin took would crack her bones if she didn’t keep her Steelborn Iron body fueled, and even so it wasn’t designed with protection in mind. She was taking a beating, and her madra drained dangerously fast.

But she could keep up.

Yerin slammed her blade into Sophara’s, and this time Sophara couldn’t hold her ground. She was sent flying, her body blasting through a burning waterfall, but Ruby used the Moonlight Bridge to disappear in a blink and reappear above her, kicking her into the ground and sending a Rippling Sword after her.

When the Bridge refreshed a moment later, Yerin followed, her own blade ringing and sending a wind of furious sword aura after the dragon.

Sparks flew up from Sophara’s skin as though she was covered in scales, but her own spirit dipped. She was spending madra freely herself. At this rate, Yerin would outlast her.

Ruby had already begun activating her sword, but Sophara had been building a technique of her own.

A blue moon rose from her hand, a sphere of sapphire madra and aura that hung in the air behind her.

Her Azure Moon Reigns technique looked different than it had when she used it against Mercy. It was smaller, denser, and Yerin felt its power cover the arena.

While it had been an inconvenience to Mercy, Yerin felt real danger from it this time. Water aura pressed down on her like a wet blanket over her entire body.

And a nearby burning pool leaped up as though to grab her.

Yerin didn’t know what would happen to her if it landed, but she was sure it was more than damp hair. She used the Bridge to move away and closer to Sophara, driving her Flowing Sword into Sophara’s chest.

At the same time, Ruby finished unleashing Netherclaw.

The second the huge red claw Forged, it slashed down at Sophara.

And slammed right into her Imperial Aegis.

Sophara still dashed away before her shield could be torn down, so Yerin’s sword only gave her a shallow cut.

It drew blood.

Yerin didn’t chase. Ruby had her pinned down, so it was time to take advantage of the opening.

She poured madra and aura into a Final Sword.

As Sophara fought the huge clawed hand that Ruby struggled to control, Yerin’s sword glowed brighter and brighter silver.

A jet of water madra blasted out from the Azure Moon, but Yerin sensed it easily. She slipped out of the way.

And as soon as her technique stabilized, she vanished.

She appeared beneath Sophara.

The dragon had managed to complete her Crimson Sun Rises, which now hung in the center of the arena as a blazing sphere. She had leaped into the air, slashing Quickriver at Ruby.

From twenty feet down, Yerin released her Final Sword.

Her power formed a rising sword of silver madra so dense it appeared white.

Sophara’s Imperial Aegis was blasted away, and she took the technique on her own body.

Something knocked Yerin off her feet.

Finally, a wave of water had caught her off-guard. Heat from the sun pressed down on her, and fire spurted from the surface of the Crimson Sun, forcing her to use the Bridge to travel away.

Ruby had begun using her own Final Sword while Sophara used wind aura to soar through the air. The dragon trailed blood, her skin torn and her body battered.

She wasn’t ripped in half, as Yerin had hoped.

But this wasn’t time to let up.

Yerin focused on her master’s blade, activating the technique. Frozen Blade madra locked down the center of the arena.

Sophara didn’t stop moving.

Her control of soulfire was a level beyond Yerin’s. She pushed the Ruler technique aside and continued soaring down; even the blades of madra hanging in the air parted before her.

That had to take up an extraordinary amount of soulfire and madra, but so did maintaining the technique. When Sophara raised her hand for a dragon’s breath, Yerin had to release the Ruler binding.

If she kept it up, it would get her killed.

She and Ruby used the Moonlight Bridge to appear and disappear, keeping the pressure on Sophara. Her ghostwater was gone, but her Moon and Sun techniques remained in the air. Even when Yerin sent a Rippling Sword at one, the Imperial Aegis defended it and Sophara took the opening to swing at Ruby.

The Madra Engine proved its value, recovering Yerin’s madra and allowing her to keep fighting, and Ruby finally managed to complete a Final Sword of her own.

She traveled the Moonlight Bridge over Sophara’s head, blasting down.

Instead of waiting for the result, Yerin reached out.

Though she and Ruby were hardly in prime shape, Sophara had taken a real beating. Yerin had to close out the battle.

She couldn’t drop her soulfire control over the surrounding aura, or the Moon and Sun would batter her on their own, but she still closed her eyes and stretched her perception out through the sword aura.

She was almost there. So close.

The feeling of the Sword Icon settled around her like familiar music, and she moved accordingly.

Sophara pushed through Ruby’s Final Sword, landing a heavy slash on the Shadow that sent blood spraying up and her body crashing into the wall.

But as Sophara tried to follow up with dragon’s breath, Yerin appeared to her side.

Quickriver clashed with the Sword Sage’s nameless blade, and Sophara was left with a cut on the arm.

Yerin knew exactly how to move, and it all felt right.

Even when she took a hit from Sophara’s tail on her shin, she was able to stab the dragon’s shoulder.

When her left hand was burned by Flowing Flame madra, she didn’t feel it. She took out Sophara’s eye.

Quickriver gave her a shallow cut across the ribs, but she scored a deeper one.

They traded slashes and Striker techniques, swinging faster and stronger than Yerin had ever imagined back when she was only Underlord. She relied on the Moonlight Bridge to dodge when she needed to, but she often didn’t, moving as little as possible.

Ruby had recovered and was preparing a technique of her own.

Yerin had Sophara on the verge of defeat.

Then Yerin’s consciousness fuzzed.

The state of perfect concentration fled, and pain came screaming into its place.

Yerin hadn’t realized how much she’d been sliced to ribbons. She looked bloodier than Ruby ever had.

While Yerin was still shocked, Sophara’s Archlord weapon ignited.

When Yerin’s head came off, the last thing she saw was that same smug look on Sophara’s face.

25

“You’re chipped in the head if you think I should keep leaning on a technique I can’t control,” Yerin insisted.

The Winter Sage gripped her hands together, taking deep breaths. “It is not a technique. It is a connection to greater power, and a state of mind. Most Sages do not have this…long intermediary period, you know. They gradually touch their Icon, but they manifest it quickly.”

“Most Overladies cannot consistently tap into an Icon either,” Charity pointed out. “Even those who become Sages. What you’ve done is extraordinary, Yerin, but it is incomplete. You need to either discard it or push it to completion, right now.”

“Oh, that’s stone simple then. I’ll just finish it up.”

“I know that is not a fair request of someone below Archlord,” Min Shuei said. “But it is your best chance of victory.”

Yerin felt like the walls were closing in. Half an hour had never felt so short.

She had given Sophara everything she had, and it still hadn’t been enough. The worst of it was, Sophara hadn’t given it everything. The Dragon King’s Totem, her prize from the last round, still hadn’t made an appearance.

So, reluctantly, Yerin dropped to a cycling position and stretched her master’s sword across her lap.

She searched for the Sword Icon, but it was hard when she heard her own voice coming from Ruby’s mouth.

“I’d contend I should give it a try too,” the Blood Shadow said. “Can’t bleed worse than we did already.”

The Winter Sage huffed. “There’s no point. Just cycle.”

“Your madra is not a reflection of the Sword Icon,” Charity explained, though she had taught this concept many times before. “You are hunger and blood as well as swords. Besides, spirits cannot touch Icons, only living humans can. It’s hard enough for Heralds, who are only half spirits.”

Yerin sensed frustration in Ruby’s silence.

“Your job is to sacrifice yourself to buy time,” the Winter Sage said.

Then Yerin shut them all out.

Memories of her own movements, the feel of the Sword Icon, and the Winter Sage’s training wove in her mind with the image of her master moving. The sword codex, given to her by Emriss, flowed through her.

She let go of her fear, her anxiety, her attachment to victory.

Yerin left it all behind and pursued the heart of a Sage.

When she walked out again for the second fight, her every footstep was to the rhythm of sword authority. The aura sang as it whispered around her, and rang in a constant chorus. Everything was within reach of her sword.

Rather than hearing Northstrider’s announcement to start the fight, she felt it.

Ruby winked out of existence and appeared in front of Sophara, their battle crashing over the landscape, and Yerin could feel where it was going.

She stepped in easily, cutting Sophara across the elbow.

It was supposed to sever her arm, but the dragon’s arm stayed where it was. Blood sprayed. The unexpected couldn’t sway Yerin; she was deep in the music, and she could sense her next move.

She knocked aside Sophara’s tail and her blade, with soulfire empowering her Flowing Sword. The tip of the tail flew off.

Ruby’s Endless Sword opened cuts all over Sophara’s body.

Quickriver pierced Ruby’s chest.

Yerin drove her own sword through the dragon’s back, but the dragon tore Ruby to bloody pieces as she did.

Then spiritual and physical power clamped down on Yerin’s blade, locking it inside Sophara’s body.

The Sword Icon told her to run power through her sword and pull it free, so she tried, but she was too weak. It took her an instant too long, and Sophara was too strong. Yerin missed the beat of the music by a hair.

Burning madra the color of a sunset swallowed her body whole.

* * *

Charity was pacing up and down the waiting room when Yerin returned. “Forget the Sword Icon,” she insisted. “It’s doing nothing but making us more vulnerable. Until you can manifest it fully, it’s giving you the wrong advice.”

“That was so close!” Min Shuei insisted. She was arguing with Charity, not with Yerin. As though Yerin’s opinion didn’t matter.

“If my memory’s true, it took even less time for her to bury me the second time,” Yerin said.

“But you almost killed her. Sword artists evolve through combat; this is your time!”

The Winter Sage’s voice was earnest, her expression sincere.

Ruby hunched over in the corner, silent.

She carried the Heart’s Gem from the Blood Sage around, cycling its blood aura. It couldn’t improve her much in this short time, but every little bit could help.

Her despair weighed down Yerin’s own spirit.

They were going to lose.

Whatever Malice’s plans were to save Fury, would they extend to Lindon and Eithan? Would they even extend to Mercy?

And what would happen if Penance was used on Malice instantly?

Everything had come down to Yerin, and Yerin was about to break.

“Could you leave us to talk?” Yerin asked.

The Sages turned to her in astonishment.

“There’s no time!” the Winter Sage insisted. “We can guide you through this.”

“Please,” Yerin said. She knew that Min Shuei would listen if there were tears in her eyes, so she tried to bring them up. It was easier than she’d thought.

“Please,” she repeated.

“We’ll be back in five minutes,” Charity said.

But they both left.

Ruby was looking toward her, her red hair and eyes bright in the dark, and Yerin wondered if she knew what was going through Yerin’s head.

If she did, she should have looked happier.

Yerin stilled the trembling in her own hands. She pushed years of nightmares to the back of her head.

“If you swallow my spirit and take my body,” Yerin said, “can you win?”

Ruby watched her quietly for a moment.

“You thinking Northstrider can split us up again after?”

Yerin held on to that hope, but it still wasn’t a risk she wanted to take. What if he couldn’t? What if he could, but he didn’t? Even if he could, what could Ruby do while she had control of Yerin’s body?

The idea had haunted her since she was a little girl.

Yerin kept the shaking from her voice. “Can’t bet my soul on it. But that’s what I’ll be doing.”

Ruby paced over to her. She looked Yerin up and down, and Yerin could feel the hunger in her spirit.

“Nah,” Ruby said. “No hope of that.”

She sat down on a bench, turning back to the Heart’s Gem.

Yerin didn’t trust her ears. “You acting like we’re lifetime friends now?”

Ruby shrugged one shoulder. “Lindon would hate me.”

For some reason, that answer enraged Yerin more than any other.

She stalked over and seized Ruby by the collar of her robe. “Bleed and bury what Lindon wants!” Yerin shouted. “What do you want?”

Ruby stood and met her face-to-face. “I’m aiming for us all to live! You hearing me? Everybody!”

Every passing second was another second closer to Yerin’s third loss. The pressure squeezed her heart until she thought it would pop.

She’d spent months trying to tap into the Sword Icon. It was ordinarily something Archlords spent lifetimes pursuing; she had made it so far only because she’d had Sages to teach her. Not just now, but all her life.

How could she force that now? How could she count on it?

I am not the Sage of the Endless Sword.

What did that mean for her? Should she be chasing down some other Icon?

Malice had asked her: “What is your signature?”

Bleed me if I know.

Yerin’s trembling stopped. Her eyes fell on the Heart’s Gem that sat in the corner, the scarlet chunk of petrified blood drifting in its scripted glass tank.

Thinking too deeply didn’t suit her.

Why was she trying to be a Sage again?

She gripped Ruby’s robe with renewed intensity. “We should combine.”

Ruby narrowed one eye. “You cracked in the head?”

“Like Heralds do with their Remnants!” Yerin insisted. “The Blood Sage was all lit up about us doing it at Archlord.”

“You don’t look like an Archlady to me,” Ruby said.

“Supposed to wait for Archlord to be a Sage too, aren’t we? If we’re jumping the fence, let’s do it all the way.” Yerin released Ruby’s robes and grabbed her shoulders. “It fails when the Remnant and the artist fight each other, so they end up destroying the other, but we’re nine parts the same. We going to fight each other?”

In eyes that were a red reflection of her own, Yerin watched doubt ignite into baseless, reckless confidence.

“Bleed and bury me,” Ruby said, “I’m in.”

There was a trembling to her spirit, a deep underlying terror. She was easily as afraid as Yerin was.

But they were both more afraid of losing.

They clasped identical hands.

Yerin opened her spirit and focused her will, pulling the Blood Shadow back into her spirit. Where she belonged.

Ruby didn’t melt and flow back into Yerin’s spirit, but while Yerin was pulling, Ruby started to push. Her own will flowed into Yerin, trying to take over Yerin’s body as Yerin fought to take her spirit.

It was so much harder than Yerin had expected.

Her every instinct was to reject intrusion from an outside power. Even without her consciously directing it, her spirit fought against Ruby, trying to push out the Blood Shadow.

Ruby was the same; her madra fought against Yerin’s command even when Ruby wasn’t controlling it.

It was only then that Yerin appreciated what Charity had meant when she’d said that there was no better willpower training than fighting a Blood Shadow.

Every time the Shadow tried to take over Yerin and Yerin resisted, it was a direct clash of wills. Yerin grew stronger as she resisted.

But the opposite was true too.

Their years of fights had sharpened Yerin’s will, but they had also sharpened the spirit that would become Ruby.

And all that sharpening against one another had perfectly prepared them to work together.

After a few endless seconds of intense struggle, their wills snapped into place. They wanted the same thing, after all, they were just coming at it from different angles.

Red madra began to flow through Yerin’s channels in reverse.

And her silver madra let it happen.

At that moment, the door burst open. The Winter Sage marched in, fury and terror whipping the air around her.

“Stop!” she shouted, and reality responded to her authority.

Yerin and Ruby froze.

Their spirits froze.

Even the air froze.

Together, they recognized what would happen if this continued. The Winter Sage would separate them, afraid of what they would become, and then they would go into the third fight no better prepared than in the second.

They focused on her working, and together they pushed against it.

An unseen force snapped, and their madra flowed freely again.

The Winter Sage gasped, then set herself to try again. Yerin clenched her jaw, and Ruby made the same motion. If they had to keep resisting a Sage, they would lose control of their fusion.

Charity threw out a hand. “Stop! Don’t take away what chance they have!”

Reluctantly, painfully, the Winter Sage backed down.

Yerin returned, looking back to Ruby. New memories flowed into her now—records of Sophara that Dross had given her, wielding the Endless Sword to protect an unconscious Lindon from a sea of dreadbeasts, Lindon holding her hand as she tried to fall asleep.

There was no resistance, but Yerin felt grief and regret flow from Ruby along with her madra. Her time had been too short.

Then it was her grief. Her regret.

And what was she sad about, anyway? She wasn’t going anywhere.

Madra soaked into Yerin’s channels, her spirit, and stained the bright silver a vivid crimson.

Her body tore itself apart, but there was no pain. She dissolved into silver-red light…and she felt a chance.

She had to Forge herself back together.

But her old body wasn’t quite…right. It didn’t represent who she was anymore. She had some choices to make.

She hadn’t liked bright red hair, but it had become part of her. Maybe one lock. Her eyes…she didn’t really want eyes so similar to Fury’s. Then again, when she tried to change them to Yerin’s black, she found it easier to keep them as Ruby’s red.

She didn’t mind what color her eyes were anyway.

She could make more dramatic changes to her body, but she didn’t need them. She liked the way she looked. It was her, and now there were enough changes to represent the new her.

One change, though, she didn’t have any control over.

When her body returned, condensing into reality, she extended all six of her Goldsigns. They still had a metallic gleam, but now they were a bright, vivid scarlet.

Two spiritual perceptions swept through her as the Sages checked her.

“Heavens above,” Charity breathed.

The Winter Sage’s eyes filled with tears.

Then other spirits scanned Yerin. Though most weren’t close by, she recognized them.

The Monarchs.

At some point, the door had opened completely, but Northstrider hadn’t moved her outside. Instead, he stood in the center of the arena with his arms crossed.

Experimentally, Yerin examined herself. She didn’t feel so different. She remembered being Ruby, but it didn’t feel like being a different person. Just…herself in a different mood. Or in a different light, maybe.

Her techniques would need refining now, with the introduction of blood madra. She supposed she wasn’t really on the Path of the Endless Sword anymore, which sent a pang of regret through her.

She tried to sense the Sword Icon, and she heard not a whisper.

But her madra felt…boundless.

Her channels were more real in her mind’s eye than ever, and she could feel them in her actual body. Her core sat below her stomach, and power filled every inch of her.

It wasn’t exactly like advancement; her madra hadn’t gone up a level in quality. It was more like all the restrictions of Overlord had been removed. Yerin didn’t understand it fully.

So she needed to test it.

Instead of using the Moonlight Bridge, she decided to run to Northstrider’s side.

It took her one leap.

The air tore as she passed through it, and she came to a stumbling halt next to him in a storm of wind.

“That one’s on my account,” she said. “Not used to my new legs.”

Sophara looked like she’d just seen her children murdered in front of her.

“We have a problem,” the Monarch said, and Yerin’s heart leaped into her throat. “The Uncrowned King tournament has a rule against advancing past Overlord. Archlords cannot compete. Neither can Heralds.”

Yerin’s stomach froze.

“But you have not advanced,” he went on. “We have no rule for this.”

“What does that mean?” Sophara demanded. “Let me fight her!”

Northstrider didn’t look to her. “You have no input here. We are about to either disqualify Yerin or declare her the winner.”

Yerin’s heart was getting whiplash. “Run that back for me.”

“There is no such thing as an Overlord Herald,” Northstrider said. His stony face quirked into a small smile. “Until now.”

She had never seen anything like a smile on him before.

It was unnerving.

He looked from one Monarch tower to the other, presumably tallying votes. “It seems we have a tie. As the arbiter of this contest, I should not break it.” He looked up. “Kiuran of the Hounds, we could use the judgment of the heavens in this matter.”

There came a halfhearted blue flash, and then an irritated-looking heavenly messenger appeared in the center of the arena. “Can you not settle something this simple on your own? Let them fight it out.”

Sophara’s tail lashed. “Yes. I have not shown everything I can do.”

Northstrider turned to her. “Let the will of Heaven be done. Sopharanatoth of the gold dragons, are you ready?”

Sophara’s shield drifted above her, and she snapped Quickriver into the form of a short, broad sword.

Yerin started cycling madra into her Flowing Sword, and she was shocked at how quickly and easily the madra flooded into her weapon. It glowed red-and-white almost immediately, blazing with power.

Northstrider shook his head. “Release your technique, Yerin.”

Suspicious, Yerin did so.

“Still your madra.”

Yerin wanted to protest, but she did as instructed. She hadn’t been forced to do this on any other rounds.

“If you start at the same time as she does,” Northstrider explained, “the fight will be too short.”

Yerin didn’t know what to say to that.

The Monarch stepped back. “Now…begin.”

Dragon’s breath shot toward Yerin in a wave, and she used the Moonlight Bridge to appear behind Sophara. She put madra into her Steelborn Iron body and swung.

With ghostwater speeding her reflexes, Sophara turned and caught Yerin’s blow on her own sword.

She went flying into the distant ceiling.

Yerin had already started her follow-up swing, so finding no opponent was a shock. A moment later, she shook herself out of it, using the Moonlight Bridge to follow.

As she fell, Sophara began to gather gold light into the image of a dragon over her head. Yerin felt dangerous power in that, so she sent a Rippling Sword at Sophara.

It crashed into Sophara’s Imperial Aegis and knocked the shield aside.

The second one cut Sophara in half.

Yerin found herself falling to the sand as Sophara turned to white light and dispersed.

Yerin blinked.

Northstrider reappeared before her. “A Herald’s spirit and body are one. You can use your power freely, and your own body can shift to spiritual or physical form. Like sacred instruments that can be stored in a soulspace.”

A black orb appeared on his shoulder, and her spirit shivered. She got the impression that it was scanning her.

“You will not be a true Herald until you advance to the peak of Archlord the traditional way, but you can think of yourself as being…more than any other Overlord.” He looked into the black orb as though checking something. “It’s fascinating. The Blood Sage will do anything to examine you. I would advise you not to let him.”

That was advice Yerin didn’t need.

But the fight wasn’t over. She gestured vaguely to the waiting room on the far side. “So they’re just going to let me beat on her two more times?”

“The Dragon King, as you can imagine, is less than satisfied by this turn of events. I have been hiding his anger from you.”

Yerin felt a wave of something pass from Northstrider, as though he tore down an invisible curtain, and then an overwhelming anger crashed like a wave around her. Anger…and helplessness.

“There is nothing he can do with the Abidan and six other Monarchs here.” Northstrider murmured. “Nothing to do with all his power, all his wealth.”

His smile was like the cracking of stone. “Poor little dragon.”

* * *

Tension held the atmosphere in stasis as enemies filled the air over the Sky’s Edge fortress.

Lindon had to withdraw his spiritual sense, as the pressure of so many hostile spirits was grating on him. His own nerves were bad enough.

[There’s no point in worrying,] Dross said. [How can worry help? Look at me! I’m not worried.]

Lindon didn’t respond.

Five seconds later, Dross continued. [It’s a strange human thing, worrying. There’s no point to it, like I said. What will happen if Yerin loses, anyway? I have so many scenarios. Some of them aren’t too bad!]

More than just dragons flew through the air. The sacred artists from the Dreadgod cults hovered above them too, ready to attack at news of Sophara’s victory.

Even Fury drifted over the fortress, hands tucked into his pockets. He didn’t look as lazy or as unconcerned as he had before, looking to each of the four Herald spirits around him as though he couldn’t wait to fight.

Four.

Lindon focused on his breathing, and he had to focus twice as hard when he saw a flickering violet star appear in front of Fury.

A messenger construct.

What did it say? Lindon asked Dross desperately, but Dross had already begun a dull response.

[Sophara’s won twice, and there’s a delay in the third fight.]

Lindon’s heart crashed.

[Maybe a delay is a good thing! Maybe she’s…advancing.]

A rousing cheer went up from every direction outside their forces. The enemy was spreading the news far and wide.

A few stray Striker techniques crashed here and there around the fortress, though the only ones likely to do any harm were annihilated by a casual flick of Fury’s hand.

But he didn’t retaliate.

Beneath him, under the roof of the fortress, Archlords had started to gather up the Golds in front of a tall, scripted stone.

This was their emergency escape: an evacuation portal. It connected to a network of permanent gates, but even so it was a huge expense to activate. Especially since it was meant to escape four hostile Heralds.

Mercy and Pride stood whispering frantically to one another near the portal, and Lindon could imagine from their gestures what they were arguing about.

Either Pride wanted them both to leave and Mercy wanted to stay until the others were evacuated, or they each wanted the other to leave.

He wanted to go weigh in his opinion—Mercy and Pride should both leave, given their relative importance to the Akura clan—but the Seishen Underlords were nearby. Meira stood in full armor, looking up the stairs, while Daji glared holes through Mercy and Pride.

At least he wasn’t angry at Lindon.

Lindon exchanged nods with Akura Grace as he walked further away. Talking with the Seishen Kingdom around would be too uncomfortable.

And he wanted to be close to Fury so he could get the battle report that little bit sooner.

When the violet spark appeared only a moment later, his throat clenched shut. The only reason for the fight to be so short was Sophara annihilating Yerin.

[Yerin won,] Dross repeated. [Yerin won! She…wow, we owe Yerin some congratulations.]

Overhead, Fury began to laugh.

* * *

Yerin started the second fight once again with no technique forming and her madra still.

Gold light began to condense over Sophara’s head.

She didn’t play around with Ruler techniques this time. She didn’t even start out with dragon’s breath.

The Dragon King’s Totem condensed into a crown of power over her head. A majestic golden serpent drifted over her, crafted from powerful madra, whipping up a sandstorm of Forged madra. The spirit of the Totem glared down on Yerin with majesty that pressed against her spirit…and given that her spirit was now interwoven with her flesh, it felt like it was pushing down on her body.

“Begin,” Northstrider said.

Yerin used the Final Sword.

Her sword shone mostly silver, but even this was tinged with red. A greater will battered at hers, trying to stop her technique, and sand tore her skin.

Yerin unleashed her technique, and red-white light blasted through the image of the golden dragon overhead.

It detonated, blasting out a hurricane of wind. The burning waterfalls from the ceiling sprayed outwards, and sparks of golden essence filled the sky like fireworks.

Sophara staggered back as her technique was broken, and Yerin appeared at her throat with the Moonlight Bridge.

A white blade lopped off the dragon’s head.

* * *

Reigan Shen turned to the Blood Sage.

“Ready yourself,” he said. “This tournament is over.”

* * *

Over the Sky’s Edge fortress, Akura Fury drifted higher into the air.

His voice boomed out over the valley, echoing across every inch between the giant white blade stabbed into the earth and the black stone hand clutching the bay. “What’s wrong, everybody? You don’t want to play anymore?”

Inside the fortress, a doorway ignited. Blue light swirled, and the Archlords started loading Golds into it.

A massive gold dragon slithered out of the clouds on the back of a sandstorm. “Don’t get excited, Fury,” she said. “We’re not letting you leave because we’re afraid of you.”

Fury laughed heartily.

“You’re letting me leave, you say?”

* * *

In the fifth and final fight of the last round of the Uncrowned King tournament, Sophara launched herself at Yerin, screaming.

Northstrider hadn’t even called the beginning of the fight yet, but he didn’t stop her. Quickriver was covered in orange flame, the Archlord Enforcer binding, and Sophara launched dragon’s breath from her left hand.

Yerin’s spirit gave her no sense of danger, so she decided to experiment.

The Moonlight Bridge carried her behind Sophara, and she realized that there was still something in her soulspace.

She summoned the black-bladed sword, Netherclaw, and activated the technique.

Sophara whirled and tried to engage Yerin blade-to-blade, but Yerin moved away in an instant flash of moonlight.

The clawed hand appeared faster than it ever had before, and more solid than she’d ever seen it. It filled the arena with so much power that it almost felt like a real Archlord technique.

Yerin poured not only soulfire into it, but put all her will behind it. She urged the claw to become stronger.

Sophara put both hands behind a river of dragon’s breath, still screaming.

The Netherclaw crashed into the ground.

It crushed Sophara.

It shattered the ground.

It split the arena in two, revealing a shimmering barrier of purple light separating the arena from the outside world.

And then even that barrier cracked.

The Ninecloud Soul’s voice leaked in from outside. “…witnessing history here today! Sacred artists one and all, bear witness to the eighteenth Uncrowned King!”

Sophara’s dragon’s breath faded to white.

* * *

Lindon wondered if Fury was going to get them all killed.

Why was he taunting the enemy at a four-to-one disadvantage? It was insanity.

Xorrus the gold dragon Herald gave a sigh that rang over Sky’s Edge. “We’re letting you out of the trap, humans. Go home.”

Inwardly, Lindon urged Fury to take the deal.

But the Akura Herald was still laughing. “Yeah, but see, we’re not the ones trapped here.”

Lindon didn’t see the punch, but he saw the aftermath. Fury disappeared and reappeared beneath Xorrus, driving his fist up and into the dragon’s stomach. Lindon saw no flash of darkness; as far as he could tell, that was just a punch.

In the sky, clouds split apart.

And Fury shouted in a command that shook reality itself: “Break.”

It was the authority of a Sage.

The dragon split into fragments, each piece dissolving into shining golden sand.

Xorrus started re-forming herself, but a new image had appeared across the entire sky: a fist, facing down as though about to plunge and annihilate the earth beneath them.

The image shook Lindon’s spirit with the impression of absolute strength before it vanished a moment later.

What was that? he asked, shaken.

[Uh, well, I’ve never seen it before, but it’s pretty…distinct. That’s called the Strength Icon, or the Fist Icon, or the Symbol of Bodily Power, depending on where you’re from.]

An Icon. Fury had broken through.

He was ascending to Monarch.

Only then did Lindon feel the madra, overwhelming and impossibly powerful, as the entire valley was covered in shadow.

Xorrus choked out a voice tinged with fear and anger, “Why? If you could advance, why did you wait?”

A Forged hand of shadow grabbed her by the scaled throat, and Fury pulled her close. He was only the size of one of her eyes. “To see this look on your face.”

Then three other Heralds unveiled their power, and the true battle began.

26

Information requested: Akura Malice, Queen of Shadows and ruler of the western Ashwind continent.

Beginning report…

Path: Eternal Night. Though she is famous for the creation of the Path of Seven Pages, Malice herself has no Book. She is the practitioner of a pure shadow Path with an emphasis on Forger and Ruler techniques, and she sees her madra as a perfect blend of power and utility. However, her dissatisfaction with her own Path led her to create an idealized version: her Book of Eternal Night.

Everyone in the Akura family is named after a virtue. Even Malice.

When Malice was born, the Akura family was a tiny band of humans in a vicious wilderness. They were destroyed by a rival when she was only days old, their members dispersed.

She was named for the quality of ruthlessness, spite, focused hatred that her parents hoped would guide her to avenge them.

Malice grew up among exiles working with vengeance as her only goal, but she slowly realized how hollow revenge really was.

To her, the only thing that matters is the good of the family.

She had a firm sense of justice, defending the weak and fighting the strong, but she learned that the world of vicious competition was unfair to those born human. The best way to protect the weak was to gather them under one banner.

And to remove all threats at the roots.

The family is safest when its rivals are dead.

Suggested topic: the birth of Akura Fury.

Denied, report complete.

* * *

The four Monarchs bound to Ninecloud City had come together in the Court’s royal audience hall, allegedly to discuss the end of the tournament in peace.

Northstrider knew what was really going to happen. He was ready.

“I accept the results,” Seshethkunaaz said coldly. “Freak twists of fate are part of strength as well. If I must ascend, so be it.”

Reigan Shen idly toyed with one of his rings. “I would imagine she will exterminate the Bleeding Phoenix, as some portion of her link to it no doubt remains. But if I am forced to ascend, I suppose I will see you all sooner or later.”

They were not as fatalistic as they pretended, Northstrider knew. The dragon, at least, was seething inside. He wasn’t even doing a good job of hiding it.

But he was more interested in someone else’s act.

Malice’s smirk widened into a smile. “Sometimes I wonder if you know me at all, Sesh. Your people destroyed the Rising Earth sect and tried to destroy two more of my teams.”

Northstrider sensed something in the great distance.

The dragon and the lion looked up at the same time.

“Did you think that I would let that go?” Malice continued. “Did you think I couldn’t reach you?” Her smile widened further into a fierce, maniacal grin. “Did you forget my name?”

As the power in the distance grew, Malice’s laughter and her shadows boiled up to fill the hall.

Fury was advancing to Monarch.

At last.

Seshethkunaaz rose up on a cloud of golden sand. “You cannot stop me from interfering.” His power exploded, tearing off the entire roof of the tower and dissolving it to sand in an instant. “Use the arrow! I will take your son with me to the grave.”

With the tournament over, and all four Monarchs ready to leave, the barrier trapping them in Ninecloud City fell apart.

A gust of sand in the shape of a snarling serpent, containing the full willpower of the Dragon King, struck at Malice.

She held up one hand to stop it.

An amethyst gauntlet bigger than the entire top of the tower formed in front of her, and the sand crashed into it like water into a boulder.

Malice’s eyes blazed, and she rose into the air. An instant later, she and the dragon were miles away, slowly ramping up to their full power.

All over Ninecloud City, alarms blared. Sha Miara’s power covered them, rainbow light moving citizens to shelter or blocking stray bursts of power.

Northstrider kept his eyes on Reigan Shen.

The lion twisted his rings, looking disturbed. “This really isn’t necessary. We could have worked together to mutual benefit.”

Northstrider stayed quiet. Those were words that Tiberian Arelius had used on Shen.

They hadn’t worked then, and they certainly wouldn’t work now.

“Well, Penance is beyond our reach,” the lion continued.

He glanced up, and Northstrider knew he was looking at the blue bubble of the Way that contained Kiuran the Hound and Yerin Arelius, victor of the Uncrowned King tournament.

“…and I think we’ve already settled the hierarchy between us to our satisfaction.”

In fact, Reigan Shen hadn’t beaten Northstrider. The Weeping Dragon had. But Shen was no easy opponent himself, and his mastery over spatial travel meant he could escape anything.

“So let’s just go about our business, shall we?”

Space tore open behind Shen, revealing the blue of the Way.

“Stop,” Northstrider commanded.

The portal sealed itself.

Reigan Shen turned, and his own authority matched or even exceeded Northstrider’s. “Do not play games with me, human. If you want a battle, I will give you one.”

Blood madra began to rise from Northstrider.

He reached into his soulspace and tapped into his black orb. His oracle codex.

His experimental Presence.

Information requested: combat report on Reigan Shen.

The report began, but Northstrider pushed it to his subconscious.

Northstrider had clashed with Reigan Shen many times. He had gathered more information on the Emperor of Lions than anyone else alive, and his construct had analyzed the Path of the King’s Key a million different ways.

But it had taken Dross to bring all that together.

Now, his weapon was complete.

King’s Key madra tore open space to Shen’s left and right, but Northstrider knew what weapons were about to come out.

He Forged a crimson dragon from blood madra, filling it with the authority of the Dragon Icon. The serpent roared as it rushed at Shen, blocking the line of fire from both launchers that the lion had just summoned.

Shen was already traveling away, but Northstrider could see where.

He moved at the same time Reigan Shen did.

The Dragon was not the only Icon that Northstrider had manifested. He launched a punch, and the authority of the Strength Icon empowered him.

Reigan Shen appeared out of the Way, and Northstrider’s black-scaled knuckles caught him in the white-gold mane.

The shockwave cracked the tower beneath them, and Shen was sent flying out of Ninecloud City.

With a brief effort of will, Northstrider followed.

* * *

Sophara trembled more violently than the city cracking around her.

She’d failed…and it wasn’t even her fault.

As the ceiling crumbled around her, she knelt on the floor and desperately tried to figure out how to salvage this situation.

The reality crashed in on her: her spirit was finished. Her future as a sacred artist was gone.

She’d borrowed too much from her future, and it hadn’t even paid off. Even if her king was willing to invest more resources in her, he wouldn’t survive the night.

Penance. The arrow was going to kill her great-grandfather.

How could it go anywhere else?

What could she do? There had to be something. There was always something.

A pale human with bloody streaks down his face appeared in front of her.

She swept her sword at him, but he stopped it with one hand. “Don’t forget who you are. We’re going to kill Akura Mercy and her brother, Pride. Come with us, and Reigan Shen can extend your life.”

She recognized the Sage of Red Faith, as well as the half-dozen people behind him. Calan Archer, Yan Shoumei, and Brother Aekin had competed against her, and the other three were Overlords from Redmoon Hall that she didn’t know.

For one reckless instant, she considered trying to kill them all.

If the Dragon King’s Totem could stall the Sage, she could kill the rest, she was sure. Yerin might see it and appreciate that she’d saved Akura Mercy. Then she would use Penance on Reigan Shen instead.

Despair stopped her. She had no reason to think that Yerin would see any of this. Even if she did, she might not even care.

Sophara’s head drooped. The best she could do was cling to this thin thread of hope.

And take out her pain on her enemies.

She drew herself to her feet. “I can handle Mercy,” she said.

The Blood Sage chewed on his thumb. “Then we await our summons.”

* * *

When Fury advanced to Monarch, Lindon expected him to instantly wipe out all the enemies.

Instead, a battle had begun that tore the sky and annihilated the city below. Chunks of the surrounding mountains hurled themselves at Fury, courtesy of the Abyssal Palace Herald. The Herald of Redmoon Hall struck with waves of bloody needles like crimson cloud banks, while the Herald of the Silent Servants cut at Fury with endless slashes of a white sword that lit up the sky.

The Stormcallers had no Herald, but one Sage. It was hard for Lindon to follow the exact details of the fight, but the Sage of Calling Storms seemed to be wrestling against Fury’s authority, opposing whenever Fury made one of his echoing commands.

Lindon could feel the will pressing down on Fury, constraining him.

The newborn Monarch kept fighting.

Palms of shadow struck at the side of the Abyssal Palace fortress, sending it careening to the side. A blazing ball of inky shadow crashed into the swordswoman Herald of the Silent Servants, and she had to focus all her power on keeping it from annihilating her.

Throughout the battle, Fury’s laughter echoed.

The remainder of the Akura faction had a war of their own to handle. Most of the enemies had retreated in the chaos, but not all, and it fell to the most advanced among them to stop the barrage of techniques from killing Golds as they tried to retreat.

Lindon himself struck down a cloud with dragon’s breath, used the Hollow Domain for an instant to wipe out a barrage of weaker Striker techniques, and leaped to drive his Empty Palm into an enemy Underlord’s core.

There were relatively few Archlords on the battlefield, and most were trying to help suppress Fury, but four focused on the fortress.

There were only three Archlords among the Akura, and those seven formed the loudest and most intense battle in Lindon’s immediate vicinity. Akura Justice, the old man with the long beard who had examined Lindon’s spirit in Moongrave, used his shadow madra to try and drag their fight away.

It had taken all of Lindon’s power just to deflect some stray madra from that fight, so he was relieved when that flashing cage of madra moved away from them.

He glanced down the stairs to see that most of the Golds were gone. It would be the Underlords’ turn to evacuate next, and Lindon would be happy to leave as long as Mercy and Pride left first.

Though he did briefly wonder who would redeem his points if Fury didn’t make it back.

At the thought of Mercy and Pride, Lindon looked across the roof of the fortress to see them engaging in battle. Pride was covered in crystalline armor, beating senseless an Abyssal Palace priest, and Mercy was keeping up a barrage of dark arrows.

They fought side-by-side with the Seishen Kingdom Underlords, but Malice’s children were doing more than their share of the work.

Grace wove through the few enemies that landed, her sword tracing a black line as she danced. Her cousins Douji and Courage watched over her, covering her with lightning and flying swords as she fought, and Naru Saeya was a green blur in the air overhead.

[Well, it would be rude not to join the gang,] Dross pointed out.

Lindon moved to join them.

Then he saw Seishen Daji pull something out of a pocket and toss it at Mercy’s feet.

It looked like a spike the size of his arm, covered in rings of script.

An instant later, a group of people appeared out of nowhere standing over the spike. A pale, lanky man with long, white hair and bare feet loomed over Mercy, and behind him…

Lindon’s heart stopped.

Behind him, all four enemy Uncrowned.

The Soul Cloak rose up in Lindon, Dross shouted a warning, and Lindon ran as fast as he could.

He didn’t react as quickly as Eithan.

The Arelius Overlord dove and rolled close to the group.

An instant before they all disappeared.

* * *

Eithan rolled to his feet and launched a Hollow King’s Spear.

Not the imitation Striker technique he’d been forced to use when he was only an Underlord. A real one.

It resembled an actual spear of blue-white madra, lancing into the group of enemies surrounding Mercy and Pride. It was effectively the same technique as it had been, just a lance of pure madra, but in this form it conducted willpower much better.

The spear drove through the spirit of one of the Redmoon Overlords, instantly destroying his soul.

The Underlords ran out of the way, but they wouldn’t have made it if the Sage hadn’t interfered.

Red Faith slapped the spearhead, blowing it into a cloud of pure madra essence.

Then he stopped to examine Eithan and chew on a knuckle.

Only then did Eithan pay attention to where they’d been taken.

He knew it couldn’t have been too far, because the Blood Sage had carried too many people. The gatekey that had taken them here would work only in one direction, and that device had already done its job.

They stood in a wide-open room filled with dusty furniture. Stone walls, stone floor; it was the base of a tower that you could find almost anywhere. They were far enough away that the battle between Heralds—well, one Monarch and four Heralds—didn’t loom over them, but not so far that they couldn’t hear the thunder or feel the ground shaking.

Most importantly, Eithan’s Spear had forced the group of enemies away from Mercy and Pride.

There were more people all throughout the tower, innocent bystanders caught up in the Blood Sage’s reckless teleportation.

And seven enemies left.

There was a staircase at Mercy’s back, and in the moment of uncertainty after the transportation, Eithan was the first to speak.

“Up the stairs!” he shouted.

Akura Douji and Courage shot up, but Pride and Mercy waited for Grace and Naru Saeya.

Saeya stopped at the bottom stair for an instant as though thinking she could help, but after a moment of agony she flew upwards.

Eithan sighed in relief as he strolled over to stand at the bottom stair. The enemies had fanned out instead of following, which was considerate of them. They focused on him.

Calan Archer conjured a lightning dragon. Yan Shoumei gathered blood madra in her palms, but didn’t summon Crusher. Brother Aekin covered himself in his Enforcer technique, taking on the vague aspect of the Wandering Titan.

The two remaining Redmoon Overlords summoned their Blood Shadows around their weapons: a spear and an axe. The one he’d downed had carried a sword.

Nice of them to have such a variety; it made them easy to tell apart.

Eithan pulled out his scissors. “Well,” he said, “isn’t this an interesting situation in which I find myself.”

Sophara glowered at him. An Enforcer technique hummed through her, her shield drifted over her head, and her liquid whip pooled at her side.

None of them attacked him, which showed unusually keen instincts on their side. They couldn’t have pierced his veil, but they still knew something was off.

The Sage of Red Faith took a bloody finger from his mouth. “How did you advance so quickly? Even with our Monarch providing you with resources, it should have taken you much longer.”

“Well, I wasn’t competing, so I didn’t have to adhere to tournament rules anymore,” Eithan said. And then, since the proverbial cat was out of the bag, he released his veil.

His Archlord power covered the entire tower.

As the Sage of a Thousand Eyes had said, reaching Archlord had never been a problem for him. It had only been a question of resources.

And Reigan Shen was a cat of his word. He’d promised to sponsor Eithan’s advancement, and his deliveries had been prompt. Though no doubt he’d expected his first shipment to last Eithan for years.

Well, Eithan hoped to surprise him many more times in the future.

Of course, that would require him to survive.

Archlord had been trivial, since he’d started with the requisite insight, but Sage was still a different matter entirely.

“I didn’t ask you why,” the Blood Sage said irritably, “I asked you how. Children, go upstairs. Arelius, you move.”

A great pressure squeezed Eithan from every direction as space itself tried to move him.

But he pushed back.

It was a harder task than he would have preferred.

“I…don’t think…I will.”

The Blood Sage’s working peaked, then collapsed.

Eithan’s outer robe fluttered before it fell back down. He remained right where he was.

The Blood Sage chewed on his knuckle for a moment, then spoke another command. “Die.”

This time, the working of will was accompanied by a Ruler technique. The blood aura in Eithan’s body twisted up, seizing his heart.

Eithan crumpled, pushing with his soulfire and his madra, fighting the aura with every ounce of the willpower he’d trained every day for as long as he could remember.

By the time the fit passed, he and the Blood Sage were alone, and battle was beginning upstairs.

“They probably could have gotten me,” Eithan said, his breath still coming heavily. “Thank you for holding them back.”

The Blood Sage’s head tilted all the way to one shoulder, then to the other. “I’m going to study you.”

“I’ll sign a portrait for you,” Eithan said pleasantly.

Then their spirits clashed.

* * *

Lindon stood, shaking, on the empty half of the roof.

People shouted urgent questions, but Lindon stood and scooped up the scripted stone spike. It was just a teleportation anchor. It had guided them here; it hadn’t taken them anywhere else.

The Blood Sage had done that.

[Couldn’t have been far!] Dross said desperately. [We can find them!]

Not with the chaos all around them. Lindon couldn’t stretch his spiritual perception far enough to sense anything clearly.

“Tell Fury,” Lindon instructed.

[You, uh, you really want to distract him right now?]

“Do it!”

Dross sent him a message, but they didn’t hear anything back. With nothing else to do, Lindon swept the empty space with his perception. Maybe the Blood Sage had left a trail.

He didn’t expect to find anything, so he was filled with surprise when he actually did.

Not a trail, but a…bump…in the middle of the air.

It reminded him of the spatial cracks that had begun to appear when Ghostwater crumbled, but those had been visible to the naked eye. This one he could barely sense, even with his perception right on it.

Desperately, he pushed against it. Just as he had when trying to resist Fury, or when he’d held on to Dross.

Something shifted, but he couldn’t tell what. He pushed harder.

The invisible bump in the air collapsed, stretching into a crack. If he released the pressure, the crack disappeared, and the bump returned.

Someone grabbed him by the shoulder, but he shook them off, cycling pure madra and pushing with everything he had.

Pride was there, and the rest of his team. Eithan and Mercy were there.

He was going there too.

It felt like his spirit was going to tear in half, but finally the crack deepened. It widened into a rift the length of his hand, and the edges shone blue.

But with all his concentration, that was as far as he could get.

* * *

Eithan’s Hollow Armor formed an actual suit of armor. An observer could see a faint, transparent helmet over his head and plates covering his body.

The formless version, the layer of madra that covered his skin, wasn’t even comparable to the performance of this complete technique.

And even so, the Blood Sage slashed through it with a Forged claw.

Eithan deflected a flying hawk of blood with his Hollow King’s Mantle, which now resembled a sweeping cloak the size of the room. It swept up the Striker technique, hurling it back.

Though the hawk crashed into the Sage and did very little.

A follow-up slash from Red Faith’s claws breached the gap in Eithan’s armor and split open the skin of his chest. Only Eithan’s reflexes kept that from including his rib cage.

He Forged his armor again and continued adding another star to the crown over his head. When the Hollow King’s Crown was complete, he would have a further weapon against the Sage.

But he was exhausted and bleeding, while the Sage looked fresh as a…well, the Sage always somewhat resembled a skeleton with skin, but he was uninjured.

Despite the best efforts of Eithan’s scissors.

“You know I’m not going to kill the children myself,” the Blood Sage said. “You will have worked that out because I transported them here instead of killing them on the rooftop.”

“Unless my children beat yours,” Eithan pointed out. “You’re here in case something goes wrong.”

“That isn’t what’s happening.”

That was true.

Other than the Overlord Eithan had ruined with so much spiritual damage that even his Remnant had been destroyed, there were no deaths on the Blood Sage’s team.

All the blood drawn had been on Eithan’s side.

Then Eithan saw something behind him. A flare of blue. The Blood Sage sensed it at the same time he did, but Eithan was closer.

Someone was trying to drill through.

And Eithan knew who.

As the Blood Sage tried to force the rift shut, Eithan joined his will to Lindon’s.

The hole in space tore open.

* * *

From the roof of the Sky’s Edge fortress, Lindon suddenly stumbled into a wide, dusty basement.

It was filled with chaotic clashes of spirit, and Lindon didn’t feel like he had gone through a portal. It felt like he alone had been drawn through.

Sure enough, there was no portal behind him. No exit.

And the Blood Sage was standing opposite a bleeding, grinning Eithan. Who was an Archlord.

Somehow, that was the least surprising part of all this.

Lindon cycled his madra to its limit and focused on the Blood Sage, but when he leaped, Eithan struck at him with his scissors.

The scissors inflated to ten times their size, trailing gray mist that felt almost like destruction aura.

The Sage flipped to avoid the attack, launching a Striker technique as he did, but Eithan swept it aside with the Hollow King’s Mantle.

“Stop,” the Blood Sage commanded, and Lindon froze.

For a moment. Then Eithan threw a Hollow Spear at the Sage, who took a glancing blow. His concentration had been shaken enough that Lindon could push his way free.

And up the stairs.

He could tell what was going on, and Eithan could take care of himself.

“Good work!” Eithan called. “I’ll just—”

His voice was cut off by an explosion of madra, but Lindon was already dashing upstairs.

There was a body on the stairs. Akura Courage, his swords spilled around him and mouth open in surprise.

A black-and-silver Remnant lurked on the next stair, staring at Lindon with wide, accusing eyes, but Lindon didn’t stop for it.

Lindon dashed past the spirit and into the wide, open room at the top of the staircase. There was more abandoned furniture here, covered in dust and many hidden behind sheets. The air was thick with dust, and most of the furniture had been crushed.

A Seishen Kingdom Underlord that Lindon had never seen before lay in several pieces on the floor, blood soaking the floor. His face was twisted around to face upward. A dead gray Remnant slowly dissolved around him.

Naru Saeya landed on the corpse, rolling over it, and she was so covered in injuries that Lindon couldn’t tell how much of the blood was hers and how much came from the corpse.

He ran over to her, sweeping his spiritual perception through her. She choked out a word, but he couldn’t tell what it was.

[She’ll live,] Dross said. [At least, I think she will. But we have a slightly bigger problem.]

Lindon knew what he was referring to.

The man who had beaten everyone on this floor was there with one eye in his mask glowing, pulling together shards of stone with earth madra into a destructive ball between his palms. He was preparing his technique to finish off Naru Saeya, and he wouldn’t mind if Lindon was caught up in it.

Brother Aekin, Uncrowned of Abyssal Palace, launched his Striker technique.

[Yes sir, our slightly bigger problem is waiting upstairs.]

Lindon had trained against Brother Aekin’s projection seventy-five times.

Information requested: destroying Brother Aekin in as little time as possible.

Beginning report…

In the blue light of the Hollow Domain, Brother Aekin’s technique falls apart. The Ruler component continues for a moment, spraying Lindon with pebbles.

Lindon dashes up with the Soul Cloak, carrying the Hollow Domain in an orb around him. When he gets close enough, even Aekin’s Enforcer technique falters.

They clash hand-to-hand for a moment, but Aekin is no match for Lindon.

Lindon drops his Hollow Domain and drives dragon’s breath through the cultist’s chest, continuing up the stairs at a sprint.

Report complete.

As Lindon saw the report, he acted.

Aekin was dead in seconds.

It was strangely easy to switch from pure madra to Blackflame and back. Easier than it ever had been before, as though he no longer had to cycle differently. As though the madra obeyed him directly.

That was a thought for later.

He intended to turn around and annihilate the Remnant with another Striker technique, but he saw something around the bear-like yellow monster that rose from Aekin’s body: a white ring.

Lindon stopped and ran back, grabbing the ring with his Remnant arm. It was hard to separate, but with a little touch of the Consume technique, he sucked away a measure of the Remnant’s strength.

The ring came off, and Lindon casually annihilated the spirit before examining the ring.

It unfolded into a white crown.

Lindon would love to examine the Broken Crown construct closer, but Overlords were clashing upstairs, so he opened his void key and tossed the Divine Treasure inside, summoning his flying sword as he did so.

Then he ran upwards.

He felt the situation before he saw it. Calan Archer’s dragon was feeding on a crackling purple lightning spirit. Akura Douji’s Remnant.

Another dead member of Lindon’s team.

The dragon was growing fat, but Calan had sensed Lindon coming. His seven Jadeclaw Rings were arranged in the sky above him, and the muscular blond man waited for Lindon with a stony expression. As soon as Lindon appeared at the top of the stairs, blue-gold light rained down, the storm dragon turned on him, and Calan Archer’s rings swarmed him.

Lindon had trained against Calan Archer’s projection thirty-eight times.

With a generous portion of soulfire, the Hollow Domain wiped everything out.

Wavedancer soared out from behind Lindon. Before Calan Archer recovered from his astonishment, the flying sword had pierced him all the way through.

He looked down at himself, eyes wide in surprise, but Lindon didn’t have time to waste waiting on a Remnant.

He seized the top of Calan’s head in his right hand, Consuming his power.

Energy flooded into Lindon, and he sorted it with the Heart of Twin Stars. Most he vented, some he added back to his pure core, and the rest went into his body. It wasn’t much to him now, but every bit helped. This was like receiving a little jolt of energy that fought his exhaustion.

Dross held onto any memories, but Lindon wrestled down Calan’s remaining willpower. He received one brief impression of Calan’s last moments.

He’d sensed the Hollow Domain. To him, it had felt like absolute emptiness. Like the death of the spirit.

In his case, he was correct.

Lindon stopped when there wasn’t enough structure to Calan’s madra left to form a Remnant, vented the rest of the storm madra, and hurried up.

He could feel Mercy.

Someone had come down from two floors above to stop him on the next floor, and he could already tell who it was: the Uncrowned of Redmoon Hall, Yan Shoumei.

When she summoned her Blood Shadow, Crusher, the entire tower shook.

Dross gasped in excitement.

It wasn’t the time, and Lindon knew that, but he couldn’t help a little excitement himself.

He activated the binding in his hunger arm, opening and closing his fingers as he emerged from the stairs and saw Crusher. The snarling monster of blood loomed over him, raising a claw.

It looked down to his white hand and hesitated.

Lindon had hoped to run into Crusher ever since he had realized what it was. Shoumei’s Shadow was essentially a mass of blood essence so ripe with physical power that it could still strengthen Lindon’s body.

Underlord blood essence didn’t do anything for him anymore, but Crusher was a different story.

The moment stretched between them as Crusher looked down on them. Dross and Lindon prepared to feed.

The Blood Shadow turned and ran.

Yan Shoumei looked more shocked than Lindon felt. He could only see his meal running away. He ignited the Burning Cloak, fired a burst of dragon’s breath at the Redmoon girl, and leaped after Crusher.

He landed on the monster’s back and began to Consume.

Rather than memories, Crusher had only bestial impressions. One of those was the instinct of a wild animal. In Lindon’s arm, the spirit felt a predator.

He funneled everything from the Blood Shadow into his body, and when it tried to swipe back at him, he dodged and kept feasting.

In seconds, Crusher collapsed into a red stream and flowed back to Yan Shoumei, who was somewhere behind a collapsed wall.

Dross made a disappointed noise. [Quitter.]

Lindon intended to move back and finish off Yan Shoumei, but now he heard Mercy’s scream. One last time, he dashed up the stairs. To the top of the tower.

The first sight that greeted him was Akura Grace’s body.

She had been pinned to the wall by a Forged spear, her eyes glassed over and her hair hanging loose. Her Remnant, a glossy black and silver, slowly dissolved in pieces nearby.

Her hand still clutched her sword.

This one stopped Lindon in his tracks. Courage and Douji’s lives weighed on him more than he expected, and he hadn’t even liked them.

Now Grace was dead because he had been standing too far away.

Beyond her Remnant, Pride was in little better shape.

He swayed on his feet, covered in blood. His left arm was…not gone, but mangled. Wrung out like a dishrag.

He faced two Overlords from Redmoon Hall. One turned to Lindon, forming a ball of fire, and the other struck Pride with an axe.

Somehow, Pride formed crystal armor on his shoulder that caught the blow. He was still knocked into the corner of the room, his armor broken.

But he climbed to his feet again and raised his fists.

Weak words passed his lips. Lindon thought they were, “I’m still here.”

In Lindon’s spiritual sense, Pride felt even worse than he looked.

“Dross!” Lindon shouted.

And Dross showed both Overlords a vision.

It was difficult to project something into someone else’s mind unless they allowed you to. Your own madra reigned supreme inside your body. These Overlords would shake off Dross’ illusion.

But not soon enough.

A ball of fire flew over Lindon’s shoulder, blowing a hole in the wall, but it was thrown wide as Dross disrupted his concentration.

The Hollow Domain expanded between the two enemies, wiping out the rest of their madra. Wavedancer drove through one, but stuck on the second man as he used his Blood Shadow to Enforce himself.

Lindon dropped the Domain and drove dragon’s breath through him.

He finished off the second man with another dragon’s breath, then dashed over to Pride. He was still on his feet, but Lindon didn’t need a thorough examination to know that he was in far worse shape than Naru Saeya had been.

Lindon’s void key slid open.

Little Blue hurried out, exclaiming in worry, and Lindon sorted through his boxes. “Do what you can for him,” he instructed. He pulled out a pill and tossed it to the spirit; Little Blue caught it easily. “Give him this.”

Considering how many times a day he fought, he would be a fool not to carry medical elixirs with him.

Little Blue cheeped her agreement, and Lindon finally turned to the east wall. Or what was left of it.

It had been blown out, wind whistling from outside, where Sophara and Mercy clashed on a narrow ridge of stone.

The Dragon King’s Totem filled the sky, pushing down on a fully armored Mercy, who released a volley of violet arrows from her Archlord bow.

Sophara screamed as she annihilated them with dragon’s breath.

Lindon barreled into her.

Her tail intercepted him as her Imperial Aegis blocked an arrow from Mercy, but Lindon spun into a kick that knocked the dragon off the tower.

[She’ll be back up in about two seconds,] Dross warned, which didn’t surprise Lindon at all.

He looked to Mercy. “Go see about Pride.”

“Finish her!” Mercy cried, pulling back on her bow.

Lindon met her eyes. They were wild and panicked, filled with grief, and she was covered in wounds. Her spirit was exhausted.

Lindon gave her a weary smile. “I’m here to punch a hole in the sky.”

It was another second before she nodded and hurried back to her brother.

Sophara leaped up to the ledge and stalked after him, golden eyes blazing. “Thank you,” she whispered. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

How are we doing, Dross? Lindon asked.

[No problems,] Dross assured him. [She can’t concentrate enough to hold the Totem.]

Sure enough, the Dragon King’s Totem had begun to dissolve in the sky overhead.

Good, Lindon said, stretching his Remnant hand again.

He would hate to die here because he was overconfident, but he didn’t expect that. He had already lost this fight. Over and over and over again.

Until eventually, so gradually he almost didn’t notice, he’d started to win more than he lost. Then she would gain some new power, and he would start the process over again.

He had trained against Sophara six hundred and forty-four times.

27

Yerin hovered on an invisible platform next to Kiuran, watching Malice fight the Dragon King.

It was almost impossible to comprehend. Malice stood like a Dreadgod in her full armor, her amethyst helmet in the clouds. She strode along the ground outside the city, steps crushing homes and trees, launching a technique that filled half the world with flying skulls of shadow.

Yerin couldn’t even see what Sesh was doing inside his monumental sandstorm, but she felt his power and made out flashes of golden light.

The entire countryside was being ravaged. She could see rainbow light as Sha Miara contained what she could, but even if she saved everyone in the city, people outside were dying.

“You’re not aiming to keep civilians out of it?” Yerin asked her companion.

Kiuran the Hound chuckled, looking over the world beneath him like a rat-faced king. “You’ll learn, when you leave this place. Whatever happens to the people down there, it won’t affect anything real.”

Yerin wished she could have met Lindon’s heavenly messenger instead. She wanted to put a sword through this one.

Casually, the Abidan handed her Penance.

Just like that, the silver-edged black arrowhead fell into her hands. It was heavier than she expected, and in more ways than just the physical. It felt like death. Finality. The end.

“There would normally be a ceremony,” Kiuran said, “but circumstances as they are, your decision is before you now. So! Who’s it going to be?”

He seemed perversely excited.

“The dragon is the obvious target, but then Reigan Shen is the one binding the Dreadgod factions together. Or you could be rid of the Bleeding Phoenix, which would free you from any influence it might have over you. And, of course, the Wandering Titan is about to awaken.”

Malice drew a bow the size of a tower that shone deep blue, purple, and green, like sunlight through a glacier. She launched an arrow that blasted the sandstorm apart.

In the distance, a mountain was reduced to a spray of rubble.

“Or you could use it on the other Monarchs, if you like,” Kiuran suggested. “I do have a personal request. If you would like to execute Northstrider, please give him a chance to ascend first. He would hate that more than death. If you do, I can offer you a weapon from my personal collection to sweeten the deal.”

She was starting to wonder if she could use it on him.

“Oh, and if you’d rather kill the Eight-Man Empire, that’s fine too. I don’t like how they assumed it couldn’t be used against them. You remove one, and I’ll take care of the rest. What do you think?”

“I’m thinking I’d rather sit on it,” she said. “The threat seems sharper than the arrow.”

“Good judgment! You’re correct, but I’m afraid I can’t allow it. Sorry. Letting it sit in Cradle is too much of a disruption of the balance.”

Yerin was sure he’d withheld that particular rule on purpose. Everyone had assumed they could hold on to the arrow and use it when they wished.

Maybe he’d changed his mind just to mess with her.

Their protective bubble seemed to move itself, and then they were hovering over the Monarch battle.

The sandstorm was shredding Malice’s armor now, tearing it apart in streaming sparks.

She was so much bigger, Sesh only a tiny speck of sand inside the storm, but he felt stronger.

It was obvious to use it on him, and there was nothing wrong with doing the obvious thing.

“Can you show me Sophara?”

He smiled. “Easily.”

They moved again.

* * *

Sophara tried to end the battle quickly, but the nightmare only continued.

A blue dome of pure madra surrounded Lindon, catching her, and her dragon’s breath came out in a pathetic stream. As though something devoured her madra as it tried to leave her body.

While he maintained the field, his eyes looked like deep blue gems.

She swung her sword at him, but he ducked as though he could see it coming. She didn’t have any drops of ghostwater left, but he was still an Underlord. He couldn’t do anything to her, especially with this pure madra dome up, so he couldn’t use dragon’s breath of his own.

His white hand brushed her, and he consumed a sip of her power.

She jerked back, slapping at him with her tail, but a flying sword deflected her tail.

“Devoured,” he muttered. “Pure madra devouring...”

She tried to escape his field, but his Enforcer technique worked better than hers, and even without it he was stronger than an Underlord had any right to be. His body gave her the faint impression of more-than-physical strength, like Yan Shoumei’s Blood Shadow.

Which was a horrifying prospect.

He knocked her down before she could leave the roof, and though she came within a hair of slitting his throat, he slipped aside again.

And he drew more of her power into himself. He was like a whirlpool she couldn’t escape.

“Whirlpool. I am…a whirlpool.”

Was he trying to advance to Overlord?

She raised Quickriver, pouring her madra into the binding. Whatever he was doing, he wasn’t an Archlord, so she could cut him in two.

Something intruded into her mind, and her senses blanked out.

She saw, heard, and felt only whiteness and silence.

Sophara pushed the dream aura out of herself, but she saw Lindon beneath her, slamming a palm technique into her stomach. A Forged palm of pure madra overlaid his own, wiping out her spirit.

The Archlord technique around her weapon flickered and died.

She looked into his eyes, which had transformed into blue crystal. He was the end of her every technique, and as she stared into that merciless gaze, she realized he was her end.

White fingers brushed across her, and the blue crystal faded to ordinary human black.

He jumped back, suddenly looking brighter. “That’s it! A bottomless pit, emptiness, endless…that’s it.”

He pressed his fists together to her. “Gratitude.”

She snarled and ran at him.

“I am the end,” Lindon said.

Something trembled around her. Not the aura.

He’d triggered something, but it wasn’t Overlord.

* * *

Northstrider unleashed a shield of his own, and its binding covered a square mile.

A barrage of deadly rain fell from one of Shen’s city-destroying weapons. As Northstrider searched his projection for the prediction of where Shen would end up next, he sensed something in the distance.

A few miles away from Sky’s Edge, someone had manifested another Icon.

Fury? Had Fury really been sitting on not one, but two different sources of authority?

No, he realized in a moment. Not Fury.

* * *

The Blood Sage looked up. “This isn’t you. Who is this?”

Eithan dragged himself to his feet and gave him a bloody smile. “My apprentice.”

* * *

Yerin turned to Kiuran.

“I’m burying that dragon,” she said.

Sophara must have gone straight from the arena to an assassination attempt on Mercy and Lindon. Yerin could show her what that cost.

And the sooner she used Penance, the sooner she could take the Moonlight Bridge and join the fight herself.

Not that Lindon seemed to need help.

The Hound sighed. “I suppose the Dragon King doesn’t intend to advance. There was a chance he would, given the threat. Give me a moment.”

His eyes spun with violet script. Lindon would try to remember each of the runes, she was sure.

“Oh…oh, I see. No, this is even better.”

Yerin didn’t know what he was seeing, but she tapped her foot impatiently, hoping he would notice.

“Yes, you can go ahead. This will work quite nicely. A whole batch of recruits.”

“How do I use it?” Yerin demanded.

“How?” He chuckled. “You’ll learn that ‘how’ is a useless question. Just use it.”

For a second time, she wondered if she could use it on him.

Their bubble shifted back to the battle between Malice and the Dragon King, and Yerin pointed the arrowhead at the dragon.

“Kill him,” she said aloud.

The arrow vanished.

At the same instant, the power behind the sandstorm disappeared. A single, small body fell through the cloud of sand.

Just like that, a Monarch was dead.

Yerin had seen a lot of unceremonious deaths in her life, but this was maybe the most boring. One second, he was alive. The next, he was dead. No battle, no Remnant, not even a flash of light.

It scared her.

“Well, I look forward to meeting you on the other side,” the Abidan said. “No doubt you’ll be a Wolf yourself someday. And tell Judge Suriel’s favorite I hope to see him too.”

So it was common knowledge up there that this Suriel had come down to see Lindon. Yerin had wondered.

“If my memory’s true, I’m supposed to get another grand prize,” Yerin said.

He spread his hands. “The Monarchs are bound by oath to give it to you, so they will, but that isn’t my role. Good luck. When things settle, you’ll get it.”

He vanished, and Yerin reappeared in the center of the arena.

Or the rubble where the arena had been. The audience towers and most of the surrounding towers were nothing but debris now.

“Could have put me down somewhere better,” she muttered.

Then again, she could be wherever she wanted.

She focused on Lindon, and the Moonlight Bridge flashed.

* * *

From a hundred miles away, Northstrider felt Seshethkunaaz die.

They had a long history, spanning centuries, complete with blood spilled and reluctant alliances aplenty. Northstrider had planned the dragon’s death dozens of times.

He had expected a simple death to be too good for someone like Sesh.

He was wrong. This was very satisfying.

Reigan Shen, from the heart of the mountain where he was planning an ambush, began to tear open a portal.

“Stay,” Northstrider commanded, and his will opposed the opening of the portal.

Shen wrestled it open, and combined with his mastery of space, he would surely win the contest.

An ice-blue arrow the size of a lighthouse crashed through the mountain and crushed the King of Lions.

Malice’s attack would be little more than an inconvenience for Reigan Shen, but it would slow him down. Northstrider had a chance.

But rather than pursuing the lion, Northstrider flew over to collect Seshethkunaaz’s body. The dragon hadn’t become a Remnant thanks to Penance, and the corpse of a Monarch was a valuable material. Especially to him.

With the dragon’s body tucked away, Northstrider was prepared to chase after Reigan Shen. The cat could run, but the more he depleted his arsenal now, the better.

But his Presence sounded an alert, and Northstrider stopped.

Finally, the battle around the Dreadgod had become too much. The Wandering Titan was waking early.

Northstrider felt Reigan Shen escape and allowed it. There was more important work to do.

He stepped into the Way, leaving Malice’s triumphant laughter to ring out over the countryside.

* * *

[Lindon…] Dross said. [You’re not an Overlord.]

A black hole swallowed the sky. Directly over Lindon’s head.

The void wasn’t dangerous. It was a reflection of Lindon, linked to him somehow. Or he was linked to it.

Lindon wasn’t exactly sure what he’d done. But he had his guess. Some things that were hidden before felt clearer now, as though his spiritual sense had evolved to another level.

He stood over a hopeless Sophara. In simulations, he had mostly beaten her by finding a chance to use The Dragon Descends, but now he didn’t want to obliterate her body. He was here to Consume her power…and besides, if he incinerated her void key, he couldn’t take it himself.

Sophara lifted her chin proudly and clutched her sword.

“Kill me,” she challenged, “like you killed my—”

Lindon blasted dragon’s breath through her chest, exactly like he’d killed Ekeri.

She sagged, but he was there to catch her…and to drain the remaining power from her body. The last thing he wanted was to fight her Remnant.

Sophara was even stronger than he’d expected. The madra he vented from the purification process melted the tiles and stones of the crumbling roof.

When her Remnant was in no danger of rising, Lindon plucked the void key from around her neck and slipped it into his pocket. Then he moved to the edge of the roof and jumped down.

He landed on half of another crumbled wall, then hopped inside.

Eithan lay on the floor, bleeding with his breathing ragged. “I’m fine,” he said as soon as Lindon showed himself. “No tears for me, please. I’ll be…” He coughed loudly. “…as good as new any sec…”

The word trailed off. He gave a clear death rattle.

Lindon stood over him. “What did I do?”

Eithan opened one eye. “You have to have some guess.”

“I want you to tell me.”

Eithan groaned as he sat up. The Blood Sage had obviously run off; Lindon felt a slowly healing tear in space nearby.

“I did tell you that our cycling technique had a long and fascinating history,” Eithan said pointedly.

Lindon gave a hollow laugh. “I thought you were trying not to keep secrets.”

“Honestly, I thought of this one as more of a surprise.”

A white glow filled the space, and then Yerin appeared. She looked over them both, and for a moment Lindon was as alarmed as he’d been before.

Her Goldsigns, her eyes, and a lock of her hair had turned crimson. Dross had overheard the report Fury received about Yerin becoming some kind of half-Herald, but he hadn’t known what to make of it. Who was this?

“Yerin or Ruby?” he asked warily.

She gave him a grin. “Take a guess.”

He let out a sigh of relief. “Glad to see you.”

“Same to you.” She looked up the stairs. “We need to get them to a healer two days ago. Eithan, you have that cloudship?”

“Better! I have Lindon.”

Lindon recognized a cue when he heard one. He focused on the older of the two spatial tears in the room, locking his spiritual perception on it and gathering his concentration.

It was just as hard as it had been earlier, and it took him an embarrassingly long amount of time. He was afraid sweat was starting to bead on his head before he finally managed to say, “Open.”

The portal opened.

* * *

Pride and Naru Saeya survived.

Barely.

Lindon and the others reappeared on the fortress, where Akura Justice defended the portal alone. They dove through together, emerging back in Ninecloud City.

Which didn’t look much better than the battlefield they’d just left, but at least it wasn’t an active warzone.

The entire Akura faction was a buzzing mess of people, but they found healers quickly. When Mercy really demanded something in the Akura clan, it got done.

Saeya and Pride received medical attention, but Pride would have died if not for the immediate treatment Lindon had given him. The healers were skeptical that either would ever recover completely.

So, in a way, his entire team was gone.

That wasn’t strictly true. The Maten sisters had avoided capture and were perfectly safe. When the Akura clan settled down, Lindon intended to find out how many contribution points the team had earned. Assuming the clan was still honoring points at all.

They wouldn’t go to him. The thought almost surprised him, but he felt the others needed more support than he did. The Maten twins and Naru Saeya, at the very least, could use all the help they could get.

Now Mercy was glued to her brother’s side, and Yerin was pinned in place by the Heart and Winter Sages.

While he had a moment to himself, Lindon managed to corner Eithan.

The Arelius Archlord had accepted quick bandaging and some elixirs before sneaking out to the docks, where crewmen were loading crates onto cloudships to head back to Akura territory.

Most of the crates contained what they’d taken from Sky’s Edge, either from the mine or from their enemies.

Eithan’s entire body was wrapped in bloody bandages, but he seemed content as he watched the packing process. He leaned back, elbows propped against the railing, as people passed him by.

Lindon joined him. “I’m glad you survived.”

“It was closer than you might think. I might remind you that I am not a Sage.”

“Am I?” Lindon asked. It was the question he had been afraid to ask Dross.

No matter how many times Dross had slipped in his own opinion.

“That is a matter for scholarly debate,” Eithan answered. “In the past, the concept of a Sage was much more…fluid…than it is today. When manifesting an Icon, it is very important to understand the significance of your madra and to sense it deeply. Equally important is some kind of technique to regularly train your willpower. For years. An exercise that pushes your focus and concentration ever further, and that most people would give up or abandon for easier trails.”

The Heaven and Earth Purification Wheel.

Eithan’s head was sweeping back and forth, though Lindon was certain he didn’t need to watch anything with his eyes, and Lindon followed Eithan’s bloodline power with his own spiritual sense. He was searching inside the chests that flowed by in the crowd.

“Now, the specific Icon you manifest depends not only on the nature of your madra currently, but on a concept that has always been core to your identity. Even in childhood. Ah, here we are.”

Eithan slipped into the crowd, had a quick exchange with a startled-looking woman who had a bird nesting on her shoulder, and then came back to Lindon with a box a little bigger than his hand.

Lindon was uncertain whether he had asked the woman for this box or distracted her and then stolen it.

The chest cracked and revealed that it was filled with a smooth, white, lumpy rock.

Wintersteel ore.

It flew into Eithan’s palm and began slowly melting.

“Some ancient cultures, as you are aware, had a custom of wearing badges with symbols carved into them. Originally, those symbols represented the Icon that the wearer aimed to embody.”

Lindon’s real fingers ran across the halfsilver hammer badge on his chest, his fingertips tingling at the touch of the madra-disrupting metal.

“In those days,” Eithan went on, “Sage was not considered its own rank, but rather a separate mark of distinction that some Lords and Ladies achieved. Different materials were used for different cultures, but often Heralds wore badges of red and Monarchs of blue.”

Lindon thought back to his collection of badges. At least that was one minor mystery solved.

“Later, when the concept of a Sage became popularized as a stage of advancement in its own right, they began to make badges from a material that could only be worked by will.”

He held up the ore, which he had finished molding.

It was now a round, palm-sized wintersteel badge. A duplicate of the one on Lindon’s chest, only with no hammer.

Lindon took the badge. “I manifested the Void Icon.”

Eithan nodded to him. “Ah, but what symbolizes nothingness? A blank badge looks the same as one with no Icon at all, so rather than a picture, the ancients chose to write one character.”

At Eithan’s will, lines appeared on the wintersteel badge, etching out one familiar word in the old language: Empty.

Or, as they would say in Sacred Valley: Unsouled.

* * *

With one foreleg, Orthos shoved a severed wooden beam out of his way.

A fragment of pale light madra shone on the ground, the remains of a broken Forger technique. It had mostly dissolved to essence in the hours that had passed since the battle here, but a piece no bigger than the tip of his teeth had survived.

The splinter of madra slithered toward him like a glowing white snake before it, too, melted into particles and disappeared.

Sometimes he thought that everyone here practiced a light Path. What a waste. Light was pathetic next to fire.

Only that morning, this building had been an outpost of the Wei clan. In its basement was a training ground for light and dream aura, which was why Orthos had been keeping an eye on it. It was the perfect place for Kelsa to advance.

He had been considering burning the place down himself to claim the basement, but in the end someone else had done it for him.

The outpost was reduced to a pile of kindling, leaving the basement undefended. Orthos had come as soon as he’d felt the battle, but by the time he’d arrived, the attackers had left.

He didn’t know who had attacked the Wei clan or why, but he had his guess.

It was one of the invaders.

Shortly before his arrival in Sacred Valley, two other outsiders had punched through the defenses of Heaven’s Glory and gone into hiding. They hid from the three clans and four schools, just as Orthos and Kelsa did, so he’d never met the invaders himself.

But he was starting to suspect he knew them.

This was the closest he’d ever come to them, and the feeling of this leftover madra stoked his suspicions. He couldn’t be certain, but this felt like Stellar Spear madra.

Someone from the Jai clan was here in Sacred Valley.

Before he could continue poking around the ruined building, he felt a new surge of power from underground. Orthos grunted in satisfaction. The Path of the White Fox had a new Jade.

It was about time. He had spent months helping Kelsa attain a real Iron body, which would have been infinitely easier if she hadn’t advanced to Iron already. Retraining was always harder than learning the right way the first time.

Compared to getting her the Skyhunter Iron body, pushing Kelsa to Jade had been easy.

The trap door to the basement slammed open, releasing a gust of dream and light aura that traced phantom images in the air.

Kelsa emerged from downstairs, wearing a fresh robe. Her black hair was soaking wet, plastered to her head and neck.

He had left her with spare clothes and several buckets of warm water. Advancing to Jade was usually a mess.

She radiated satisfaction as she reached the top of the stairs. “Apologies for the wait, Orthos. Now we can begin.”

Orthos hated waiting around for no reason, but he wondered if impatience ran in this family.

“You just earned your eyes, and now you want to stare into the sun.” Orthos chomped into the end of the fallen timber. It had a nice singe to it that gave it a pleasant charred flavor.

A shiver passed through his spirit as Kelsa clumsily scanned him with her newborn spiritual sense. “I’ll need to practice, of course, but now I won’t slow you down if it comes to a fight.”

No matter how many times Orthos explained the difference in sacred arts outside the Valley, Kelsa didn’t truly understand.

She couldn’t, really. Not until she left and saw for herself.

“That’s the first step,” Orthos grumbled. “We still need help.”

She looked to him with a stern expression. “I’ve left my mother to suffer for too long already.”

She really had been patient all these months, training under his direction and preparing herself to reach Jade. But now that she had, he would have to sit on her to stop her from running off to rescue her mother from Heaven’s Glory.

But she learned a few new techniques and advanced one stage and thought herself invincible. Orthos knew better; it would be easier to burn the Heaven’s Glory school to the ground than it would be to safely free a prisoner.

They needed help.

As they left the ruined outpost, they continued bickering. Kelsa’s father couldn’t help, and no one else in camp met Orthos’ standards. Almost no one in the Valley did.

As they walked, he kept his spiritual perception extended, hunting for the Jai clan invader. He would be nearby, most likely under a veil, but Orthos hoped to feel him slip. Kelsa did the same, though her perception was wobbly and inconsistent with her lack of experience.

If they couldn’t find help, Orthos was certain Kelsa would try to slip into the Heaven’s Glory school with or without him, which would end in disaster. Even if she could slip in unnoticed with her illusion techniques, it would be much harder to leave with her mother in tow. They didn’t even know where Wei Shi Seisha was being kept, or what condition she was in. The best they could tell was that the Soulsmith was alive.

Kelsa would be sneaking off to her death, which frustrated Orthos to no end. He couldn’t watch her all day, every day.

While he demanded that she listen to reason and she appealed to his sympathy, he felt something growing in the air.

It felt like a distant wave approaching from the west.

Then the ground started to shake, and he shouted to Kelsa. “Pull your spirit back!”

Though she didn’t understand, she had trained under him for a long time now. She obeyed immediately, reeling her perception back.

Just in time for the spiritual pressure of the Dreadgod to crash over the Valley.

The impression was weakened by the same curse that limited Orthos’ power, but still the air shook and the ground quaked. Earth aura brightened in golden veins beneath his feet, leaves fell from shaken trees, and startled birds took wing.

The symptoms passed quickly, but Orthos cycled his madra in panic, ready to defend Kelsa. He’d never sensed the Wandering Titan before, but it could be nothing else.

The Titan had awakened, and it was close.

Kelsa patted him on the neck. “It’s just an earthquake.”

Orthos didn’t have the words to explain how wrong she was. “We’re out of time. Anyone who can feel that is too close.”

Cautiously, he extended his spiritual perception, ready to withdraw it again if the power in the air was too strong.

And he felt someone else doing the same. Someone on a sword and light Path.

Kelsa asked him another question, but a black-and-red haze had already sprung up over his body as he used his Enforcer technique.

He’d found his prey.

The invader’s presence vanished as he put his veil back into place, but it was too late. Orthos had his location.

He blasted into the trees, leaving Kelsa behind. With her Skyhunter Iron body, she should be able to follow him with her eyes, but she would never catch up. His every step was a leap, and he even withdrew his head into his shell to crash through trees when he didn’t feel like dodging out of the way.

In less than a minute, he arrived at the last location where he’d sensed the Stellar Spear madra.

It was an unremarkable nook near a stream, nestled between some foothills behind a thicket of trees. If he hadn’t been drawn here, he would have passed it without thought.

Only when he scanned the ground thoroughly did he find the buried script-circle.

He crossed it easily, though it pressed against his spirit. It was a simple repelling script, meant to keep out weak Remnants.

“Stop hiding!” Orthos shouted. “It’s beneath you.”

No one responded, so Orthos slowly began cycling madra into dragon’s breath. His prey would feel it and respond, he was sure.

If not, Orthos could always smoke him out.

A cold voice echoed through the trees. “You would chase us this far?”

Orthos snorted. “You think too much of yourself.”

A lean man stepped into view. He wore simple brown clothes and carried a long, ornate spear with a blue haft. His head was wrapped in red, scripted bandages so that nothing was visible of his face except gleaming eyes.

“Did Underlord Arelius send you to find me?” Jai Long asked.

“He doesn’t need me to do his hunting for him. I’m here for my own reasons.” Orthos glanced west. “And it doesn’t look like I’ll be staying much longer.”

“Then we should travel separate paths.”

Jai Long was still holding his spear ready, his madra cycling steadily. It wasn’t a threatening posture, but it wasn’t quite friendly either.

Orthos let his own madra settle. He didn’t feel a threat from this pup.

“I have one last thing to do before I leave. And here you are to help me.”

* * *

Yerin finally pried herself away from the questions of the Sages, only to find Lindon and Eithan on the cloudship dock.

Lindon wore a wintersteel badge with his old Unsouled symbol on it. She wondered what that was about.

But that thought fled from her when she truly saw him. Now that they weren’t in danger, the fact of his presence really sank in.

He was safe. So was she.

Everything was okay.

She remembered running up to him as Ruby, throwing her arms and legs around him, and she braced herself for embarrassment.

It never came. Why did she care what a bunch of outsiders thought?

By the time she realized where her thoughts had gone, she was standing against him, looking up, her chin on his chest.

He looked down on her, eyes clouded. “Ruby?”

“Only a little,” she responded.

He thought about that, and his expression grew complicated. She understood; she didn’t know how she’d feel about it either, if she were in his position.

Eithan’s head slowly slid up over Lindon’s shoulder.

“The Ninecloud Soul is quite busy,” he said brightly, “but I know we’re in a situation of some urgency, so I took the liberty of having your first-round prizes delivered…now.”

He grabbed Lindon and turned him to look to the side of the dock, where a cloudship was coming to a halt.

It was the size of two homes together, and only half of it was covered in a two-story house with dark blue tiles. The cloud base was dark blue as well, which she guessed represented the Arelius family.

As that house covered the right side of the cloud, the left half was covered by a pond, a lone tree, and a miniature mountain. It spewed dark fire from the top, and within a cave she could sense dense sword aura.

Just as they’d requested after the first round of the tournament, this would be a perfect home for her.

Not just her home. Their home.

A comforting warmth settled into her stomach.

Then another cloudship descended from the sky.

This one was a perfect rectangle, as though it was made to fill out exactly the maximum amount of space allowed. Its cloud base was the same dark blue as theirs, and as it settled into the back, its plot of land slid exactly into place.

As though it had been designed to fit there all along.

Three-quarters of the space was covered in what looked like a garden, or maybe a section of farmland. The remaining quarter was taken up by a tiny hut.

Yerin knew who the owner was without even asking.

“It’s a meager living space,” Eithan said, “but I was excited to maximize the amount of land to grow crops.”

Lindon glared at him. “You could have flown alongside us. You didn’t have to attach yourself.”

“As you can see, mine only makes up half the size of yours. We have a whole quarter of our floating island left to fill in.”

Yet a third cloudship descended.

This one didn’t lock into place as Eithan’s had. It drifted alongside the others, and it was the exact image that came to Yerin’s mind when she heard the words “cloud fortress”: a blank stone fort sitting on a cloud. It looked as though its owner hadn’t bothered to make any customization requests of their own.

A moment after the cloud docked, Ziel walked out of the front, his emerald horns glistening in the sun and his cloak flapping. He raised a hand.

“Did you kidnap his oldest son, or what?” Yerin asked.

“I negotiated his company for a year. At a reasonable rate.”

She was still leaning against Lindon, and Eithan noticed. “You’ll have plenty of time to spend together once we’re on our way.”

Lindon seemed to realize their situation himself. “Apologies, you’re right. We need to be on our way.” He gently tried to separate from Yerin.

She didn’t let him go.

There were dozens of strangers around, not to mention people that actually knew them, but Yerin no longer cared.

She grabbed him by the back of the head, stood up on her tiptoes, and kissed him.

He reacted in stunned surprise for a moment, and a fear rose up from a deep part of her that he was going to push her away again.

Then he leaned in, wrapping his arms around her, and kissed her back.

When they separated and she caught her breath, Ziel was standing next to them. He didn’t look like he cared what they did, and he would probably wear that expression if the sky collapsed.

“So,” he said, “where are we going?”

Yerin was gratified to see that Lindon was red-faced and focused on his own cycling. After a moment collecting himself, he looked away from her and toward Ziel.

“Home,” he said.

THE END

Cradle: Volume Eight

Wintersteel

Bloopers

Yerin hefted Penance. “How do I use it?” she demanded.

Kiuran chuckled. “Oh, it’s quite simple. Just say the name of the person you wish to kill.”

Their bubble shifted back to the battle between Malice and the Dragon King, and Yerin pointed the arrowhead at the dragon.

“Kill him,” she said aloud.

Nothing happened.

“Say his name, I said. His name.”

“Kill…Seshthkaz. Shethkanaz. Seshethsusheth.”

The arrow vanished.

The Monarch didn’t.

Yerin seized the Abidan by his armor. “What happened?”

“I believe someone named Seshethsusheth has just had a very bad afternoon.”

* * *

[Lindon…] Dross said. [You’re not an Overlord.]

An image had swallowed the sky, directly over Lindon’s head: a collection of numbers.

[I don’t quite understand it. It looks like an Icon, but I can’t tell what it’s supposed to be.]

“I can,” Lindon responded.

Power filled him, and he could feel his newfound authority radiating out, connecting him to a concept greater than humanity. A concept he knew well.

“I am…the Points Sage.”

* * *

Yerin couldn’t even see what Sesh was doing inside his monumental sandstorm, but she felt his power and made out flashes of golden light. Light that pulsed to a rhythmic, regular beat.

She thought she could even hear music along with it…and then a moment later, she could hear music, a series of repetitive fast-paced notes that sounded like they came from otherworldly instruments.

“What do you call that song?” she shouted to Kiuran.

The Abidan looked grave. “That’s the Dragon King’s most feared technique. The dreaded Darude Sandstorm.”

* * *

The elders of Heaven’s Glory walked Adama to the doorstep, and the woman cleared her throat.

“It was an honor to serve you today, Sage of Swords.”

That wasn’t exactly his title, but Adama had never cared much for titles anyway.

He waved a hand. “Oh, you don’t have to call me that. My full name is Timaias Adama, but that can be a mouthful. Most people prefer it shorter. There are some who call me…Tim.”

* * *

Charity raised an arm, and an owl of living madra came down to perch on it. She scratched it behind the head as she asked, “What do you think of Grace?”

Lindon continued to answer safely. “I can trust her judgment more than…others.”

“And what if we allowed you to marry her?”

Lindon couldn’t believe his luck.

“Are you serious? Of course!”

Charity rested her hand on the owl. “I thought I would have to persuade you.”

“Why? Grace is rich, she’s hot, and she’s good at the sacred arts. I’d be a fool to turn her down. So am I supposed to buy a ring, or what?”

* * *

One of Dross’ stubby, flexible arms touched the surface of the black orb. Light rippled on Northstrider’s construct, but otherwise nothing happened.

[Just a moment, this is…hmmm. This is tougher than it looks.] Dross furrowed his purple brow and pushed harder. Until, as though he’d broken through a barrier, Dross finally pushed through.

[Oooohhh, it’s amazing! So much space! Now, how do I get out?]

Lindon looked to Northstrider in a panic, but the Monarch’s arms were folded and his face was impassive as always.

“He’ll figure it out,” Northstrider said.

[While I’m in here, I might as well touch some things. Hey, what’s that? AAAHHHH!]

The surface of the orb flashed purple for a moment and then went dark.

The Monarch shook the construct, then peered inside. “Never mind, I was wrong. He’s dead.”

* * *

Suriel felt the cool wood of the table against her forehead.

“I don’t know what I did wrong,” she said. “I’ve been around from the very beginning.”

Makiel gave her a sympathetic pat on the back. “Don’t worry, they all like you better than me.”

“Then why am I not in the book?”

“It’s a long book as it is,” Makiel said. “I’m sure you would have been included if there was more space.”

“I don’t take up much space! It could have been a few pages longer. Cut some of the fights! Take out some Eithan scenes!”

“Whoa now. Let’s not go crazy.”

Suriel sobbed into the tabletop.

Bloodline

Cradle: Volume Nine

Copyright © 2021 by Hidden Gnome Publishing

Book and Cover design by Patrick Foster Design

Cover illustration by Teigan Mudle and Patrick Foster

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

WillWight.com

Prologue

Iteration 246: Commandment

From far away, Suriel watched a rain of orange lightning fall across the eastern hemisphere of the planet, scorching it to bare rock in seconds. Dull gray vessels drifted away, bearing most of the people and objects of any significance.

Around the planet, war raged.

Vroshir defended their ships’ retreat with protective workings, barriers, guardian beasts the size of moons, and shields that could block exploding stars.

Abidan attacked to seize the ships, lances of blue as they drew on the Way to reinforce their attacks with absolute authority. But it was too late; millions had died in the planetary barrage, and the Iteration’s relationship to the Way was weak.

Color-swirling portals bloomed in front of the ships as they prepared to leave through the Void.

Drifting in endless sapphire light outside the Iteration, Suriel tapped into her mantle and reverted the world towards a state of order.

A dozen Abidan blinked back to life from where they had been struck down. A hundred others found their armor repaired, their minds restored, their weapons returned.

The charred planet blossomed to blue and green once again, the dead population finding themselves whole and alive. Commandment’s relation to the Way strengthened again, so the Abidan attacks punched through Vroshir defenses.

The ships carrying the captives lost their connection to the Void, their portals fading.

Suriel felt the exultation from her people like a wave of cheers. Their morale surged, a warm heat inside her, as the tide of power turned.

But she couldn’t bask in the sensation.

Half her attention was elsewhere.

Iteration 247: Jester

Six Silverlords, platinum-crowned men and women, coordinated a barrage of attacks against Jester’s primary planet.

Positioned in orbit all around the globe, they unleashed a synchronized bombardment, each attack entirely different from the others. One released a storm of razor-sharp rose petals to scour a continent, another sang a song that drifted all through that reality, eating away at opposing workings. Yet a third summoned titanic spires of dense metal, hurling them into the planet.

The four remaining Abidan of Sector Twenty-Four Control held the world. They maintained a triple-layered shell around the atmosphere, a shield of blue Way-power that wouldn’t falter even if the planet beneath it exploded.

But the Silverlords were elites, powerful figures even by the standards of Judges. Their combined wills eroded the barrier like moths eating away fabric.

Suriel added her power to the Abidan, and the shell restored itself.

The Silverlords redoubled their efforts, pushing back against her…

…and Suriel found herself stretched to her limit.

The instant she released her attention from Commandment, the Vroshir ships would re-open gateways to the Void and escape with the captured population.

But if she took an ounce of focus from Jester, the Silverlords would crack the barrier like an egg.

In one world, time was on her side. The longer she stalled in Commandment, the more likely her forces would defeat their opponents and reclaim the enemy transports.

In the other world, time was against her. The longer the siege of Jester lasted, the more opportunities the Silverlords would have to break open the shield.

And there were a dozen other worlds calling for a Judge. She didn’t have time.

[All forces halt,] her Presence called to the Abidan in Commandment. [Secure the remaining population of the planet. Allow the enemy to withdraw.]

In Commandment, the Abidan halted their assault. Multi-colored portals swirled in front of the blocky spacecraft, which vanished one by one into the Void, soon followed by their Vroshir guardians.

Only a handful of millions were left on the planet, but at least it was whole. She had protected as much of the Iteration as she could.

Now it was time to focus on Jester.

With a brief effort of will, Suriel passed through the Way and into the Iteration.

The instant she manifested in reality, the Silverlords cut off their attack and retreated. They stepped through portals of their own, several of them looking toward her and touching their silver crowns in mocking salute.

They knew better than to fight a Judge directly, but that meant only that they were cautious. Not afraid.

She couldn’t hunt them down, and they knew it. If she chased them too far, eventually they’d overwhelm her with numbers.

A saying passed down among Judges: “There are always more Silverlords.”

She felt that external surge of relief and elation crash over her again as the Abidan in the world celebrated her arrival. Suriel only wished she felt the same.

From their perspective, she had just won two great victories, but she knew better. In her head, a distress call from a far-off world went silent. There was no longer anyone left to cry out.

She hadn’t won anything.

She had only delayed defeat.

1

Mercy sat at her brother’s bedside, carefully peeling a fruit. She offered him a slice with trembling fingers.

“Pride…” she said softly. “Would you like this? Only if you feel up to it, okay? Don’t strain yourself.”

Pride snatched the rest of the fruit from her hand, leaving her holding only the slice. He bit into its flesh with an audible crunch.

He was trying to prove how strong he was, and that effort touched her. She almost teared up again, thinking of the suffering he’d been through when she failed to protect him. Juice dribbled down his chin, and she reached out with a napkin.

He slapped her hand away. “What are you doing?”

She spoke in a quiet, soothing tone. “You don’t have to prove yourself to me. It’s okay. You can relax.”

“That’s enough. Get out of the way.” He tossed the fruit aside and slid out of the bed.

“No! Aunt Charity said you have to rest!”

She wrestled him down, and initially she overpowered him. Until four Enforcer techniques flowed through him, and then he broke her grip, seized her by the shoulders, and shoved her back down into her chair.

Now that he stood over her for once, he glared down. “How injured do I look to you?”

Not at all, she had to admit. Her brother was a compact and heavily muscled man, which fit his Book with its many Enforcer techniques. He looked healthy as ever, ready to wrestle a bear, and his purple eyes had a sharp gleam.

He wasn’t injured anymore, and she knew that. In fact, as she understood it, Charity had restored him to the point that he had never been hurt in the first place.

“She still told you to rest,” Mercy insisted, and it sounded like a plea.

“Not to strain myself,” Pride corrected. “Straining myself is fighting two Overlords at once.” His voice caught on that sentence, darker emotion bleeding through, but he continued as though he didn’t notice. “I don’t need someone spoon-feeding me.”

Mercy hung her head. She knew all that, she just didn’t know what else she could do for him. Charity had emphasized that, while his physical and spiritual wounds were gone, the mental and emotional consequences were difficult to determine.

Coming from the Sage of the Silver Heart, that warning had sounded dire indeed.

More than just a shadow on his heart, this experience could impact his willpower and slow his future advancement. And it was all Mercy’s fault.

She had apologized over and over, until Pride had hit her on the head to stop her from talking. Now…she only wanted to help her little brother. She just didn’t know how.

Shakily, she offered him the one remaining wedge of fruit.

He sighed before taking it.

A shadow passing over the room was all the warning they had before Uncle Fury popped into existence between them, screaming loudly enough to hurt their ears.

Mercy was on her feet, readying Suu with an arrow of madra, and Pride fell back onto his bed with hands raised defensively.

Fury’s scream trailed off. “Sorry, sorry!” He rubbed the back of his head sheepishly, his hair drifting like black seaweed caught in an unseen current. “Not used to that yet. I thought I was about to fling myself into the center of the earth.”

Mercy straightened to meet his eyes, though she wasn’t quite tall enough. She ground the butt of her staff into the floor, and the dragon-headed Suu hissed. “What were you doing? Do you see what you did to Pride?”

Pride had already straightened and was brushing off his clothes. “I’m fine.”

Fury looked more embarrassed. “I didn’t mean to. It’s not as easy as Charity makes it look. How you feeling, Pride?”

“Perfect.”

“Oh, great!” He glanced at Mercy’s face before coughing and continuing to speak. “Ah, yeah, but wounds can be deeper than you realize. Even when the healing is done exactly right, sometimes time is still the best cure.”

“I think he’s pushing himself too much,” Mercy insisted.

Fury blinked. “By standing up?”

Pride gave her a look of superiority.

“He can handle it.” A trace of rage crept into Fury’s face, and his crimson eyes burned. “I came to let you know that we’ve captured Seishen Daji.”

Pride ground his teeth, and even Mercy felt a cold anger. She had known it was only a matter of time before the family found the Seishen Lords, but they had produced results even faster than she expected.

Now they would face justice.

“The trial’s in a few hours. Mercy, she wants you to sit in judgment.”

Mercy’s first instinct was to say that Pride was the one who deserved to pass judgment, as he was the one who had almost died. But she knew better. This was to get her used to determining the lives and deaths of others.

Pride gave her a nod. He understood too.

“I will hear them out,” Mercy said. “As fairly as I can.”

Fury reached out and placed a hand on each of them. “You know, I’d given up on my brothers and sisters until you two. Your father would be proud.”

Pride and Mercy both stared at their oldest half-brother. He tended to wax sentimental even less often than his daughter.

“Uncle Fury…” Mercy began. “…is everything all right?”

“What? Yeah! Of course, yeah, everything’s fine!” His red eyes slid up to the ceiling. “But I am going away.”

“Where?” Pride asked.

Fury pointed one finger to the ceiling, and the bottom dropped out of Mercy’s stomach.

“You’re ascending?”

He scratched the side of his neck without meeting her eyes. “I don’t really have a choice. It’s not a surprise, though. This was always part of the plan.”

“What about Aunt Naria?” Fury’s wife was an Archlady, but she almost never fought anymore. Mercy hadn’t seen her in years.

“She’s coming with me!” Fury said brightly. “The little ones are coming too, and a few families from my branch. I guess it’s embarrassing to ascend unless you’re bringing a whole parade with you.” He rolled his eyes, but she knew he didn’t really object.

He was unreliable in many ways, but he would hate the idea of leaving the world forever if it meant abandoning his children before they grew up. His youngest was only eight.

This was all too much for Mercy to take in so quickly after returning from the battlefield. It had been less than a day since she’d fought Sophara outside Sky’s Edge.

Pride seemed to be taking it all in stride. He folded his arms. “What about Aunt Charity?”

It was a good question. If the Akura clan lost two of their three pillars at once, they would be vulnerable. Even considering that their biggest rival had been killed.

By Yerin.

Mercy still couldn’t quite wrap her mind around that one.

“Charity’s staying,” Fury said, and he sounded a little regretful. “She has her own responsibilities. But she saw this coming a long time ago, and we made our peace with it.”

“When are you leaving?” Mercy asked.

“Now.”

He said it so matter-of-factly, but to Mercy it was another heavy blow in a long string. “You mean…today? You’re not even going to wait until we get home?”

Fury looked down on her sadly. “Well, tonight. I wish I could wait longer, but another Monarch staying in Cradle causes all sorts of problems. Especially now.”

She blinked back tears to focus on the implications of what he said, but Pride asked the question she wanted to.

“What does that mean?”

“Mother will explain it to you.” Fury’s shoulders slumped and he gave a heavy sigh. “I wish I could, but I don’t want to fight with her before I leave. Don’t worry too much, though; it won’t be too long before you join me yourself, Pride. Herald, Sage, doesn’t matter. Even some Archlords make it out by their own power.”

Mercy noticed that Fury didn’t include her in those words, and she knew why. If she succeeded Malice, she would stay in this world for the rest of her life. Which could stretch on for centuries.

Why did that make her sad? She liked this world.

But it did mean that she would probably never see Fury again.

“Did Mother…” Pride started speaking, but hesitated and visibly changed what he was about to say. “Is she going to come see you off?”

Mercy knew what he had started to ask. Pride wanted to know if she had come to see him when he was on the verge of death.

Fury answered the real question. “She would have come if we really needed her,” he said, though he didn’t sound very convincing. “Charity was plenty able to heal you. And Mother’s busy. There’s a Dreadgod, not to mention a bunch of dragons to kill.”

He sighed wistfully. “At least I got to finish off Xorrus. What a nice going-away present.”

“So she’s not going to see you off?” Mercy said.

“We said our good-byes a long time ago.”

Silence fell heavily over the room, and Mercy knew they were all thinking about their mother.

Fury finally broke the quiet by clapping his hands together. The entire room shook, and someone down the hall screamed.

“Not leaving until sunset, but I’ve got a lot of people to see before then. I’ll see you with the rest of the family then, all right?” He looked off into the distance. “In the meantime, you should probably go see your friends. I think Charity’s about to lock them in a box and sit on them.”

“What do you mean?” Mercy asked.

“Where are we supposed to go at sunset?” Pride added.

In an implosion of wind and a swirl of shadow, Fury vanished.

Mercy stopped herself in the doorway as she was about to leave, leaning back to check on Pride. “Are you going to be okay by yourself? Do you need anything?”

He gave her a flat look. “If you ask me that one more time, I’m going to pick a fight with Yerin.”

“Do…” She hesitated to say anything, but she couldn’t let that go. “…do you think you can?”

Pride folded his arms and sat back down on the bed. “Shut up.”

* * *

The cloud fortress that Lindon shared with Yerin had a control panel similar to those that he had used before. It was a raised, polished podium that looked like it had been designed to hold a book, but was instead covered in script-circles.

These controls were more elaborate than those he’d used in the past, and there were several secondary panels to his left and right. The main control panel was situated in the highest room of their home, and broad windows gave him a clear look outside even as projection constructs showed him glimpses of other angles.

It was designed to be as easy to pilot as possible, which would come in handy whenever he was allowed to do so.

The Ninecloud Soul’s feminine voice filled the inside of the control room. “We regret that we still cannot allow any air travel away from Ninecloud City at this point. We will inform you as soon as our security procedures change.”

“Apologies, but I don’t need to fly out of the city. I need a portal.”

“Sadly, our spatial travel is even more restricted at this time, and I cannot guarantee that we will ever be able to accommodate that request. If you would like to make an appointment with one of our Heralds, I can submit your petition into the queue, but we are experiencing a higher-than-normal volume of requests.”

Lindon was finding that even his polite tone was becoming strained. “I understand that, but as I said before, I don’t need you to provide me a portal. I would like you to connect me to the Akura clan.”

Every Akura he’d found had been more than happy to speak to him, but none of them were able to help him find Charity. Or Fury. Or Malice, for that matter.

In short, he couldn’t find anyone who could actually get him out of here.

He couldn’t even get to Mercy; the last time he’d tried, he had been told—politely, and with more than a few fearful glances—that she had asked not to be disturbed while she cared for her brother.

Under normal circumstances, he would have waited for her. He didn’t want to leave the city without letting her know, whether he needed her help or not.

But the Dreadgod was on its way to Sacred Valley. The ending that Suriel showed him had come at last.

No matter what assurances Eithan gave him, he couldn’t waste another second.

And now his seconds were being wasted for him.

“I apologize, but I have been unable to contact any Sages or Heralds from the Akura clan myself,” the Ninecloud Soul said. “I will pass along your message when it is appropriate; until that time, please return your cloudship to the dock.”

“Ram them,” Yerin said.

She stood at his shoulder, arms folded, two metallic red sword-arms poking out from over her shoulders. The fresh crimson streak in her otherwise-black hair still struck him as unexpected, as did her scarlet eyes.

“Who?” Lindon asked.

There were other cloudships in their view, but none of them were the ones trapping them in. It wasn’t as though he could ram the Ninecloud Soul.

Yerin shrugged. “Anybody. That ought to perk up their ears.”

He knew she wasn’t serious, but it was a measure of his frustration that he considered it for a moment.

The Ninecloud Soul’s voice gained an edge of panic. “Please, do not do anything in haste. You are valued guests of the Court, and I assure you, your requests will be considered with due importance.”

That was quite a sudden shift in attitude. Maybe threatening to ram someone had worked after all.

Dross popped onto Lindon’s shoulder, scowling with his one purple eye at the nine-colored flame that represented the Ninecloud Soul. [Don’t listen to her. She was going to lock us up.]

“I never said that,” the Soul corrected. “I said that if you continued to sabotage Court property, you would be punished to the extent of Ninecloud City law, but those circumstances were entirely different. We are now dealing with an unprecedented disaster, and at the time, you were acting well above your station. You did not have the status you have now.”

Dross’ eye narrowed. [That’s not what you said before. You said…]

He spun into a twisted copy of the Ninecloud Soul, but his colors were duller, and he was shrouded by a haze of oily smoke. He spoke in a version of the Soul’s voice, but he spat every word out in a vicious, spiteful tone.

[Lindon Arelius, if you don’t stop, I will ruin you. I will hunt you down to the ends of the earth! I swear I will destroy you, and even if you become some kind of Sage, I will never be satisfied until my vengeance shreds you to pieces!]

Dross’ form shifted, and he returned to his usual form of a round, purple, one-eyed creature. He stroked his bottom lip with one of his pseudopod arms and spoke in his normal voice. [Yeah, that sounds about right.]

For a moment, the Ninecloud Soul was stunned speechless.

“…is that how you remember my words?”

[I’d say I captured the core essence. The spirit of the message, you know. Better than you did, even. Not to brag.]

“We do not have time for this,” Lindon said. “Please. I recognize that you have a crisis to deal with, and I apologize, but there are lives at stake for us as well. I would be grateful if you could put me through to anyone that can authorize spatial travel.”

“I am truly sorry, but it is beyond the scope of my—” The Ninecloud Soul cut off mid-sentence. “Ah, it seems I spoke too soon. A representative of the Akura clan has arrived. Please contact me if you have any further requests. The Ninecloud Court values your friendship.”

The rainbow flame winked out as the Soul escaped, leaving Lindon to view one of his projection constructs. It displayed the image of the woman who had just stepped onto the edge of his cloud fortress.

She had a slight build and looked to be about twenty, her slick black hair tied into a neat bun. Her sacred artist robes were layers of black and white and violet, and her purple eyes had an ageless serenity.

Akura Charity stood at the base of their home.

Wards over the entire fortress made entering via spatial travel…not impossible, but more difficult. Lindon had requested that security measure to stop Sages from popping in unannounced.

He suspected that one day soon, Eithan would be able to teleport. Best to plan for that early.

Sages could most likely overpower those protections, and Monarchs certainly could, but it would be better than nothing. Evidently that script had kept Charity out, or he was certain she would have appeared at his elbow instead of knocking on his front door.

When she did knock, the entire castle shook.

She was already unhappy. Lindon didn’t think that was fair.

Lindon’s pure madra slipped into the control panel. Opening the doors remotely required an intricate process of chaining madra from script to script, which recently would have strained his concentration.

Now, it was as though his madra did as he wished without his input. On the ground floor, the door swung open.

Once she was through the threshold and inside the protective script, Charity stepped into shadow. She emerged at Lindon’s side a second later.

“You can’t leave,” she said flatly.

Lindon pressed his fists together to salute the Sage of the Silver Heart. “I am grateful for your attention, but we have no time to wait. My homeland is in imminent danger from the Dreadgod. If you would provide us with travel there and back, it would greatly speed our return.”

She moved her gaze from Lindon to Yerin and back. “It was risky enough to allow you to move as you wished when you were only a talented young Underlord. Do you expect me to permit an Underlord Sage and the world’s first…pseudo-Herald…to willingly place themselves in the path of the Wandering Titan?”

That sentence raised Lindon’s curiosity on a number of points.

“Pseudo-Herald,” Yerin repeated. “Would have thought they’d give me a shinier name.”

“Do I count as a Sage, officially?” Lindon asked.

Charity flicked one hand. “This is why you must stay with us. You need guidance now more than ever. You are—both of you—playing with forces beyond your comprehension, long before you are ready to do so. Now that we’re losing my father, we cannot afford to stretch our resources any thinner.”

Lindon’s heart froze. Losing her father?

Dross gasped.

Even Yerin rested a hand on her sword. “Are the Heralds still on him?” she asked, as though she could do something to influence that fight.

He startled himself as he realized that she potentially could.

While she wasn’t a full Herald, and he didn’t expect her to be blotting out the sky with her techniques yet, they hadn’t found the time to test out the full extent of her abilities. If Fury was still alive and fighting, maybe Yerin could turn the tide in his favor.

But if he was still fighting, Charity wouldn’t be here. Fury must already be gone.

“He’s ascending,” Charity said. There was an edge of bitterness to the words.

[Ooohhh, that sounds fascinating!] Dross said. [And sorry for your loss. Can we watch?]

“If you stay,” the Sage responded.

The passing seconds pressed in on Lindon, but he needed Charity’s cooperation. “Losing your father will be a loss to us all, and I’m sorry to hear it. I will be happy to comply with anything you wish...after I’ve done this one last thing.”

Everything he’d done, all the pain he’d suffered, all the long hours he’d put in, it had all been to save Sacred Valley. He refused to fail now.

“Your homeland is in the path of the Dreadgod. If there are individuals you wish to evacuate, I’m sure we can arrange that. Carefully. With planning. There are reasons we don’t enter that territory.”

Lindon defied his long-standing instincts by steadily meeting her eye and asking her a direct question. As though they were equals. “And what are those reasons?”

She matched him for a long moment.

“It’s too dangerous,” she said at last. “There are ancient protections in place that…dampen…the powers of anyone above a certain threshold. The field affects you more strongly the more powerful you are, and for some it can be lethal. Large cloudships can’t even fly in such thin aura.”

“A security measure for the labyrinth,” Lindon said.

He had learned a few things. Most recently from a careful inspection of some documents from the Ninecloud City records.

Charity gave him a short nod. “We don’t avoid that place because we hate it. It’s dangerous, and a hundred times so now that there’s a Dreadgod on its way.”

Yerin stood stiffly at Lindon’s side. “Feed that to me one more time.”

“Surely I’m not the first to inform you that the Wandering Titan is on the move,” Charity said, with a glance at Lindon.

“Not that. You’re talking about a boundary field that smothers sacred arts.” Lindon could read tension in every inch of her body. Even her sword-arms were poised, like scorpion tails.

When he realized what she was talking about, he felt it like a slap to the face. This field must have led to the death of her master. He should have seen that immediately and prepared her for it, but he had only been thinking about the implications to his homeland.

Charity spread her hands. “If you’ll dock your cloudship, I would be delighted to explain what little I know about this restricted area.”

“Rotten deal for me, isn’t it? I’m about to see it with my own two eyes.”

Yerin had relaxed somewhat, but Lindon reached out and rested his left hand on her shoulder. Her madra spun restlessly through her body.

To him, the mystery of the Sword Sage’s death was just a small question, a distant itch. As he’d advanced, he’d wondered how it could be possible, but it had never been urgent enough to demand his attention.

To Yerin, it must be far more important. That deserved real investigation.

Once Sacred Valley was safe.

“There are people living in that field,” Lindon said. “Surely they’re entitled to the protection of the Akura clan, or at least the Blackflame Empire.”

“I don’t wish to speak ill of your homeland,” Charity said, “but we only allow them to remain because they aren’t worth our time. They’re like fleas living in an armory. We could sweep them out, but why bother?”

Lindon felt a little guilty that he found Charity’s perspective reasonable.

The Sage’s attachment to him and Yerin made sense as well. They now represented a significant force for the Akura clan. She didn’t want that slipping through her fingers.

But if he had value, he had leverage.

“Did I not contribute enough to our cause during the fight for Sky’s Edge?” he asked quietly. “Have I not done as you wished all this time? Have I not exceeded your expectations over and over again? How about Yerin?”

“I know your worth better than you do. It is precisely because of that—”

Lindon cut her off. “Apologies, but I wasn’t finished.”

If he was going to use his value, he may as well act like it.

Though his heart hammered, and he could feel Charity’s will focusing on him.

It felt strange, like her intentions were pressing down on him from the outside. She was frustrated, and she wanted to force him to see things from her perspective, but knew she couldn’t.

Before he lost his nerve, he continued. “All of that, I’ve done to spare my family from this fate. I desperately want your support, but if I don’t have it, we will fly there ourselves, no matter how long it takes. If we must, we will walk.”

It felt wrong to speak for Yerin, but she stood at his side and nodded along.

A voice echoed from the floor below. “We won’t make it if we walk!” Eithan shouted up.

“So we won’t walk,” Lindon allowed. “We can find other transportation if we must.”

“It won’t be as fast!” Eithan called again.

Lindon spread his hands. “Which is why I would like your help.” And, because he couldn’t resist, he added, “…and I apologize for interrupting you.”

He was hoping that his resolve would make an impression on the Heart Sage, but her face was still placid. She did, however, let out a long breath.

“Lindon. Yerin. I will do anything in my power to keep you as allies. So instead of forcing you, I will beg you.”

To Lindon’s surprise and discomfort, Charity bowed deeply at the waist.

“Please, do not go yourselves. There is too much that may go wrong, and humanity will be worse off for your deaths. Please stay here.”

Even Yerin shifted uncomfortably, and she flicked a glance up at Lindon to gauge his reaction.

At that moment, the script-circle on a panel to Lindon’s right lit up with a new figure made of light. Mercy was running up to their front door, waving a black-clad hand.

“Can you hear me? Open up!”

Lindon triggered the door without thought, and Mercy’s projection beamed as she ran through. “Thank you!” she called.

Charity straightened from her bow, folding her hands in front of her and waiting as though she had expected Mercy to arrive with exactly that timing.

When Mercy reached the top floor and joined them in person, she spoke immediately. “Don’t hurt them, Aunt Charity!”

Mercy’s appearance was sloppier than usual. Her hair had been tied back unevenly, with strands escaping here and there, and her black-and-white robes were rumpled and loosely tied. There were unexplained smudges on her face, and Lindon wondered if she’d had a chance to rest.

Overlords didn’t need much sleep, but they’d all had an exhausting few days.

Charity’s eyebrows tightened. “What makes you think I was going to hurt them?”

Lindon absolutely thought Charity would use violence to make them listen, but he didn’t say so.

Mercy ground her staff and raised her chin, as confident as if she were giving an order. “They’ve earned the right to go where they want.”

Maybe she was delivering an order, though Charity still outranked Mercy in their family hierarchy.

The Sage was unmoved. “Even if we ignore the Dreadgod, there are other threats. If an enemy Monarch or Sage finds them, they will be slaughtered.”

“Then aren’t they going to the safest possible place?”

“Not from the Wandering Titan.”

Yerin waved one crimson-tinted sword-arm. “Malice owes me a prize.”

“The Monarchs collectively do,” Charity pointed out. “Our clan owes you a debt of gratitude that we will gladly repay, but it is poor compensation to send you into certain death.”

“Then help us,” Lindon said. “You said we could organize something to evacuate Sacred Valley without us going in person. Why don’t we do both?”

He had pushed her for help before, but now he felt he had an opening. “It can only be faster than going alone. And safer.”

Charity looked to Mercy, who eagerly nodded. The Sage searched the faces of Lindon and Yerin, and then she closed her eyes.

Lindon couldn’t tell if she was communing with her Monarch, looking through her own memories, or even gazing into the future, but he sensed nothing.

After a few breaths, she opened her eyes.

“I can only mobilize perhaps two dozen passenger cloudships,” she said. “They have a maximum capacity of six thousand apiece, so depending on the size of your valley, you may need to make multiple trips, and that may not be possible if the Dreadgod is too close.”

Lindon’s spirits soared, but before he could thank her, she continued.

“Furthermore, the cloudships cannot operate inside the valley’s security field. The ships will have to wait at the border. I will leave their crews under your command, and they can help you evacuate, but they will have standing orders to leave immediately at the first sign of the Wandering Titan. Even if they have no passengers aboard.

“Finally, in order to reach the territory in question, we will need to pass through the portal to Sky’s Edge. Where the Dreadgod is currently feeding.”

A chill passed through Lindon’s spine. He remembered the massive humanoid figure of dark stone, its shell rising from the ocean like an island.

He had felt its thoughts crashing over his mind in an avalanche of hunger.

He could imagine what it was like when it was awake, active, and focused on destruction. He could imagine it all too well.

“I will enter the portal first,” Charity continued. “If I believe the situation is too dangerous, I will not allow you to pass. Once I have escorted you through, if the situation is too risky for the other cloudships to follow, then I will leave them behind and you will be on your own. Even if everything goes perfectly, I expect you to be wise enough not to throw your lives away and to return as quickly as possible. If these conditions are not acceptable, then I cannot allow you to go at all.”

She spoke as though she expected resistance, but Lindon couldn’t understand why.

Not acceptable? That was perfect. She was offering more support than he had hoped for, much less expected.

Now, he had a real chance of success.

Dross folded his arms. [That seems convenient, don’t you think? Awfully convenient. You’ve got some kind of plan for us, don’t you? A secret Sage plan. I’d trust you a lot more if you gave me a peek inside your memories. Just a quick—]

“It’s perfect,” Lindon said in a rush, forcibly cutting off Dross. He bowed as deeply as he could. “My sincere gratitude. I cannot thank you enough.”

[Something I’ve noticed about you,] Dross said to Lindon from inside his head. [You’re so agreeable once you get what you want.]

“Thank me when you come back alive,” Charity muttered. “It will take some time to arrange the cloudships, and my father is about to ascend. The earliest we can leave is tomorrow morning, so in the meantime I will put you to work. Disembark your cloudship and return to the tower. Dress for a formal occasion.”

Lindon chafed at the delay, but ultimately this should save him time. If it meant two dozen more cloudships with which to evacuate the population, then he could wait.

Charity rubbed at the center of her forehead as though to soothe a headache. “Now, do you have any other business with me?”

If he said he did, Lindon thought Charity might transport him to the bottom of the ocean. “Apologies for taking up so much of your time, honored Sage. We will see you tonight.”

She waited a moment longer, purple eyes looking him up and down. “You’re a Sage yourself now,” she said at last. “Even if you have a long way to go. Call me Charity.”

Mercy sputtered while Lindon tried to formulate a response, but the Sage didn’t wait.

In a fold of shadow, Charity vanished.

2

The cold weight of Lindon’s wintersteel badge hung against his chest as he stood witness in the trial.

This room in the Akura tower of the Ninecloud Court had been shrouded entirely in shadows. The edges were totally black, creating the impression that the circle of people in the center existed in the one well-lit island in a sea of endless dark.

Purple eyes glowed in the darkness, all filled with rage, all focused on the three figures bound and kneeling in the middle.

Meira, Underlady of the Seishen Kingdom, looked largely unharmed. Her gray hair, unfitting for her age, hung messy behind her, but her skin was untouched. Her pink flower Goldsign shone over one ear.

Her eyes were weary, fearful, and resigned over the gag that trapped the entire lower half of her face. It was a contraption of metal and scripted leather, and it suppressed almost as much power as the halfsilver cuffs that encircled her wrists.

An older man, built like a noble bear, was bent and bound next to her. Unlike her, he bore obvious wounds, with blood trickling from his salt-and-pepper hair to stain his short beard.

King Seishen Dakata breathed heavily through his nose, obviously trying to keep up a breathing technique, but Lindon had seen the Akura Overlords carrying him in.

They had not been gentle.

In the worst shape by far was Dakata’s remaining son, Seishen Daji. One of his eyes was swollen shut, his clothes were torn and looked to be somewhat burned, and instead of handcuffs, both his arms were wrapped in halfsilver chains. That had to be spiritual agony.

He wore no complex scripted muzzle, but had a dirty rag stuffed in his mouth to gag him. While he trembled in fear and pain, Lindon would call his expression sullen, even defiant.

Whatever fate the Akura family was about to decide for him, it would be no worse than he deserved.

Akura Charity stepped forward, her young-looking face cold as usual. “Kingdom of Seishen. You stand accused of conspiracy to assassinate members of the Akura head family.” She pulled a scripted spike from a void key and held it up.

It resembled a long tent stake made of stone and ringed with runes, and Lindon had seen it before. It was the spatial anchor Daji had tossed into Lindon’s team to summon the Blood Sage. Leading directly to their deaths.

The anchor would be dangerous to carry around, lest someone else use it to teleport into their midst, except that Charity had sealed off the runes with scripted straps. Only once the straps were removed could the device be used again.

“A trusted witness testified that one of you used this device to summon assassins,” the Sage continued. “The traces of madra remaining in the script have aspects similar, possibly identical, to your Paths.”

Seishen Dakata looked to his left, and the horror that slowly crept over his face was enough to tell Lindon he was innocent.

Because his son surely wasn’t.

Meira’s eyes drifted shut, and she heaved a deep sigh.

Charity continued to speak quietly. “Your guilt is beyond doubt. We are gathered here to decide the extent of that guilt and the severity of your punishment. Your fate lies not in your hands…nor in mine.”

She extended the spatial anchor to her right, where Mercy hesitated before taking it. She looked from the scripted spike to her aunt’s face…then, with obvious resolve, she seized the anchor.

When she stepped forward, she quivered with a cold fury of the sort that Lindon had never seen on her. “Underlady Meira,” Mercy said, “I will address you first.”

The script on the leather over Meira’s mouth dimmed, but she didn’t speak.

“Swear to answer my questions truthfully,” Mercy commanded.

There was a long moment before Meira’s voice came out, heavy as a tomb door and quiet as a whisper. “I swear on my soul to answer you with the truth and tell you no lies.”

Lindon felt the oath between Mercy and Meira as a distant quiver in the air. He had a whole new set of senses now. He would have to get used to them.

Sometime after Seishen Daji got his justice.

“What do you know of the attempt on my brother’s life, my life, and the murder of three other young sacred artists of the Akura clan?”

It was strange to hear Mercy speak with such gravity and hidden anger, and indeed she looked furious, grieved, and uncomfortable in equal measure.

Meira shook her head, her eyes still closed. “I knew of no plot against you or the Akura clan until this moment.”

“Do you believe it plausible that one among the Seishen Kingdom did carry out such a plot?”

“Yes.”

“You know who it was, don’t you?”

“…I suspect I do.” Meira tilted her head slightly in Daji’s direction, though her eyes were still closed. “I warned you, Daji. I warned you and warned you.”

King Dakata lunged against his manacles, coming up short at the chain holding him to the ground. He screamed into his muzzle, only a muffled sound coming from him.

“Thank you, Meira,” Mercy said softly. “King Dakata, you may—”

The instant the script around the king’s mouth stopped shining, his shouts resolved. “Me! It was me! I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you all!”

He shrieked in rage, making a show of fury, even snapping his jaws behind his muzzle as though he wished he could bite out Mercy’s throat, but Lindon was certain the anger was just a front.

It was nothing spiritual or supernatural, no working of madra or willpower. The king’s desperation just seemed more like fear than anger.

Mercy’s hand trembled on the anchor. “King Dakata, will you swear—”

“GET OVER HERE!” He craned forward, growling and pulling against his restraints. “RELEASE ME! I’LL DO IT MYSELF!”

“Swear to tell the—”

“KILL ME! KILL ME, YOU COWARDS!”

“Your Majesty, if you won’t cooperate, we’ll have—”

“I’LL RIP OUT YOUR RIBS ONE AT A TIME! I’LL—”

This time, Mercy cut him off.

By leaping across the room and seizing him by the jaw. Her hand covered in a crystalline purple gauntlet, she squeezed across the muzzle on his face, slowly lifting him one-handed until his eyes were even with hers.

The chain binding him to the floor went taut, pulling his arms back by their manacles until his shoulders looked like they were ready to dislocate, but Mercy was filled with incandescent violet rage.

“Shut up. SHUT UP!” Her breathing was wild, her madra growing erratic, and shadows danced all around the room. “What do you think is going to happen? That I’m going to punish you and let your son free? What about your kingdom? You think if you take the blame, everyone else goes home?”

He tried to speak, but she shook him violently with one hand. “I want you to go home! You understand me? That’s what I want. I am not here for anyone who doesn’t deserve it. Not even you.”

His muzzle blazed purple again and she shoved him back down, moving to the third Seishen sacred artist in line. Mercy tucked her hands behind her back, and Lindon knew they were shaking.

His heart ached for her. She must hate this.

Ordinarily, Lindon would feel the same way.

But under the circumstances, he could pass judgment on Daji with an ice-cold heart.

“Seishen Daji,” Mercy said, “swear on your soul to tell me the truth.”

“I swear,” Daji said. He licked his lips but gave her a bold stare, as though trying to cover up fear with bravado.

Mercy drew herself up, and the pressure of her Overlord spirit built like a thunderhead. “Say the rest.”

“I swear to tell you the truth.”

Lindon felt the oath snap into place between the two of them, and he couldn’t deny surprise. He had expected Daji to dodge the promise like his father had done.

Mercy brought out the spatial anchor. “What is this?”

“I don’t know,” Daji said easily.

So easily, and the oath didn’t stop him.

Was it true?

Mercy’s eyebrows twitched, but she went on. “A reliable witness saw you plant this, and then our Archlords stopped you from activating a gatestone. Where would the stone have taken you?”

The fear was leaking out of Daji, leaving confidence. “Home. I feared that a rival of mine would use underhanded tactics to get revenge on me.” He gave an overt glance in Lindon’s direction.

Lindon sensed the bond that stretched between Daji’s soul and Mercy’s. It didn’t tremble.

What’s going on? Lindon asked Dross.

Dross returned an image of himself with both boneless arms spread in a shrug. [Reigan Shen?]

It hadn’t taken a genius to deduce who was behind the attack. The assassins had been openly wearing Shen’s colors.

Still, no matter how certain they were, Malice was the only one who could push a grudge against a Monarch. Malice, and now Fury.

Until he ascended.

It had to have been Reigan Shen that allowed Daji to lie under oath. Not that Lindon had any idea how that would be possible.

But the Akura family hadn’t blindly trusted Lindon because of his long association with Mercy. They’d taken his sworn statement and even read his memory of the event…though as far as they knew, that last part could have been fabricated by Dross.

Not to mention that Lindon hadn’t been the only one on that rooftop. Four others had glimpsed Daji in the vicinity, or seen something thrown to the floor before the group vanished. Everyone here knew who the guilty party was.

Even so, this was only the first stage of the Akura clan’s investigation. It would be long and, no doubt, exhaustive.

Daji’s spine straightened, and he spoke with more confidence. “I know of no plot against the Akura clan, and neither does my father. We are loyal, and we do not deserve this treatment.” He glared at Lindon openly now. “I only know of a plot against us.”

Lindon’s disgust ignited into hot, clean anger.

Mercy’s hand trembled on the anchor. Next to her, Charity’s face was a mask. King Dakata was panting, looking to his son with new hope, as though he hadn’t dared to believe Daji might be innocent. Meira simply looked confused. Confused and tired.

The other Akura around the room glanced to Lindon, and he felt their attention on him. His nerves crawled, and in lesser company, he would have felt their suspicion.

But they hadn’t earned their way into this room on combat strength alone. One by one they surveyed him, then returned their attention to Daji.

Who was trying his hardest to look innocent and hurt.

“If this is about my attack on you,” Daji said to Mercy, “I can only beg your forgiveness. It was so long ago, and I pray to the heavens that you’ll find the…mercy…to forgive me.”

Silence rolled over the room like a boulder.

[Was that…was he making a joke?]

Mercy’s expression twisted in disgust. “So then, you swear to me on your soul that this is nothing more than a personal grudge between you and the witness who reported you?”

“That is the only explanation that would satisfy me.”

“You believe he has accused you falsely?”

“Yes,” Daji spat, but then he wrestled his anger under control again. “I mean, that’s the only explanation I can think of. My loyalty is, and always has been, to the Akura clan.”

Daji turned to shoot another look at Lindon, only to see—too late—King Dakata frantically shaking his head.

Mercy looked to Lindon with sadness in her eyes, but Lindon gave her a grim nod. He saw where this was going.

She regretted the necessity, but he didn’t.

He slowly pushed past some members of the Akura family, limbering up his madra.

“Very well then,” Mercy pronounced. “In the lack of further evidence, this must be nothing more than a personal grudge between Wei Shi Lindon Arelius and Seishen Daji of the Seishen Kingdom.”

As Lindon’s eyes darkened, Daji’s skin paled.

Mercy continued as King Dakata started screaming into his muzzle again. “The investigation into the Seishen Kingdom will continue, but first let this personal grudge between accuser and accused be settled.”

“Seishen Daji,” Lindon said quietly, “I challenge you to a duel.”

The other two prisoners were being hauled away—Meira quietly and Dakata struggling every inch of the way. An Underlady in Akura colors but with no purple eyes waved her hands over Daji, and a complex waterfall of emerald life madra cascaded down over him.

“No!” Daji shouted as his injuries knit together. “Why should I fight him? This isn’t fair!”

Mercy sounded regretful, but she still spoke clearly. “What could be more fair? You’re both Underlords. He has accused you of a terrible crime, for which he has provided evidence, but you insist he is only smearing your good name. Very well. Defend your honor.”

“I don’t have—”

“The Akura clan will uphold the results of the duel,” Mercy interrupted.

Next to her, Charity nodded once.

Daji licked his lips, his eyes flitting around. “I…if I win, I’ll go free?”

“If you win, we will continue our investigation as though Lindon accused you out of a personal grudge, which has been resolved,” Mercy said. Which didn’t quite answer the question.

Daji, though, grasped at the thin lifeline he had been offered. “Give me back my swords. And my armor.”

“Your armor was damaged in your apprehension, and we found no swords on you.”

Lindon’s void key slipped open, the closet-sized door hanging in the air to his right. He sent his spiritual sense inside, summoning a pair of swords, which leaped to him with a quick application of force aura.

“I happen to have found these lying on the ground recently,” Lindon said. “Do they suit you?”

They were, of course, Daji’s.

He tossed them to Daji, who seized one thin sword in each hand. The Seishen Underlord hurled the sheaths off so they clattered to the ground. The Striker bindings in each blade kindled to life, and sparks ran up and down the metal.

“He has accepted his weapons,” Mercy said. “Lindon, you may use weapons of your own.”

Lindon folded his arms in front of him. “Gratitude, but I am as armed as I need to be.”

The lithe, wolf-like Seishen Underlord leaned forward, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, swords held low. He radiated fear, anger. Hunger.

Lindon knew the feeling.

He remembered Akura Grace’s cold, lifeless eyes. Courage’s body. Douji’s. Pride’s bloody, beaten form as he swayed on his feet.

Daji had caused all that. If Lindon couldn’t leave for Sacred Valley until the morning, at least this was worth some time.

“Begin,” Mercy said.

A bolt of lightning madra coursed over Lindon’s shoulder, but his fist had already smashed into Daji’s nose.

The Seishen prince blasted backwards, his spine slamming into an old man in the audience.

Akura Justice was an ancient Archlord. Daji bounced off his palm as though he’d run into a brick wall.

Daji’s face was a bloody mess, his nose shattered, and Lindon’s next punch broke his ribs and lifted him into the air.

Outclassed he may have been, but Daji’s body had still been remade in soulfire. He twisted in midair and his sword expanded to massive size with Forged madra. He slashed at Lindon, beneath him, with a blade the size of his entire body.

Lindon’s eyes cooled as they turned to crystalline blue, and blue-white pure madra erupted into a dome all around him. He controlled the expansion of the Hollow Domain so he wouldn’t catch any of the Akura clan in it, but Daji’s technique slid through the dome.

It dissolved like dust in water.

Lindon let the cloud of harmless essence pass over him as Daji fell into the field and his Enforcer technique failed him. The prince twisted to land with his legs beneath him, but Lindon grabbed his ankle.

Daji caught himself with his hands, rather than crashing face-first into the ground, but that wasn’t the result Lindon wanted.

So he lifted Daji one-handed and slammed the Underlord back into the ground.

At first, Daji twisted to kick Lindon’s head with his free leg, but the power Lindon had drained from Crusher still flowed through him. The kick landed like a dragonfly smashing into a window.

Lindon smashed him into the ground again.

Daji kept trying to pull his madra together, but under the influence of the Hollow Domain and the trauma of the beating, he couldn’t form a technique.

And Lindon was holding Daji’s ankle with his right hand.

Whenever it looked like the prince was about to finish a technique, Lindon bled the madra away with the Consume technique and vented it into Daji’s back. The force and earth madra came out like a fistful of bricks.

All the while, Lindon hammered him against the floor over and over.

It didn’t resemble anything like an honorable sacred artist’s duel. There was no dignity and no possibility of escape. Only when Daji was bloody, broken, and whimpering did Lindon let the Hollow Domain die and drop the prince one final time.

Everyone watched Daji land on the ground with a smack, where he curled in on himself with a sound like a cross between a scream and a groan.

Lindon knelt beside him, speaking quietly. “I tried to leave you alone.”

Almost gently, he pulled the prince up from the ground by his collar. Daji sputtered and spat out blood.

“I know this was just you. Meira and your father…they’re smarter than this. I don’t think a Monarch would have approached them. Am I right?”

Daji burbled incoherently, his eyes spinning in their sockets to come to rest on Lindon. They were surprisingly lucid.

“You deserve to die. You know that. But they don’t, do they?”

For a moment, the anger and the pain cleared from Daji’s eyes. For the first time, Lindon saw something human in them.

Very slightly, the prince of the Seishen Kingdom shook his head.

Lindon rose to his feet as Mercy, rather unnecessarily, announced victory. Seishen Daji was dragged off into the shadows, and Lindon remembered Orthos’ words from long ago: “The Akura do not kill honorably. They take prisoners.”

“I believe him,” Lindon said to Mercy.

“Y-yeah…” Mercy said. She sounded like she was trying to encourage him.

“I know his confession won’t make a difference.” It wasn’t as though a single shake of the head after a brutal beating counted as proof. Even the ‘duel’ had just been another way of punishing Daji within the Akura clan’s rules, not a way of obtaining evidence.

But Lindon did believe him.

“I’ll ask them to take it easy,” Mercy promised.

Charity slipped up beside them. “We will take it easy on everyone but Daji. Unless we find evidence of collusion. How did you feel about your arbitration, Mercy?”

“Terrible.”

Lindon gave her a comforting pat on the shoulder, but he was already turning to leave. “I have to prepare. I’ll see you tonight.”

“Where are you…no, it doesn’t matter. I have to stay with Pride. I’ll see you tonight!”

Charity’s eyes narrowed on him. “You know not to leave the city, don’t you?”

“Of course, Charity. Thank you for your concern.”

It felt almost painful to call a Sage by her given name, but she only nodded before vanishing with Mercy.

Lindon rubbed at the blood on his fist as he walked through the artificial veil of shadow. Dross projected images of what the room had looked like before, so he strode through like the darkness was only a thin mist. His mental map would be accurate, assuming no furniture had been added that Dross didn’t know about.

[Not to cast doubt on my own predictions, but I thought you were going to kill him.]

I wanted to, Lindon admitted. It had been a struggle to hold himself back from crushing Daji into a ball. He wasn’t proud of that, but he couldn’t pretend that Daji hadn’t earned it.

[Why…ah, if you don’t mind me asking, why didn’t you?]

Lindon stretched out his newfound Sage’s senses, feeling the tear in space where the Akura servants had slipped through a temporary portal. They had dragged the prisoners somewhere immediately, possibly Moongrave, where no one could interrupt them. Where Seishen Daji couldn’t be saved, even by Reigan Shen.

Lindon responded silently to Dross.

My name isn’t Mercy.

* * *

Uncle Fury’s ascension ceremony should have been held in the main house, in a hall dedicated for that purpose. Mercy had heard of several family members who had ascended, but never in her lifetime. As far as she knew.

But most of the important members of the Akura clan had come here to Ninecloud City for the Uncrowned King tournament, and it would cost far too much to send everyone to Moongrave. Perhaps her mother could have done it, but she hadn’t shown herself since the Monarch-level battle that had devastated the surrounding countryside.

Not even for her own son leaving the world.

Mercy had to admit that she couldn’t know what kind of contact Uncle Fury and her mother had shared after his ascension to Monarch. Maybe they had enjoyed a heartfelt mother-and-son moment that she wasn’t privy to.

It wasn’t likely, but she could dream.

All the most critical members of the Akura clan gathered in a wide basement beneath their amethyst tower. The gathering had the atmosphere of a party, with the members who were leaving alongside Fury mingling and saying their good-byes while servants drifted around with trays of drinks and snacks.

Uncle Fury, his wife Naria, and many of their children would be leaving together. Their youngest were eight and twelve years old, while their oldest were white-haired and bent. Many of their children were staying; some were too critical to the function of the clan, like Aunt Charity, while others simply didn’t want to leave.

A few of Fury’s descendants had ascended already, many years before, though of course none had done so by reaching Monarch.

In addition to immediate relatives, several distant families under Fury’s branch were coming along with him, as well as a retinue of servants and attendants. All told, about two hundred people were joining the newest Monarch in his ascension.

Some of them had not been here from the Uncrowned King tournament, but had been summoned by Aunt Charity and Uncle Fury at great expense.

Mercy milled around herself, saying good-byes and shedding her share of tears. She hadn’t been especially close to any of those leaving except Aunt Naria, but these were still people she knew. Her family.

In a way, it was like they were dying.

She swiped her eyes as she emerged from a gaggle of her nieces and nephews—many of whom were decades older than she was—to see Lindon and Yerin arrive.

They were immediately mobbed by her relatives.

The sight warmed her heart. It hadn’t been long since the Akura clan had looked down on Lindon and Yerin, and would have approached them only out of necessity or as part of a scheme.

Now, they were tripping over themselves to make a good impression.

Her friends had shown their worth. To everyone.

Lindon loomed over everyone else, and the look of discomfort on his face made him look more like he had before his advancement to Underlord: as though he was searching for something to punch. Unfortunately for him, as a Lord he was handsome enough to take the edge off, so his new admirers would take his expression to be stern and regal.

Yerin looked more at ease than Lindon, shoving through her much-larger crowd and cornering a servant holding a tray of tiny dumplings. She seized a pair for herself, then—when she saw that Lindon was still pinned by Akura clan members—reached in and pulled him out by the hand.

After he let himself be hauled to freedom, he didn’t release her hand right away.

That sight made Mercy slow for a moment. She couldn’t put a name to what she felt. It wasn’t jealousy, exactly. At least, she didn’t think so. Maybe envy.

She had never had many friends in the Akura clan. She considered herself a friend to almost everyone, but very few felt that way about her. From the moment she was chosen by the Book of Eternal Night, she was apart from the rest of them. Separate. A target of alliance for the ambitious, or a rival to be overcome, or perhaps even someone to be feared.

Despite only having known them a couple of years, she thought of Lindon and Yerin as her closest friends. And they were getting closer to each other, one step at a time.

Leaving her alone.

Yerin saw Mercy and brightened. It was still a shock to see Yerin with eyes that resembled Uncle Fury’s, but Mercy waved cheerily. Yerin came over to meet her in a moment, still holding Lindon’s hand.

The surrounding Akuras backed off to give them some space.

“Your family’s a touch friendlier than before,” Yerin remarked, popping a miniature dumpling into her mouth whole. “Wonder why.”

Lindon finally slipped his hand from Yerin’s, sliding it into the pocket of his outer robe instead. “I know why they want to talk to you, but I’m not sure what they want from me.”

“You did fantastic in the tournament!” Mercy assured him. But because she knew what he meant, she continued. “Some of them know about your performance in Sky’s Edge, and the smarter ones may have heard about what…showed up in the sky.”

Mercy couldn’t believe it herself, though she had seen Lindon toy with Sophara, and she’d even witnessed the black hole that covered the clouds. Charity had explained it to her. A little.

Lindon was a Sage now.

Mercy still wasn’t quite sure how that was possible.

Lindon looked relieved. “Gratitude. I was worried it was something…else.”

Mercy wracked her brain, but couldn’t imagine what he was talking about. “What else could it possibly be?”

“Apologies, I don’t mean to speak ill of your family. I thought perhaps they were using me to get closer to Yerin, or trying to get revenge because I overshadowed them, or they wanted to blackmail me to force me to fight for them.”

“Of course not!” Mercy exclaimed. Did her family really have that bad of a reputation in Lindon’s eyes?

Yerin and Lindon looked at each other, exchanging a look between them that once again made Mercy feel left out.

“Truly, I do apologize, but…they’ve done all of those things.”

Mercy shut her mouth. They were right. Now that she thought of it, she didn’t know why she’d bothered to defend her relatives in the first place.

She had never liked the way her family handled things. They twisted themselves in knots to appease those stronger, and expected the same from those beneath them. They never associated with the weak unless they stood to gain something.

It wasn’t as though she really thought her family was better than that, she just…wanted them to be.

“Yeah,” she said quietly. “I’m sorry.”

The emotions she’d been feeling before—sorrow at the loss of her family members—came back in full force and blended with her guilt. With Uncle Fury and his immediate family leaving, there were even fewer good people left in the Akura clan.

Not that Fury didn’t have his share of issues. The legends of certain cultures regarded him as a monster.

Maybe there were no good people in her family.

The air around her began to literally darken as her shadow madra leaked out, reflecting her gloom.

Yerin rapped her on the top of the head with one knuckle.

She hadn’t struck particularly hard, and Mercy’s Overlord-level body was resilient. Even so, the impact hurt.

Mercy clapped one black-clad hand to the injury, but Yerin didn’t look the least bit sympathetic. “You can cut that off right now. You know we’re not putting anything they did on your account.”

Mercy blinked rapidly and took deep breaths to get ahold of herself. It had been a long few days.

Before she could thank Yerin, Uncle Fury emerged from the crowd, looming over most everyone—though not Lindon—and beaming ear to ear.

He strode confidently up to Yerin, and to Mercy’s horror, he had his right hand cocked back and gathering madra. It looked like he was about to attack.

Yerin pushed past Mercy, her own right hand drawn back.

Mercy’s horror choked her, but disbelief prevented her from moving. Someone should stop this. She should stop this. What was—

The palms of the Herald and the Monarch cracked together in an explosion that left some of the nearby crowd stumbling back. The wind snatched at formal robes and shoved snacks off platters.

Yerin and Uncle Fury clasped hands, Fury grinning and Yerin wearing a similar expression.

“I’m so jealous,” Fury said. “What did it feel like, killing a Monarch?”

Yerin snorted. “Didn’t get him in a fight, did I? About like swatting a fly.”

Uncle Fury closed his eyes and breathed in slowly through the nose as though savoring a scent. “Like swatting a fly…oh, it’s beautiful. It’s better than I ever imagined. The King of Dragons, swatted by a child. Like a fly.”

He took another deep breath. “Perfect.”

“Half-certain I’m the one who’s meant to be jealous.” After a deliberate pause, she added, “Monarch.”

“You kidding me? Who am I going to get to fight me now?”

Lindon answered that one. “Heavenly warriors, I would guess.”

Red eyes lit up, and Fury released Yerin’s hand at last. “That’s the idea!” He put fists on his hips, facing Lindon. “I’ve had somebody take care of your points. The rest of your team got to make their own choices from what we had left. I’d give you something myself, but I hear Charity’s taking care of it.”

Lindon forced a smile in return. “Gratitude. What about the ones we lost?”

That was enough to darken Mercy’s mood again. She had seen Grace die, and Douji as well. She hadn’t personally witnessed Courage fall, but she felt it.

“They were all clan members, and we take care of—Oh, hey, look at that!” He raised a hand and beckoned to someone in the crowd.

A moment later, a purple-eyed man and woman emerged. They looked to be in their mid-forties, but their faces were weathered and haggard as though they hadn’t slept in days.

Mercy’s throat tightened.

“Akura Earnest and Kiya,” Uncle Fury said. “Grace’s parents. They’re coming with me tonight, but they wanted to meet you first.”

Akura Grace had been the pride of her immediate family, skilled as she was among her generation. She was supposed to raise her parents up to further prestige within the clan.

Now she was gone.

Mercy hadn’t seen Earnest or Kiya since their daughter’s death. She’d been with Pride, and there had been too much going on.

Lindon looked like he wanted to bolt. He bowed as deeply to them as he had to Aunt Charity earlier. “This one cannot express his regret. Please accept my deepest apologies.”

Grace’s mother laid a hand on Lindon’s arm. “For what?”

He straightened cautiously.

“You avenged our daughter,” Earnest said. He bowed at the waist. “She was a warrior, and an Underlady, and prepared to die. Still…please accept our thanks.”

He pressed a purse into Lindon’s hands.

The pouch of scripted purple cloth wasn’t nearly as high-quality of an item as a void key, but it was still made by Charity to compress Forged madra. Indeed, Mercy could sense the power of at least a dozen types of scales coming from within.

They were leaving this world behind, and they had no other children, so Mercy wouldn’t be surprised if they had left their entire fortune in that purse. They would have wracked their brains for a gift worthy of Lindon. It wouldn’t be unheard-of, to leave such a reward to someone who had avenged a loved one.

Mercy knew Lindon well enough to see that he was struggling with himself. He looked as though he wanted to turn this down, because he thought he didn’t deserve it.

But his hands moved without him, and he tucked the pouch into his pocket before they could change their minds and take it back.

“Gratitude,” Lindon said, dipping his head over a salute. “I don’t know how to properly express my condolences, other than to wish you well as you journey onward.”

Fury clapped Earnest on the shoulder. “Take it easy if you need to. I’ll join you in a minute.”

Grace’s parents saluted Lindon in return, bowed to Fury, and then drifted away.

Once they had left, Uncle Fury watched their backs and spoke with unusual gentleness. “Time doesn’t heal everything, but it does help. Never gets easy, though.”

Yerin looked up at him. “Is it good for them, going with you? Could be like losing everybody at the same time.”

Fury shrugged. “I think it’ll help. They’ll have a new purpose, and a lot of their closer relatives are coming too. But they wanted to come, and I’m not telling them no.” He turned back to Lindon and Yerin. “It’s too bad you’re not coming up yet. Never did get a chance to fight you.”

“Apologies, but I don’t think we would make worthy opponents.”

“Well, yeah. Otherwise I’d be fighting you right now. But hey, I can wait a few years.” He gave them a cheery wave and started to walk backwards into the crowd. “See you on the other side, you two! Mercy, you want to give me a hand?”

Uncle Fury didn’t need her help. He just wanted to talk.

“Just a second,” she said to Lindon and Yerin, and then she hurried after her uncle. Well, her half-brother.

He spun around, walking forward with both hands laced behind his neck. People to either side had to duck his outstretched elbows, but most of the attendees here were advanced sacred artists. They managed.

“Thought we ought to talk about you before I’m out of here. The three stars of the clan are down to two, now. I suspect we’ll end up stronger than ever in the long run, now that the snake isn’t around anymore, but that doesn’t mean we won’t have a weak point for a couple years.”

Mercy straightened as she walked. “I’m ready to accept my responsibility.”

“…yeah, I thought so. The family will expect a lot from you when I’m gone. They want you to fulfill your duty to the family, and they all have their own ideas for what that looks like.”

This was strange. Uncle Fury was known for shirking any duty he could if it didn’t involve advancement or combat.

“It’s all a trap,” he continued. “Don’t get caught in it.”

That sounded a lot more like Fury.

“At some point, you have to start leading.” He grinned down on her and ruffled her hair. “Good luck.”

She had thought of many things to say, but in the end, only one mattered: “Good-bye, Uncle Fury.”

He threw his long arms around her in a hug, and she buried herself in his chest.

For a moment. Then he swept back into the party, leaving her to collect herself.

It was another hour before Fury was ready to depart. Mercy stuck with Lindon and Yerin as much as she could, helping to fend off those who wanted a moment alone with the stars of the Uncrowned King tournament.

Finally, after a long exchange with Charity that no one else could hear, Uncle Fury raised his voice.

“Looks like it’s time to go!”

The words boomed through the enclosed basement. One of the less-advanced servants fell to his knees.

“I think I’m supposed to talk about how I’m sad to be leaving you all behind, but I really can’t wait to go,” he continued. “If you’ve got what it takes, catch up.” He looked to someone at the front of the crowd and winked.

Mercy couldn’t see, but she was certain he was looking at his daughter, the Sage.

“Anyway, that’s enough from me. Later, everybody!”

And that was the end of a fairly typical Akura Fury speech.

As soon as the last word was out of his mouth, the room began to…stretch. It wasn’t anything Mercy could put a name to precisely, but it looked as though the room was being pulled like taffy until it stretched into a long hallway.

The end of the basement, where Fury and those accompanying him stood in a large group, was now much longer than it had been before. It looked like a mirage, a trick of the eye, but she felt no madra gathered there.

Only something else.

An absence of madra, maybe. Fury was at the center of it, pushing—or perhaps pulling—on something deeper than vital aura. Something she didn’t have the senses or the experience to name.

A blue light sparked in front of his outstretched hands.

It swelled as he concentrated, expanding to a ball that hovered in front of him. Unlike madra, this blue substance didn’t look like it was made of light, but rather like a patchwork of every shade of blue that existed. It looked almost material, but it couldn’t have been physical, and her eye couldn’t exactly trace its edges or layers.

The blue ball expanded into a circle big enough to fill the basement from floor to ceiling…and then it was no longer a ball, but a circular doorway, the blue stretching on infinitely in the distance.

Mercy thought that whatever technique Uncle Fury was using had been completed, but he braced his hands as though getting a grip on empty air.

Then he pushed.

The blue power snapped into a wide ring. A ring that led into another world.

In the distance, silver towers stretched into the sky. Boxes of rough metal the size of buildings floated in the air, and the sky was surrounded by bars of impossible size, as though the entire world had been caught in a cage.

Immediately in front of the portal, it was a different story. They looked out onto an empty plaza of white stone, crystals the size of a human body hovering a few feet over the ground and shining blue.

Two figures flanked the portal on either side, each dressed in seamless eggshell-white armor. Abidan, like the one who had hijacked the Uncrowned King tournament. They stood under banners that depicted a stylized fox wrapped in its own tail, and as Lindon watched, the fox on the banner curled up tight. As though the ink was alive and the noise had interrupted its sleep.

“Welcome to Threshold, adept,” a dark-skinned woman announced. Though she didn’t sound like she’d raised her voice, her words echoed through the room. “You take your first steps into the world beyond.”

“Thanks!” Uncle Fury said brightly. “Let’s go, everybody!”

The group filed through side-by-side, some excited and others terrified. Lindon and Yerin stared hungrily through the portal.

Mercy tried not to feel like she was losing family.

But she did wonder what was so great about that other world that it was worth losing this one.

In a matter of moments, and to the cheers of the remaining Akura clan, Fury and his branch passed safely through. The portal collapsed in on itself, folding until it vanished.

Leaving the mortals behind.

3

Lindon stood with Yerin on the second floor of their cloud fortress, looking out through the wide windows to see Charity preparing their exit.

The Sage stood over one of the empty doorframes that had been a portal to Sky’s Edge, weaving space and shadow so that darkness leaked from the edges like a gas. A dark haze was beginning to form so that it blocked out the light of the rising sun, and Lindon could feel the sensation of a door creaking open.

She was expanding the already-existing gate, since she wasn’t strong or skilled enough on her own to create a portal leading so far away that could transfer so many people. He couldn’t follow most of what she was doing, but he could feel it, and he tried to remember that sensation.

Not that he could concentrate well.

Yerin leaned against him as he stood over the cloud fortress’ control panel, a warm and soft presence at his side, leaving him with a moment of indecision.

He could put his arm around her. He should, right? They had passed that point already.

But she was on his right side. Putting his Remnant arm around her struck him as a bit like throwing a corpse over her to protect her from the cold.

She glanced up at him and took his Remnant hand in hers. He could feel her, but distantly compared to his arm of flesh, as though he were imagining the sensation instead of physically feeling it.

Yerin laced her fingers with his. “You’d contend they’ll listen to you?”

He didn’t need to ask what she was talking about. She knew what was on his mind.

Would Sacred Valley listen to him?

His family was in greater danger every moment, but no amount of hurrying on his part would make things happen any faster. He felt like an axe was poised over Sacred Valley, and he was leisurely watching it happen.

He had gotten no sleep at all last night, cramming every minute with preparation.

“They will,” he said. “If not to me, then to the army of Golds we’re bringing to their door. I can’t imagine we’ll have to prove something’s coming.”

They had both lived through the rampage of the Bleeding Phoenix, and in their experience, Dreadgods were only slightly less subtle than the heavens collapsing.

“Plenty of room in here for your family,” Yerin pointed out. “Even if they each bring a friend and their biggest dog.”

Lindon looked to the illusory display rising from a script-circle, where an image of a purple cloudship floated. One of Charity’s evacuation fleet.

As promised, there were two dozen ships lined up behind him. In one night. Even after a battle between Monarchs.

The Sage of the Silver Heart kept her word.

“If anyone will listen to us, we’ll save them.” There would always be a number of people who would stay in their homes no matter what he said, and presumably others who would try to escape on their own.

Outside of the clans and schools, there were a few isolated communities that lived in the wilderness at the heart of Sacred Valley. He planned to look for them, but if they really couldn’t fly cloudships into the valley, it might be impossible to get everyone.

But he would do it.

This was what his power was meant for.

Lindon hesitated before squeezing back. Usually, when he tightened his grip on someone with his Remnant hand, it was because he was draining their soul.

She didn’t react in disgust or try to pull away, which relieved him. Both for the obvious reason and because if she pulled away, she might forget her strength and pull his arm completely off.

“I plan to give Heaven’s Glory a chance,” he warned her.

Yerin didn’t look at him, but she struggled with her response for a moment. “Some people, when they’re drowning, you don’t toss them a rope,” she said at last. “They’ll just pull you in with them.”

“We don’t need to take them with us,” Lindon suggested. “We can give them a warning and then leave them to find their own way. It’s no less than they deserve.”

Lindon didn’t actually expect resistance from Heaven’s Glory, or much from anyone. With their current powers, Lindon would be surprised if they weren’t worshiped in Sacred Valley.

But Yerin had her own reasons. If Heaven’s Glory had cost him someone who had raised him like a father, he wouldn’t feel particularly generous toward them either.

After hearing from Charity about the suppression field around the valley, he and Dross had done some research overnight.

He had to admit, he was a little bitter that the reason Sacred Valley had remained so weak was because of an external force. He had assumed it was a matter of isolation and poor education. Now that he knew there was a ceiling keeping his people from growing beyond Jade, he had to fight back some anger.

Partly at whoever had built the field in the first place, and partly at the Akura clan.

Was it their responsibility to relocate this one group of people in a distant corner of their empire? Not necessarily, but he still blamed them for not trying.

Then again, at least they were helping now.

The reports he and Dross had found disagreed about how intense the effects of the suppression were, but from Lindon’s own experience, he suspected it would lower them down to Jade. Whether that process took hours, days, or even weeks was a matter he supposed they’d learn later.

But even if they were pushed down to Jade the second they stepped across the boundary, they would still fight like monsters compared to the natives.

Yerin watched his thoughts cross his face, radiating obvious concern. “I don’t want to…” She trailed off and started again. “I’m not one to…”

She threw up her free hand in frustration. “Bleed me dry, I’m just going to say it. Don’t kill a bunch of Jades.”

Little Blue, curled up sleeping on the console, lifted her head and gave Yerin a wide-eyed stare.

Lindon felt much the same.

He leaned back so he could study her face more clearly. “Apologies, but I thought that was a talk I’d have to have with you.”

She avoided his gaze. “Can’t imagine what you mean,” she muttered.

Little Blue let out the ringing of a bell, and through their newfound bond, Lindon felt her astonishment.

“You don’t use a Monarch sword to swat flies,” Yerin continued. “Not even when they bite you.”

She stared off into the distance, and her hand gripped his so tight that he could feel the weight of her strength warping reality ever so subtly.

He matched it, mentally thanking Crusher for the donation.

“Are you sure?” he asked quietly.

“I hate them,” Yerin whispered, and there were tears in her eyes. “He never touched them. Never cut them with so much as a word, but they hated him so much. They threw their own bodies at him. Didn’t care if they lived, so long as he died. And there wasn’t…I couldn’t…”

She breathed deeply and wiped her eyes with a thumb. “But they’re not worth half a glance from me, and I’ll be dead and buried before I give them more than they deserve.”

He had thought much the same about killing Jades, but it warmed him to hear that coming from Yerin. She had been thinking ahead, and had decided to treat the weak with compassion. Even considering what they’d done to her.

Lindon wasn’t sure he’d be able to do the same.

It wasn’t as though he had any attachment to the Heaven’s Glory School himself, but he still put his free hand around her, pulling her close. “Thank you,” he whispered into the top of her head.

She tilted her head up to him, cheeks tinged pink.

“He’s watching,” Lindon said.

“We’ll be old and gray before he stops.”

Lindon kissed her.

From the corner of the room, where they had both sensed him, Eithan sighed. “It was more fun when I could sneak up on you. I’ll have to step up my veils.”

Lindon separated from Yerin, focusing on his breathing technique to slow his heartbeat. “Have you heard from Ziel?”

Ziel owned the cloud fortress next to theirs, a blocky castle sitting on a plain blue cloud. He was supposedly traveling with them, but Lindon had heard nothing from him in the day since he’d joined them.

“He’s fine.” Eithan buffed his fingernails on the hem of his pink-and-purple outer robe. “You may have noticed, but I significantly helped his spiritual recovery. It cost me quite a bit, you know. Time. Materials. Expertise. When did I perform this costly task, you ask?”

“Stone-certain we didn’t,” Yerin said.

“To begin this story, we have to go all the way back to Tiberian Arelius’ creation of—” Eithan’s head snapped to the front, where a ship on a deep purple cloud was slowly looping around to join the procession behind them.

Eithan pointed. “That ship! Watch that ship.”

Alerted by his tone, Lindon and Yerin both focused on the cloudship. Yerin extended her perception, which crashed over her target like a storm-tossed wave. He doubted there was any spiritual power that could escape her notice.

By contrast, Lindon’s own perception was a trickling creek. His perception was better-trained than the average Underlord, but it wasn’t necessarily any more powerful.

However, he could sense things she couldn’t.

He did not feel the strong will from the ship that suggested a Sage or Herald was involved. Instead, he felt the faint, flickering willpower of the ordinary Golds crewing the cloudship. Their will was diffuse, unfocused, barely there.

Between Yerin’s overwhelming scan and his own, which could see into a different spectrum, he doubted they missed anything. They still couldn’t sense the physical, only the spiritual, but something that had no power of madra or will wouldn’t be a threat.

“Harder,” Eithan insisted. “Look harder.”

Lindon did, trying to pierce a veil he had missed the first time. Yerin pushed down with her scan so much that the Golds stopped in place, cycling their madra in resistance, spirits filling with fear.

A scan could be uncomfortable, but it wasn’t threatening. But Yerin’s power was an entire dimension higher than a normal Lord’s, much less these Golds.

Only when he was sure there was nothing on the ship did Lindon become certain that Eithan was just distracting them.

“What happened to no secrets?” Lindon asked in a dry tone.

Eithan gave him a white, beaming smile. “A surprise, Lindon. A surprise. I assure you, you’ll be glad I distracted you very soon.”

Yerin started to extend her perception to the rest of their own cloudship, to find whatever Eithan had tried to hide from them, but Eithan leaped in front of her. “Don’t you want your surprise?”

Yerin slowly let her scan fade. “…I do,” she admitted, in a tone of heavy reluctance. “Got a creeping fear you’re about to teach us a lesson.”

“In a sense, can’t you learn a lesson from anything?”

Lindon reached out with his own perception.

“It’s not a lesson!” Eithan hurriedly added. “This is a fun surprise. Just relax, all right? Be casual.”

In Lindon’s mind, Dross began to whistle.

Lindon returned his attention to Charity, who had expanded the Sky’s Edge gate into a broad screen of darkness. He didn’t fully understand the impressions he was getting from his new senses, but the portal felt like it was almost complete.

“We can still make it, right?” Lindon asked.

For the sixth time since Fury’s ascension ceremony the night before.

Eithan patted him on the shoulder. “The Wandering Titan is known for its inevitability. Not its speed.”

Out the front windows, Charity lowered her hands.

Shadows covered the doorway to Sky’s Edge, stretching up through the clouds in a pillar of darkness. It was a miniature version of the column that had taken them from the Blackflame Empire to the Night Wheel Valley.

The portal to Sky’s Edge was complete.

Charity lifted from the cloudship dock, hovering in the air. She reached into another pool of shadow on her left: her void key.

A weapon flew out, slapping into her open hand. It looked like a short one-handed sword with a curving blade, but a closer inspection showed that it was a silver sickle. It buzzed and blurred to both Lindon’s eyes and senses. This weapon operated on many levels, its powers interacting in a complex web that he couldn’t begin to unravel.

Charity gestured to their ship, and Lindon activated a script-circle that lifted some of their protections.

A purple-and-silver owl appeared on the scripted wooden panels in front of Lindon.

Little Blue gave a loud peep and scurried up Lindon’s arm.

“This portal cannot convey the Titan,” Charity’s voice said from the owl. “I will travel through first. If I do not return or contact you in five minutes, this way is closed to you.”

A steel shield drifted out from her void key, and she snagged it from the air with her left hand. The shield was a heavy slab of metal half the size of her body, worked into the image of a twisted, grinning, monstrous face. The steel face twisted in place, alive and snarling.

Charity hefted the shield as though it were hollow, holding it to her left and her sickle to her right. “When I give the all-clear, you may follow me. Only fly where I direct you, but accelerate as quickly as you can. The Titan has more tempting targets, but if he does notice you, I will send you back through the portal immediately.”

Lindon braced himself, cycling pure madra and controlling his breathing. Here they were, ready to return to Sacred Valley. The time had come.

Nothing between him and his family except a Dreadgod.

[Could be worse!] Dross pointed out. [There could be two Dreadgods.]

A ribbon seemingly made of liquid steel flowed out of Charity’s void key, tying her hair into a short tail. That was a sacred instrument of concealment and banishment, with powers of stealth and space.

Now that Lindon could feel concepts like that, he had to wonder what his new perception could do for his Soulsmithing.

But that was an idea he could save for later.

“Prepare yourselves,” Charity said. She raised her weapons, cycling her madra through her three sacred instruments, and Lindon felt the intimidating will of the Heart Sage equipped for war.

Then she flew through her column of darkness and vanished.

[Our escorts are ready. Or at least they say they are. Could be lying.]

Lindon steadied himself, running his madra through the cloudship. It had its own stored power, and was fueled partially by ambient vital aura, but he primed everything and powered as much of it himself as he could.

Propulsion constructs warmed up, the cloud beneath them bobbed a bit in the air, and scripts flared to life all over their portable island.

Only seconds after Charity had vanished into the darkness, her owl spoke again. “Clear!”

The fortress rocketed forward.

Shadow swallowed Lindon. As he’d experienced before, his senses vanished as though he no longer had them. He and Dross were left completely alone, floating in a sea of soundless, lightless black.

Only this time, the oblivion wasn’t quite so absolute.

[Is this what spatial travel feels like?] Dross asked in awe. [It feels…twisty.]

Now that Lindon could feel the distortions in space, moving through a portal like this gave him a new perspective on transportation. Even when he’d pushed his way through space himself, he hadn’t felt the substance he was working with so clearly.

Inside the darkness, it felt as though he was traveling through a tunnel. Someone had bored a hole, and they were in the middle of sliding through.

As Dross had mentioned, it felt almost like the tunnel was spinning around them, like they were being twisted somehow.

One impression was clear to Lindon: Charity hadn’t done this herself. She had taken an existing route and widened it, but she couldn’t create something on this scale on her own.

Akura Malice must have made the original doorway, leaving Charity to expand and direct it. He suspected she’d done the same thing all the way back in the Night Wheel Valley.

The realization encouraged him. He was starting to feel the edges of a Sage’s power.

He would have plenty of time to experiment with his own powers, once Sacred Valley was safe. Once everything was over, and he had the rest of his life to explore…whatever he wanted.

The world faded in, and every protective script in the fortress blazed against his spirit. They were holding against crushing spiritual pressure.

And the sky was dyed gold.

They were emerging above the fortress that the Seishen Kingdom had raised at the border of the seaside town called Sky’s Edge. At least, they were supposed to. There was very little left to recognize.

The town was gone.

Most of the landscape was unrecognizable after the battle between Heralds, with chunks blown from the surrounding mountains and ravines carved in the ground.

Only a few features remained to remind Lindon of the town he’d left so recently, including the tower-sized sword of Frozen Blade madra plunging into the ground.

And the Dreadgod that cast its shadow over everything.

Though they had left the Ninecloud Court in the morning, the sun hung low over the western sea, behind the Titan. And as drastically as the surroundings had changed, they were hardly worth noticing next to the Wandering Titan itself.

The humanoid giant of dark stone knelt at the edge of the ocean, its feet still partially submerged in water. Its shoulders scraped the clouds, a turtle’s shell rising behind it like a shield strapped to its back.

It was a titanic statue come to life, a walking mountain. Its face looked like a man’s, but expressionless, as though it had indeed been carved. Stone eyes glowed slightly, dull yellow.

Just by its presence, it dominated the earth aura for many miles. Dozens. Maybe hundreds.

Lindon wasn’t about to extend his perception to check.

Its control of earth aura was so intense that it stained the sky gold, as the Bleeding Phoenix had once enhanced blood aura until the sky blazed red. All around, mountains buzzed as though quivering in anticipation.

The Titan’s arm was plunged into the earth up to the elbow, and it knelt almost motionless as it fed.

Power moved up its arm slowly but steadily, like sap in a tree. A hunger technique. Intense aura flowed into the Dreadgod, but not just aura. Lindon couldn’t be certain without a direct scan, but it felt like even physical materials were consumed by that hunger.

He had sensed the Wandering Titan directly before, perhaps closer than anyone other than a Monarch. He didn’t want to try it again.

Stone and dirt slowly collapsed around the Titan’s arm, falling inward like a sinkhole.

Lindon’s right arm quivered, its madra resonating with the presence of the Dreadgod, but his will was stronger. The limb never left his control.

The Titan appeared almost motionless, except for its tail. It resembled a monkey’s tail that stretched out into the ocean perhaps half the length of the Dreadgod’s body, and it lashed back and forth like an impatient snake.

With every motion, it carved waves from the sea, sending walls of water splashing up to the sky.

Lindon put the Dreadgod to their backs and directed all his power to propulsion.

Their fortress shot forward.

Scripts inside manipulated aura to control air and gravity, preventing the inhabitants from pitching over at the sudden acceleration. He followed one of Charity’s owls due east, chasing silver-purple tailfeathers.

He felt like he’d bared the back of his neck to a hungry tiger. It could strike at any second.

Sweat trickled down his back and his forehead, and he kept his eyes flicking between the window to the front and the projection of the Titan behind them. It didn’t seem to be bothered by their presence, maintaining its hunger technique, but they wouldn’t be out of danger until they were many miles away.

Charity stayed behind, next to the portal, as purple cloudships emerged one at a time and streaked after Lindon.

The Heart Sage floated in place with her shield raised, vigilantly watching the Dreadgod. It wasn’t long before half the cloudships had emerged from the portal, trailing behind them like ducklings.

Lindon’s fear started to fade into exhilaration. They’d made it. They were okay.

Then, in an inexorable tectonic shift, the Wandering Titan stood up.

Madra cycled through the Dreadgod’s body, and in the same instant, their cloud fortress was buffeted in midair. The protective scripts screamed as they resisted an invisible assault, the projection construct fuzzing into chaos so that Lindon could no longer see what was behind them.

They were under attack.

It took all of Lindon’s spirit to steady their flight and recover their path. He couldn’t believe they’d survived one hit, but that certainly wasn’t all the Dreadgod could do. That must have been only a glancing blow.

When the projection construct recovered, it showed them the Wandering Titan again.

It had turned a bit to its right, taking one long, slow stride that crossed the entire space where Sky’s Edge had once stood.

Lindon’s breath came in tight gasps.

The Dreadgod hadn’t noticed them at all.

Shields of purple-and-silver madra faded from where Charity had protected the string of ships behind them, but for one cloudship, even her power hadn’t been enough. It was a pile of smoking rubble on the ground below as though the Titan had swatted it out of the sky.

But the Wandering Titan had done no such thing. It had only cycled its madra for a brief instant. That was no more threatening than taking a breath.

They had taken casualties from the Dreadgod doing nothing.

Lindon felt the lost lives of the unknown Akura Golds settle on his conscience like a lead weight. He hadn’t known anyone on the cloudship’s crew, but they wouldn’t have been here if not for him.

As they flew into the distance, leaving Charity watching the colossal monster behind them, the tension slowly deflated. In its place was only cold dread.

No one spoke.

There was really nothing to say.

4

Miles of countryside slid by beneath their fortress, but not fast enough for Lindon.

If he took Eithan’s cloudship, he could reach Sacred Valley much faster, and he’d considered it. But that would mean abandoning the Akura cloudships to defend themselves.

While he and Eithan and Yerin could handle anything they might run into on the way, the Golds might be in trouble without their help. They were under his protection, so he wouldn’t leave them.

No matter how much he wanted to run ahead.

It was possible he could prepare the people of Sacred Valley for the arrival of the cloudships if he arrived first, but it was equally possible they wouldn’t listen to him on his own. There was little he could actually do to help without the fleet of Akura cloudships.

Home seemed to linger in Lindon’s head, as though he could feel Sacred Valley burning like a signal-flare in the distance. He even felt Orthos’ presence more strongly than usual, so the turtle must be in the western Blackflame Empire somewhere.

Orthos’ spirit only made Lindon’s impatience worse. Was Orthos all right? Was he in the path of the Dreadgod? Would he be able to make it away in time?

Lindon had very little need to direct the fortress once their course was set—they were simply making a beeline for Sacred Valley. But he still left Dross at the controls just in case.

[I will take this responsibility as an honor and a privilege. Don’t worry about anything! Think about it as if you yourself were still…oh hey, I don’t know that mountain. Should we stop for a minute and check it out? Just a second, honestly.]

“Stick to the course.”

[Right, yes, of course. Sticking to the course. Unless there’s a really good reason not to.]

Lindon almost took over the panel again.

He needed something to distract him, so he turned to Yerin. “I haven’t had a chance to take a tour of the fortress yet. How about you?”

“Sensed it, haven’t seen it. Let’s walk it out.”

That brightened Lindon’s mood. He wasn’t certain he would be able to enjoy himself with the destruction of Sacred Valley looming over him, but at least a tour with Yerin was something to look forward to.

He felt Eithan’s presence before the door to the second floor swung open, and Yerin was already yelling. “Not a candle’s chance in a rainstorm.”

Eithan slowly edged around the door, so they could see one eye and half his grin. “We could say that I’m taking my own tour. Separately, just…right behind you.”

“Do you really need a tour?” Lindon asked. “Can’t you see everything from here?”

“I can. Everything. Always. But the others aren’t so lucky.”

At first, Lindon assumed he meant Ziel. The word “others” only penetrated when Eithan let out a pulse of pure madra that was clearly a signal.

Shadow madra eased its way free as someone dropped a veil. “We made it!” Mercy cried from downstairs.

“Couldn’t tell you why that needed to be a surprise,” Yerin muttered.

Eithan beamed. “Isn’t it more fun when you don’t know?”

Mercy rushed up to the second story, immediately leaning on Suu to give them an apologetic bow. “I’m so sorry, I wanted to warn you, but Eithan’s message said he wanted it to be a surprise…”

Lindon was more than happy to have Mercy along, but he remained a little puzzled. “Apologies, Mercy, but doesn’t your family need you? Not that you aren’t welcome aboard!”

“You can have Eithan’s spot,” Yerin agreed.

Mercy rubbed the back of her head and laughed awkwardly, in a manner that reminded Lindon vividly of Fury. “Yeah, well, Pride made it clear that he doesn’t really need me around. With Uncle Fury gone, there’s a lot to be done, but I just…I told Aunt Charity they’d have to get along without me for a few days. This might be my last chance to go out with you all, you know? I want to see it through to the end.”

To the end.

At a certain point, Mercy was going to have to separate from the rest of them. She had responsibilities to her family that the rest of them didn’t.

But he was still glad she’d delayed that moment again, so she could be with him when he put Suriel’s vision of the future to rest. When he settled everything, once and for all.

He dipped his head in a silent apology, but next to him, Yerin snorted.

“Last chance? You think they’ll haul you back from spending time with the youngest Sage and some kind of tiny Herald? Your mother’s going to shove us down your throat until you’re sick of us.”

Mercy ran over to throw her arms around Yerin’s neck, but Lindon’s attention was grabbed by a bright ring. It didn’t sound like a bell so much as the resonant sound of a script activating.

“I believe Ziel wants in,” Eithan put in, though Lindon had already sensed the same thing.

Dross activated a projection construct, showing the image of Ziel slumped at their front door. A gray cloak hung from his shoulders, and he was leaning with his forehead against the doorframe, his emerald horns digging into the wood.

With a halfhearted shrug of his spirit, Ziel activated the alarm script again.

“You can let him in, Dross,” Lindon said.

[I’m just savoring the moment. You know, if I didn’t open the door, he couldn’t get in? That means I, and I alone, have the power to determine his fate. It feels good. What do you call that?]

“Megalomania?” Eithan suggested.

[Oh, I like that word. Let’s go with that.]

A ring echoed through the home again, and this time Lindon manually sent his own madra through the correct scripts.

Below, the door unlocked.

[Everything I do for fun, you just…crush it.]

“Since everyone’s here, we might as well all go together,” Lindon said. He had to admit, the presence of the others was keeping his mind off of Sacred Valley. They left together, meeting Ziel halfway up the stairs.

“…I could have waited for you outside,” Ziel muttered.

* * *

A “cloud fortress” was just a type of cloudship designed for permanence rather than mobility. The Skysworn city of Stormrock was technically a cloud fortress, though on a much larger scale. Lindon thought of them as flying islands more than cloudships.

Though he had spent quite a bit of time negotiating extra speed for his. The basic navigation and propulsion systems came standard on all cloud fortresses produced by the Ninecloud Court, but Lindon had found that many of the exact features were up for negotiation. As long as you were willing to give up a few things.

No sooner had they left the house than Eithan asked, “So, first things first: what did you decide to name this place?”

Yerin gestured to Lindon with open hands, offering him the chance to explain.

“Well, the only cloudships we’ve ever spent significant time on were Stormrock and your Sky’s Mercy,” Lindon said to Eithan. “But many of our memories on Stormrock were unpleasant, and we didn’t want to presume to name the island after Mercy.”

“Aw,” Mercy said, disappointed.

“Ultimately, we felt that this place was a result of our good fortune,” Lindon continued.

“And we’ll take all the luck we can scrape up,” Yerin added.

“So we decided to call this fortress Windfall.”

It had taken hours of off-and-on discussion to land on that name, and Lindon was proud of it.

“Eh,” Ziel said.

Mercy clapped her hands. “I like it! But are you sure you want to have ‘fall’ in the name? Seems like tempting fate, you know?”

“I’m just sad that I wasn’t consulted,” Eithan said with a sigh. “Since I own a third of the island, I think I should at least get a vote…”

Yerin’s sword-arms bristled. “You take your third and walk it half a mile off the edge, and you can call it what you want.”

“It’s a good name,” Lindon insisted.

Mercy nodded eagerly. “It is! I’m sorry I said anything, it’s a good name.”

“How about Eithan’s Rest?” Eithan suggested.

Yerin jabbed at him with her sword.

He slipped to the side and regarded her oddly. “You do know I’m teasing you, right? You have to know that at this point. I find this violence disproportionate.”

“Oh, I know,” Yerin muttered. “It just scrapes me raw more than usual. Couldn’t tell you why.”

Eithan leaned in close to examine Yerin’s eyes. “Ruby?” he asked.

“Her too.”

She stabbed at him again, and he danced away.

Most of the open space on Windfall was rolling grassland. Lindon had initially tried to fill in the open space, but he needed the cycling mountain to be far enough away from the house that its aura wouldn’t interfere with any scripts, and Lindon had been more concerned with the inner workings of the cloud fortress itself than the features on the surface.

Their first stop on the tour was the miniature mountain that would serve as their aura source. It resembled a rocky peak of dark stone, but only twice as wide as the house and half again as tall. The top belched smoke and flame, and if Lindon opened his aura sight, he could see the powers of fire and destruction braided together in coils of black and red.

Altogether, it resembled a smoldering volcano, though Lindon would eventually have to replace some of the natural treasures inside to keep the aura balanced.

There was a flat lip of stone beneath the peak, around which the Blackflame aura flowed. It would be the perfect place to sit and cycle, and if Lindon hadn’t been dragging a party along with him, he would have tried it out immediately.

At the base of the mountain, an open cave yawned, filled with razor-sharp silvery protrusions like teeth. The air glistened with sword aura, but as Yerin saw it, her face fell.

“Bleed me, I’m going to need a source of blood aura now.”

“We can find a natural treasure,” Lindon assured her.

“Or just kill a man whenever you need to cycle,” Eithan suggested.

Besides the fields of grass blowing in the wind of their passage, the second feature to catch the eye was a short purple-leafed tree with pale bark emerging from the plains.

“This is an orus tree,” Lindon said when they reached it. “It’s native to Sacred Valley. This one is three hundred and fifty years old, and it was raised in rich aura, so its spirit-fruits are stronger than usual. You’ll get to try some for yourself once we…”

He trailed off as Ziel plucked the lowest-hanging fruit from the tree and took a bite. Lindon hadn’t even tasted it yet.

But it wasn’t as though he had asked them not to eat any fruit. He was the host here; it was his responsibility to see to the comfort of his guests.

“How is it?” Lindon asked.

Ziel shrugged.

As they passed another stretch of open grass, Eithan explained Lindon’s plan to add a Soulsmith foundry to the space. Lindon couldn’t recall ever having mentioned those plans aloud.

Then they came to a crystalline pool, shaded by broad-leafed bushes so tall they were almost like trees.

Little Blue splashed around in the pool, dipping beneath the surface to slide through the water like a fish. Faint blue spirits followed in her wake, spinning and swirling around after her.

She turned and gave a wave as she saw them approach.

“This is an area of balanced natural aura,” Lindon said. “Sylvan Riverseeds are born in places like this, and they’re said to be soothing for the soul.” He could already feel a sort of invisible pressure lighten just by standing nearby, though he wasn’t sure if that was relief from the constant presence of aura or if he was just starting to relax.

“Oh, you made her a little place to play!” Mercy said excitedly. “She’s going to love this!”

Little Blue chirped agreement, but Lindon’s cheeks grew hot.

“I mean, well, yes, but there are practical considerations too. Unintelligent Sylvan Riverseeds can be used in Soulsmithing, and there are certain plants that can only grow in a neutral aura environment.”

Little Blue ran up a bush and leaped into the pool, landing with a tiny splash.

Half a dozen other splashes followed her a moment later, from the handful of pure scales that Eithan had just cast into the water. The lesser Riverseeds swarmed around them, eating the Forged madra one nibble at a time.

“Fatten, my little piglets!” Eithan cried. “Feed and grow strong!”

Popping her head out of the water, Little Blue gave a disapproving peep.

That brought them to Eithan’s third of the island, which Lindon had been looking forward to. Eithan had a single tree and a hut of his own, but most of his territory was covered in cultivated rows of plants of all shapes and sizes. Lindon saw something that he even thought might be an artificial hive for bees.

“So this is where you got the herbs,” Ziel said. “Squeezed them out of the Ninecloud Court.”

Lindon was only too happy to learn more. “Your turn, Eithan. Can you tell us what these do? That one looks like a cloudbell bush.”

“Ah, but who cares about my modest garden when we have yet to explore your luxurious home?”

“I do,” Lindon said.

“Didn’t you say you got the Ninecloud Court to install a redundant series of security scripts in your cloudbase? I would love to hear more about that.”

Lindon wasn’t fooled. Eithan just didn’t want to talk about his plants. Either because he had some kind of plan in mind…or, equally likely, because he was feeling lazy and wanted to put Lindon on the spot.

Probably both.

On the other hand, Lindon would take any excuse to talk about the modifications the Court had made to the functions of his fortress. “We’ll come back later, then. All fortresses come with a set of security circles to disperse hostile madra, but by giving up some features on the surface, I was able to get them to include a more thorough—”

Eithan threw up a hand. “Oh no! Danger! We’ll have to pick this up some other time!”

Lindon extended his spiritual perception and soon found a flock of venomous presences approaching one of the Akura cloudships.

As Eithan and Mercy sprinted off, Lindon turned to Yerin. “I know he timed that.”

“He can bleed and rot. Let him swat the birds down without us. You can tell me about the scripts. And the…constructs.”

She was being completely sincere, but she didn’t care about the way the fortress worked. He would be explaining for his own sake.

“No, let’s go get some birds.”

“You’re stone-certain?” She’d stay if he wanted her to, and he knew that.

When he nodded, she shot off after the other two, stopping in midair to turn around and wave for him to follow.

Ziel stood motionless next to Lindon. The edges of his cloak fluttered in the wind. “I’d like to hear about the scripts,” he said.

Lindon sighed. “Thanks.”

* * *

The ships floating on their purple clouds stretched out behind Lindon and the others. He reached the edge of his own flying island in time to see a flock of beasts approach.

They were toxic green, leathery birds that trailed dull fog. The birds and the trails behind them gave off a powerful sensation of venom madra.

Mercy had already drawn her bow, shooting down the closest three birds before they could get even close to the cloudship they were targeting. Even so, the rest of the flock—several hundred strong, at least—didn’t falter.

“I hope they’re not intelligent,” Mercy said.

Eithan put his hands on his hips. “If they are self-aware, and they’re still attacking this convoy, they’re certainly not very intelligent. In fact, how about a game?”

Yerin was about to race off and leap over to the next cloud, but Lindon saw her freeze at the suggestion.

“We’ve all advanced in some way recently,” Eithan went on. “I’m sure I can’t be the only one longing for a chance to stretch my muscles, spiritually speaking.”

Mercy shot down another bird that was ahead of the group. “One technique apiece?”

“For educational purposes only! I wouldn’t want to suffer the embarrassment of having all bets placed on me.”

“And you’re sure they aren’t intelligent?”

“From their behavior, I would say no. Also from their spirits, the fact that they’re screeching to one another instead of speaking, and from my extensive education. I’m familiar with this species, and they’re slightly less intelligent than rats. Meaner, too.”

“Then it sounds fun! I’ll go!” Mercy seized the string of her bow in her black-gloved hands, pulling it back and Forging a dark arrow onto the string.

Her spirit surged, and the full power of an Overlady was focused onto the bow. Lindon felt the techniques layering onto the arrow one at a time, until the missile quivered with unreleased force. The dragon’s head, now at the center of the bow, hissed angrily. Its eyes flashed violet.

Her will was clearly focused on the bow, but Lindon sensed something beyond that. Something he wouldn’t have been able to put his finger on before, and that he still couldn’t quite define. It felt as though her arrow was reaching a dimension beyond the physical. That was authority, he supposed, but only a whisper of it.

Mercy released the string.

The arrow whipped up a whirlwind, tearing up the grass as it blasted through the air. The sunlight flickered in its wake, as though the missile stained the air with darkness in its passing.

When the arrow impacted the flock, it tore a hole in the mass of birds.

Then it exploded into dark tendrils.

Strings of Shadow lashed out from where they’d been compressed into the arrow, snatching up nearby birds with oily arms and pulling them together. A mass of sealed, fused-together birds tumbled down through the sky.

Mercy held her hand over her eyes to peer down. “Thirty-four! I think I could get fifty next time.”

The flock had noticed, and was wheeling around in the air to re-focus on Mercy’s location.

“Looks like you’ll get your chance to try,” Eithan said, “but only on your next turn. Yerin, you must be dying to try out the extent of your powers.”

“Like a starving dog,” Yerin said fervently. Her hair blew over her shoulder as she stepped up, pulling a black-bladed sword from her new void key. Netherclaw had originally been chosen as the weapon of her Blood Shadow, but now it suited her madra better.

Now that she and Ruby had merged. Which still made Lindon feel…strange.

Yerin’s gleaming scarlet sword-arms withdrew, sliding like liquid into her back. The lock of red in her hair shone slightly as she focused on the tip of her sword.

And if Mercy had added a touch of weight to her arrow with her will, this attack struck Lindon’s new senses as though Yerin had strapped a boulder to the end of her weapon.

Silver-and-red light swirled around the blade, and Lindon recognized the technique she was forming: the Final Sword.

But it was rougher, less controlled than it had been before. Not only had they developed it as a pure sword technique, but she had lost the connection to the Sword Icon that had made the technique possible before.

Ruby had figured out a version of the Final Sword with her blood madra, but it had always been weaker than Yerin’s. It looked like now, Yerin was compensating for her lack of experience in the aspect with pure, overwhelming power.

In fact…

Just from standing next to Yerin, Lindon was buffeted with force beyond the physical. Ziel had planted his feet, Mercy held a hand across her eyes, and Eithan cleared his throat.

“Yerin, perhaps we might reconsider—”

She unleashed the technique.

A beam of gleaming red-chrome energy shot forward from Yerin. It was rough like a river, not as smooth as black dragon’s breath or sword-shaped like the former version of the Final Sword. It sounded like a long, ongoing explosion. Like a roar.

And it was wider than Yerin’s entire body.

Where the passage of Mercy’s technique had uprooted some grass, this one tore up a large trench of soil. The flock of venomous birds was aimed at their fortress, and the Final Sword speared through the center of them all.

Those in the middle were wiped out, of course, but power flickered out from the edges of the technique, whipping nearby birds from the air like lashes of liquid lightning.

After only a few seconds, the technique faded.

There was only one bird left, a straggler that had flapped heavily beneath the rest of its brethren. It let out a loud squawk and hauled itself in the other direction.

Yerin gave a long, low whistle as she limbered up her shoulder. “Now that fits like a good sheath.”

Eithan ran a comb through his messy hair. “That, ladies and gentlemen, illustrates the strength of Heralds. While Sages focus their willpower outside of themselves, to make changes to the world directly, Heralds focus it inwardly. They enhance their own power beyond all limitations.”

Lindon was already thinking about how he might do something similar. “And that involves fusing with your own Remnant?”

“Might be my ears are still tickling, but it sounds like you’re thinking about trying it,” Yerin said.

“Are you trying to be the world’s first Underlord Monarch, Lindon?” Eithan asked curiously. “You know, if you tried that, I’m fairly certain you would fail before your spirit and body collapsed in on themselves like a burning house. But I’ve been wrong before. Maybe you’d make it all the way to the collapse.”

Mercy gestured with Suu, which was now back in staff form. “That brings up another good point. Why are you still an Underlord, Lindon?”

In fact, Lindon had almost advanced the night before.

When he had found out they were supposed to stay in the Ninecloud Court one night longer than he wanted to, he had planned to immediately advance. He was sure he had his revelation figured out, and if not…well, the insight required to touch the Void Icon had to be harder than the one to reach Overlord.

But he and Dross had done some research.

“We looked up what Charity told us,” he said. “If we’re heading into the suppression field around Sacred Valley, it’s more of an advantage not to advance. The more advanced you are, the more it takes from you.”

“I will expect you all to carry me like a rescued princess,” Eithan declared.

Mercy gave Lindon a sympathetic look. “Was it hard for you?”

“Had to take his void key,” Yerin said. “Starting out, he told me not to let him advance, but he kept talking excuses. ‘What if I don’t get another chance?’ ‘I just want to see if I have the revelation right.’”

“I wasn’t lying,” Lindon protested.

Dross’ voice came into their heads, muffled slightly by distance. [Yes, he was.]

“Lindon’s cruel deceptions aside, it looks like we’re out of targets,” Eithan said. “The rest of us will have to wait for another chance.”

Some of the targeted cloudships had strayed from the line, scared off either by the birds or by the massive technique Yerin had used to defend them.

Mercy moved to the edge of the cloud and straddled her staff. “I’m going to go check on the ships.”

“I’ll come,” Yerin said, shoving her black-bladed sword back into her void key. “Have to show them I don’t have claws. And I want to see if I can make the next ship in one jump.”

“You definitely can,” Mercy began, but Yerin had already leaped with enough force that she kicked up dirt behind her.

Mercy followed after, flying on Suu, leaving Lindon alone with Eithan.

Ziel had wandered off to lie down by the pond, and it looked like he had fallen asleep instantly. The Sylvan Riverseeds were dancing on his face.

Eithan was waiting expectantly, so Lindon continued as he would have if Eithan hadn’t been present. He focused on a nearby clump of grass, steadying his breathing, gathering not madra or soulfire but his will.

“Hold,” Lindon ordered.

The blades of grass froze, locking in place as the others bent and bobbed in the wind.

Lindon maintained his concentration, but the working of will released before he was ready, his clump of grass joining those around it once again.

“I don’t know how to practice,” Lindon admitted. “Dross has explained everything he knows about Sages, but it isn’t much.”

Most of the more useful works about Sages were either restricted or too strange for him to understand. Sages didn’t usually write about their own powers to other Sages, after all.

There had been old attempts by Sages to pass down their powers to disciples, but they had never worked, and Lindon hadn’t been able to find any of those attempts in his brief search of the Ninecloud library the night before.

Eithan stroked his chin. “Picture, if you will, a building with many floors. Each floor is higher than the last, and each supports the one above it. These floors are the laws that govern our existence. At the bottom, the foundation, are the physical laws.”

He clapped his hands together. “It’s no less complex than the other systems, and it forms the basis for all of them, but it is superseded by the level above it.” He spread his palms apart slightly to reveal the blue-white coin he’d Forged. “Madra.”

A snap, and the madra disappeared. “With madra, we can break and bend and overrule the physical laws that would have bound us otherwise. Within certain rules and limits, of course. If we continue this analogy, soulfire is the staircase between the madra system and the next level up. At which we exert our wills to control the world directly.”

He gestured to the clump of grass that had once been frozen. “That is the level on which you and Yerin now operate. While she has enhanced her ability to add willpower to her own actions, you can take actions that you previously could not.”

Most of that, Lindon had already figured out to one degree or another, but he peered into the Archlord’s face for a long time, looking for…something.

After facing Eithan’s pleasant smile for too long, Lindon finally asked the question that was on his mind. “How do you know? How do you know any of this?”

Though Eithan had promised to stop keeping secrets, Lindon still expected an evasion, but Eithan squinted up into the sky and spoke.

“I was an advisor to the Monarch Tiberian Arelius.”

Lindon wondered if the “deflection” had been nothing more than a simple lie. “You were an Underlord.”

“I didn’t advise him on advancement, obviously. But I have always had an…instinctive grasp of the underlying theory behind the sacred arts, you might say. They found early on that I could handle dream tablets far beyond my age or advancement level, and that I could draw from them more insight than anyone else.”

Eithan swept blowing hair out of his face and gave Lindon a serious look. “You can call me what you like. Genius. Savant. Prodigy. Virtuoso. Once-in-a-lifetime intellect. I’ve always preferred that people look beyond who I am on the inside and really appreciate my gorgeous exterior.”

For a moment, Lindon was overwhelmed by the knowledge that Eithan had been advisor to a Monarch. He’d been trained by someone who had studied at the highest levels. Lindon wished he’d known earlier; he had missed so many chances to exploit Eithan’s knowledge.

Then again…

Eithan had always acted like he knew everything. And he had been careful about doling out knowledge a little at a time.

Maybe this wasn’t so much of a surprise.

Lindon pressed his fists together and bowed lightly. “Gratitude for your instruction.”

“I would appreciate it if you would keep that between you and the others, by the way,” Eithan said. “Most of my kinsmen don’t even know.”

“Pardon, but why not?”

“You know me, Lindon. I love nothing more than keeping a low profile.”

5

[Information requested: birth of the Mad King.]

[Beginning report…]

King Daruman the First was not only the ruler who united his Iteration, but who ushered it into an unprecedented golden age.

As a warrior, he was unparalleled, bringing his sword against the planet-eaters that plagued his people.

As a king, he was known both for his wisdom and his character. Even his rivals found no blemish on his integrity, and his people were fed, happy, and educated. “To seek the knowledge of Daruman” became a common saying meaning “to seek absolute truth.”

He ruled for three hundred years, until he felt the realm was stable enough to pass on to a successor. Not to a child of his, but to a candidate that proved themselves before the realm.

After watching over the second generation of his unified world, he ascended to seek more worlds to save.

The Abidan considered him perfect. Even as they delved into his mind, they found a humble hero, a ruler who wanted nothing more than to improve the world.

So they gave him worlds to improve.

Daruman was chosen by the second Court of Seven to be among the first of what they were to call their Executors. He was an agent of the Abidan, but un-bound to the Eledari Pact, so he was not prevented from interfering in Fate.

He and his four peers were sent to dying worlds, to defeat the threat from the inside and prolong the existence of the Iterations as long as possible.

At first, the experiment was declared a success.

None of those first-generation Executors were less than perfect, world-level combatants with sharp minds and resolute hearts. They saved world after world, allowing the Abidan to expand their Sectors and add more and more Iterations to their protection.

Daruman was not the first of those Executors to go rogue.

In fact, he was the last.

Though each Executor was mentally evaluated upon their return from a mission, their futures could not be read. By the nature of their work, they diverged from Fate regularly, so they became a blank spot for the Hounds.

When the first Executor fled Abidan control and took over a distant Iteration, the Hounds were shocked.

When the second gave up and lay down her weapon with no warning, they became alarmed. They enacted new restrictions on their remaining three Executors, as well as more extensive screening.

But by nature of their role, Executors were beyond Abidan monitoring while on assignment. The third Executor burned to the ground the world he was meant to save, insisting there was no other way to be rid of corruption.

Daruman chased down that peer himself, performing the execution with his own sword.

The fourth Executor attacked the Abidan. She tried to bring them down for reasons that were never clear, falling at the hands of Razael.

By this point, trust in the Executors was nonexistent. A second generation had already been appointed, but these had been raised from birth by the Abidan themselves, designed to be perfectly competent and loyal. Daruman was already considered a relic of an embarrassing past.

But he continued his role, finding satisfaction in saving world after world.

Until he found a world he couldn’t save.

Oth’kimeth, the Conqueror, had been considered a Class Two Fiend when it broke through Sector Control to invade an Iteration. As it began to feed, its designation was raised to Class One, and Daruman himself went to stop it.

He spent fourteen years in that Iteration. Due to the influence of chaos, records of that time are spotty, but it is generally agreed that he found Oth’kimeth to be a much greater opponent than expected.

Finally, he determined that the only way to truly remove Oth’kimeth was to seal the Fiend inside a vessel capable of resisting its temptation: himself.

Daruman returned to Sanctum and reported to the Judges the successful completion of his mission. He invited them to inspect him for any signs of chaotic control. He was still in command of himself, and he could turn the powers of a Class One Fiend to good.

The Court of Seven, unable to read his fate, nevertheless knew that no one could resist the machinations of a Class One Fiend forever. They weren’t even certain that he hadn’t already been corrupted.

They imprisoned him in the depths of Haven.

There he languished for centuries, in the heart of the Abidan prison-world. Just him and Oth’kimeth.

Four hundred and nineteen years after his imprisonment, he escaped. It was a feat never equaled before or since in the history of the Abidan.

Daruman was pursued by the second Makiel, who chased him into the depths of the void. To the horror of the Court, Makiel was defeated, suffering damage to the origin of his existence that would eventually cause him to pass on his mantle.

In a message broadcast to all of Sanctum and several others of the Abidan core worlds, Daruman declared the Abidan tyrants and swore himself to their destruction. He gathered up his original Iteration, forging it into the great fortress Tal’gullour, and moved to another world.

The people were all that mattered to the Way, he said, not the Iterations themselves. The Abidan were nothing more than jailers, and he would gather power until he brought them down.

It was determined by the Court that his will had been corrupted by Oth’kimeth, and he was given his new title: the Mad King.

[Suggested topic: the fall of the second-generation Executors. Continue?]

[Denied, report complete.]

* * *

Mount Samara’s ring was beginning to fade when they arrived at the eastern entrance to Sacred Valley.

The white halo around the snow-peaked mountain was dimming with the approach of sunlight in the pre-dawn twilight, and Lindon found his eyes growing wet.

Every night of his life for fifteen years, he’d slept under the light of this mountain. Now, it filled the windows of his own personal cloud fortress as he returned.

Lindon blinked his vision clear. He’d been preparing for this moment since the day he’d left.

So he couldn’t mess it up.

Tell the ships to land and power down, Lindon ordered Dross. Send as many Golds after us as they can spare. We expect to return within three days.

Dross obeyed, though he added his own commentary on the likelihood that they would actually be back within three days.

The Akura ships set down at the border of the blackened forest that represented the Desolate Wilds, but Lindon and the others flew closer to Mount Samara.

They couldn’t get any closer than the smaller mountains and hills surrounding Sacred Valley, as the aura was starting to fade already. Lindon’s spiritual sense couldn’t penetrate far beyond this point, and he was having to spend more and more energy to keep their cloud base afloat.

Next to him, Eithan shuddered. “It’s like diving face-first into a bucket of ink. I’m afraid my bloodline legacy won’t be of much use to you from here on, although I myself will be the same emotional asset and source of courage as always.”

Ziel slumped against the wall, his horns glowing slightly green as he regarded the view in front of them. “It’ll be more uncomfortable than you think.”

As Lindon landed on a snowy mountainside within sight of Mount Samara, he risked a moment of inattention to glance back at Ziel. He hadn’t considered what entering a power-dampening boundary formation would feel like to Ziel. It could dredge up years of painful memories.

Then again, he hadn’t considered Ziel much at all. Eithan was the one who had recruited the man, not Lindon. Ziel had linked his cloud fortress to theirs as they approached, so it would land as they did.

“If you would like to stay here, I would be grateful to have someone reliable protecting our base,” Lindon suggested.

“I’m used to having my power suppressed. But if you want me to stay here, I’ll stay here.”

Lindon doubted he was just being polite. As usual, he sounded as though he wouldn’t care if the ship exploded around him.

Mercy was standing right up against the window, staring at Samara’s ring. “It’s beautiful! I can’t wait to see it from up close!”

“Only get that view if we stay at Heaven’s Glory for the night,” Yerin pointed out. “Which I’m not panting and begging to do.”

From Lindon’s shoulder, Little Blue gave a ringing agreement.

Lindon found it hard to pry his view away from the shining loop of light, but he forced himself to move. He ran his spiritual sense through the beautiful, roomy void key now hanging from his neck. His wintersteel badge hung on the outside, a lump of cold power that resonated as his attention moved over it.

Dross was ready. Little Blue was ready. Orthos was an indistinct lump in the back of his mind, a comforting heat. Lindon hoped for the chance to track him down after this was over.

“Let’s go.”

Lindon led the way out of the fortress.

Mount Samara was the highest, most visible mountain around them, but that didn’t mean the surrounding peaks were small. This distance had taken them days for Lindon and Yerin to travel, even with the help of a Thousand-Mile Cloud, though they had been injured and weak at the time.

Now, they all had Thousand-Mile Clouds except Mercy, who followed them on her staff. Yerin pulled one from her own void key, which Lindon still wasn’t used to. She had gone without a void key for so long, but neither the Winter Sage nor the Akura clan would have let the victor of the Uncrowned King tournament go without.

It would be a few minutes before the Golds were organized enough to catch up, but some had already begun gathering up on their own clouds. It seemed like they would be accompanied by about a dozen Golds from each of the remaining twenty-three ships, and Lindon was filled with gratitude at the sight. He would have to thank Charity when they returned.

He had plenty of time to think, because their Thousand-Mile Clouds moved at barely a crawl.

Their clouds couldn’t reach anything close to full speed out here. This was within a few miles of the spot where Lindon had opened his Copper sight for the first time, and he remembered how vivid the colors had seemed. They had been almost blinding.

When Lindon opened that sight now, the colors were muted and washed out. Barely there. As though the vital aura had been squeezed dry.

Is this the Titan? Lindon asked Dross in alarm. The only bright colors came from the veins of yellow earth aura beneath their feet, which were clearly affected by the approach of the Dreadgod. Had he somehow used hunger madra to drain all the other types of aura into the ground?

Dross coughed politely. [The veins of earth aura staying bright are an effect of proximity to the Dreadgod, yes, I’m sure that’s true. But everything else…uh, I think it’s just like that here. Not that it isn’t beautiful!]

Weak.

This place was so weak.

Their Thousand-Mile Clouds functioned, but they were built for areas with much higher concentration of aura. It might actually be faster to run.

Even so, these clouds were incomparably faster than the one that had originally taken Lindon and Yerin the other direction. This time, they covered that distance in under an hour.

When they arrived, Lindon withdrew his cloud into his void key and landed in the snow. He could feel the boundary in front of him. The border of Sacred Valley.

The vital aura was weak for miles around, certainly. When he crossed that line, it wouldn’t be any weaker. But he would be.

There was an emptiness past this point. A vampiric power. A hunger.

Eithan put his hands on his hips and looked all the way up, as though regarding an invisible wall. “Well, isn’t this unpleasant?”

“I’d rather walk headfirst into a sewer,” Ziel said as he plunged into the field without hesitation. He didn’t change visibly as he passed the barrier, trudging through the snow at the same rate.

Mercy leaned close to the invisible force, sticking her arm in and shuddering, pulling it out. “How long before it affects us, you think?”

“Sooner we’re in, sooner we’re out,” Ziel called back.

Eithan tucked his hands in his pockets and strolled across. “Since I can’t watch everyone, I expect all of you to describe your actions in detail at all times. Start now.”

[I’m looking through Lindon’s memories for the path in,] Dross reported. [Looks like it’s a straight line.]

“Excellent work, Dross.”

Lindon didn’t remember pulling out Suriel’s marble, but he ran the warm glass through the fingers of his left hand. As usual, its steady blue light was a comfort.

Yerin had stayed back with him, and now she brushed the red streak of hair out of her eye and looked up at him in concern. “Won’t blame you if your steps aren’t steady.”

“This route will take us past the Ancestor’s Tomb,” Lindon said quietly.

Yerin darkened. “Yeah.” She gripped the hilt of the sword at her waist.

The one she’d pulled out of the Tomb.

She carried her other blade, Netherclaw, in her void key now. This one, she always strapped to her belt.

Side-by-side, they crossed the boundary into Sacred Valley.

Despite Lindon’s expectation, it wasn’t much different on the other side. He could feel something tugging on his power, as though his spirit had sprung a leak, and at the same time his senses were smothered by a blanket.

But neither were as uncomfortable as he’d imagined. At this rate, it would take days to weaken his spirit enough to make a difference. He might evacuate his family before he fell to the level of a Jade.

Yerin swayed in mid-step, and he reached out a hand.

He barely caught her before she collapsed.

In less than the blink of an eye, he had dashed out of the boundary formation, landing in a spray of snow. Yerin gasped as though she had emerged from deep water, her red eyes wide.

Lindon still clutched her in both hands. “What happened?”

“Too much,” she said, still breathing heavily. “It took too much.”

Only a few yards away, Eithan looked down at himself. “Hm…I see. The boundary siphons strength away rather than suppressing it as a veil would. I suspect I have only…let’s say six or seven hours before I’m down to the level of a Jade. That will be a novel experience.”

Lindon thought he saw the problem. Since she merged with her Blood Shadow, Yerin’s body had partially fused with her spirit. Draining her madra would affect her physically even more than the rest of them.

“You can stay on Windfall,” Lindon suggested. It would be better anyway, he realized. She wouldn’t have to relive the trauma of losing her master by revisiting the site of his death, and she would still get to meet his family when he brought them out.

It made sense, but leaving her behind felt wrong. She had started this journey with him, and she should be with him to see it end.

He didn’t expect her to agree. In fact, he expected her to leap out of his grasp and plunge straight into the Valley, heedless of the consequences.

Instead, she stayed where she was and turned to Eithan. “Am I going to fall apart if I head back in there?”

It was Ziel who answered. “Do Remnants form in there?”

“They do,” Lindon confirmed.

“Then you’ll survive. No matter how close to a spirit you are, you’ll still be more solid than a Remnant.” He pointed to Little Blue, who was leaning over Lindon’s shoulder to regard Yerin with concern. “If she doesn’t fall apart, you definitely won’t. But…”

He let the silence stretch out until Lindon wondered whether he was thinking of the right words to say or if he was waiting for someone to ask a question.

“…a stable Herald wouldn’t be affected as much as you are. Don’t know if it’s because you didn’t hit Archlord first, or...”

He slumped in place, as though speaking so much had exhausted him. Eithan swept a hand toward him. “I concur with the champion of the Wastelands. This suppression field has revealed an imbalance in your body and spirit. I could speculate as to why, but it hardly matters now.”

“So I’m not falling apart,” Yerin said.

“You will not. In fact, I suspect you won’t get any worse than you are now. Barring grievous injury, of course.”

Yerin met Lindon’s gaze. “My master dove into this with eyes open.”

Lindon nodded and started to carry her back in. The second she weakened too much, he would leap free of the field again.

She cleared her throat. “Still got two feet.”

Reluctantly, he lowered her down, although he supposed there wasn’t much risk in her walking under her own power. Even an ordinary Overlady wouldn’t be killed by falling flat on her face.

She squared herself and clutched her sword as she crossed the boundary, and her stride faltered almost immediately. Lindon reached for her, but she stopped him, taking a few deeper breaths to steady her spirit.

“Shaky as a two-day calf,” she reported, “but on the sunny side, at least it won’t get worse.”

If Lindon’s spirit felt as though it had sprung a leak, hers lost power like a shattered wine bottle. In less than a minute, she felt as weak to his perception as a Lowgold.

Lindon couldn’t make himself comfortable with that.

“If we end up in a fight…” He trailed off. He didn’t want to remind Yerin of her master’s death, but on the other hand, the Sword Sage must have knowingly weakened himself by walking into this boundary field. He had risked his life and died for it.

And now they were repeating the same mistake.

Yerin raised her voice, addressing everyone. “I’ll break easier than a glass egg in there. I’m aiming to head in anyway, but I know that’s a rotten deal for you. Anybody wants me to stay here, I’ll do it.”

She sounded completely sincere, which once again surprised him a little. Part of him had expected her to insist that she could protect herself, no matter how weakened she became.

But that’s what she would have done when she was here before. It had been a long time since then. She had seen and done more in the last few years than many sacred artists did in their entire lifetimes. She had grown.

Like he had.

“Of course we’ll take care of you!” Mercy exclaimed. She sounded slightly offended.

Eithan beamed. “I have been covering for you all this time. The only difference now is that you’re aware of it.”

Ziel shrugged and kept walking farther in.

Even Little Blue gave an encouraging peep.

“You know I—” Lindon began, but she cut him off.

“I know,” she said. “Sun’s moving.”

Together, they moved toward the Heaven’s Glory School. Two or three hundred Akura Golds had massed behind them, but still hadn’t quite caught up yet. Dross reported that they were passing out communication constructs.

Before Lindon had gone far, they came upon a simple gate. It was only a six-foot-high wall of bricks, enough that any sacred artist could clear it easily, but a squat tower rose behind it.

There were no constructs anywhere that Lindon could feel, but a few basic scripts could repel madra and keep out Remnants when activated.

Each of them hopped over the wall with ease, even Yerin.

[This is perfect! There’s no one here. Maybe they’ll just let us walk on through.]

Lindon knew that he and Yerin had only escaped so easily the first time because her rampage had already drawn most of the combat-capable Heaven’s Glory members back to the school. This post should have been manned.

What had drawn them away this time?

They saw nothing and no one else remarkable until they reached a massive block building standing proudly in the snow. It was covered with scars where it had been glued back together, piece by piece. Scars marred a mural of the four Dreadgods that hung over the entrance, wiping out the top halves of the Wandering Titan and Weeping Dragon.

The last time Lindon had seen this place, it had been a pile of rubble. The Heaven’s Glory School must have spent a fortune in repairs. All things considered, they had done a good job.

The entire building had been fenced off and surrounded by boundary flags that would activate security measures if anyone broke the perimeter. The fence was just some wire stretched between wooden posts; a symbolic barrier to alert people to the presence of the script more than any real obstacle.

And to Lindon, that fence was the most substantial part of their defenses.

He walked up, gathering pure madra in his finger.

He flicked out the smallest amount of madra he could gather. It was no more a true technique than a mouthful of grass was a meal.

The script protecting the Ancestor’s Tomb shone too bright and then flickered out, overloaded by his power so that the runes tore apart the flags into which they were woven. Sparks of essence rose from some buried constructs that had burst under the influx of power.

“Do you draw satisfaction from kicking over the sandcastles of children?” Eithan asked.

Lindon ignored him, looking to Yerin, whose gaze was locked on the Tomb. She adjusted the position of her sword-belt too many times.

“Do you want to go in?” Lindon asked.

She shook her head. “Can’t stray off the trail. Once there’s no Dreadgod about to fall on us, then we can track my master’s footsteps.”

“Ah. I retract my objection,” Eithan said. “Kick as many sandcastles as you wish.”

A stranger stumbled out from behind a nearby tree, golden technique forming.

[Heaven’s Glory!] Dross shouted. [Get him, Lindon!]

The young man who faced them with a technique glowing in his outstretched palm wore an iron badge etched with an arrow. An Iron Striker. He wore a white and gold outer robe with a red sash; the uniform of a Heaven’s Glory disciple.

Lindon felt a strange fondness when he saw that outfit. It really had been a long time.

“They’re back!” the Iron shouted. He released a line of scorching golden light at Ziel.

The former Archlord kept on trudging through the snow.

Heaven’s Glory madra splattered against him like spit against a boulder. His clothes weren’t singed.

Ziel didn’t even glance at the man.

Lindon was frozen in shock by the Iron’s words. They had recognized him? How?

He had been gone for more than three years. He wore completely different clothes, had advanced seven times, and even lost an arm. In the first place, he had never known many people in the Heaven’s Glory School. Odds were, he had never met this man.

[Maybe it’s the badge?] Dross suggested.

While he was wearing the badge of an Unsouled, it was made from wintersteel, not wood. Had that one symbol really been enough to alert this lone Iron? Was Heaven’s Glory that vigilant against his return?

Yerin, who had physically changed at least as much as he had, shouted to the Iron who was staggering back from Ziel in shock and fear. “Oi!” she called. “How do you know us?”

The Iron turned to run, but turning was as far as he got.

Eithan was already behind him, standing out from the white surroundings in his stylish cyan silk. He smiled and seized the Heaven’s Glory disciple by the upper arms. “Relax, new friend!”

The stranger made a whimper like an animal with its leg caught in a trap.

Yerin strode over to him and snapped her fingers to get his attention. “Hey. Do you know my face? Did you draw swords on me before?”

There was anger in her voice, but Lindon was certain she wouldn’t hurt him, no matter how he answered. The Iron was only sixteen or seventeen, and he paled and shifted as though looking around for help. “This one didn’t see you! This one only happened to witness your friends.”

“More of them in the trees,” Ziel reported, as he continued to walk toward the sparse forest.

The hostage’s eyes lit up. “This one would be honored to take you to the school’s Elders. If you cooperate, this one is certain we could come to an understanding.”

For the first time, Lindon witnessed what it was like to hear someone weaker than him speaking too humbly. It was painful.

He felt a moment of shame for his past self.

“You mentioned that you saw our friends,” Eithan said casually. “Which ones? We’re very friendly people, you see.”

Lindon wondered if some of the Akura Golds had somehow managed to make it into the valley ahead of them.

“From…from last time,” the Iron said. He spoke uncertainly, as though he hadn’t understood the question. “The rest of you. Apologies, this one doesn’t know which ones, he saw only techniques of light and fire.”

“Who do you think we are?” Mercy asked curiously.

“You’re…aren’t you…exiles from the Wei clan?”

In the woods, techniques flashed as the other Heaven’s Glory sentinels attacked Ziel.

Lindon grabbed the front of the boy’s outer robe and forced him to meet his eyes. “You were attacked by exiles from the Wei clan?”

He waited for the boy’s furious, desperate nod.

“When?”

“Two…no, three? Three days ago!”

An old man’s commanding voice split the air. “Release him!”

Lindon looked up to see Elder Rahm, keeper of the Heaven’s Glory School’s Lesser Treasure Hall, facing them with his chin raised and his back straight. He stood with the vitality of a younger man, though he had to be at least eighty.

Four oblong security constructs floated behind him, a pair over each shoulder. Their tips shone with gold as they kindled their Striker techniques.

A jade badge hung on his chest, showing off a scepter emblem. A Ruler.

Lindon glanced behind the Elder to see Ziel’s increasingly distant figure shrugging off a barrage of Iron-level techniques.

Lindon released the Iron disciple, taking a few steps closer to the Heaven’s Glory Elder. He pushed his fists together, white knuckles against those of flesh, and dipped his head.

“Greetings, Elder Rahm,” Lindon said. “It has been too long.”

Rahm’s eyes crawled from Lindon’s face down to his badge before realization dawned on him. It quickly turned to disgust.

“Unsouled. I would take your hand for robbing me, but it looks like someone stole that pleasure from me.”

Lindon wanted to be offended by that, but he probably deserved it. While the Heaven’s Glory School had worked against him, Rahm had not started as an enemy himself. But Lindon and Yerin had robbed him anyway.

“How did you contact the other exiles?” Rahm continued, the constructs behind him growing hotter. “Or do they give you your orders?”

“I understand you’ve suffered from an attack, but we’re not here to hurt you. We’ve actually come to help.”

Elder Rahm’s jaw slowly dropped. He looked as though he had just heard the most stupid statement he could possibly imagine.

“I was too lenient on you before, Unsouled. I’ve since learned better than to expect honor from a Wei.”

He triggered all four of the launcher constructs. They began gathering light and heat into points as the Striker bindings within them cycled power. There was a delay of only about a quarter second between Rahm triggering the constructs and their techniques activating.

In that gap, a finger-thin bar of Blackflame sliced all four of the weapons into pieces.

Four explosions echoed behind Elder Rahm before his eyes had a chance to widen.

Lindon closed the distance between them in a blink. He didn’t use the Burning Cloak. He didn’t need it.

“Tell me about the Wei clan exiles.” Lindon said. He kept his voice quiet and firm, but he didn’t want to sound too threatening.

The threat was already clear.

Elder Rahm’s eyes moved to the others behind Lindon. “Did you really come from outside without knowing anything?”

“Apologies, Elder,” Lindon said, “but answer my question.”

Rahm’s wrinkled face melted slightly, into an expression that was one degree below a smile. “The heavens hate you. Perhaps I was right all along to pity you.”

“Clearly we’re wasting our time,” Eithan said with a sigh. “He has a soul of steel. We will never get any information out of him. We’ll have to search for clues on our own.”

There came a squawk and a handful of screams as Ziel pushed over a tree with one hand, sending the Irons hiding in its branches falling to the ground like overripe fruit.

Elder Rahm stiffened and gave Lindon a hateful glare. “Kill me. My Remnant will—”

“Oh, what great fortune!” Eithan cried. “A clue!” He was peering into the trees, shading his eyes with one hand. He leaped away, trusting the others to follow.

Mercy and Lindon both turned back to Yerin, who looked from one to the other. “Not at my peak, but I’m not really made of glass.”

[Hey Mercy, why don’t you keep her company?] Dross suggested, without letting Yerin in on the conversation. [Lindon can carry the old man. Oh no, wait, I’m sorry he’d rather carry Yerin. Of course, that was stupid of me. You take the wrinkly one.]

“I’ll take him,” Lindon hurriedly insisted, tossing Elder Rahm over one shoulder. Rahm struggled and protested, but he was a Jade. He’d be fine.

“Then I’ll—” Mercy began.

Yerin vanished in a flash of white light.

Her Moonlight Bridge could take her almost anywhere, but Lindon sensed her only a little ahead. She’d used it to catch up with Ziel.

“I really want one of those,” Mercy sighed.

They caught up in seconds. Once they did, Eithan and Ziel stopped holding back and picked up their speed toward the Heaven’s Glory School.

In only a few more minutes, they arrived. Yerin appeared in their midst at the center of a bright white light. She was breathing heavily, but using that Divine Treasure to transport shouldn’t have been so tiring. There could be restrictions to using it while in Sacred Valley, but Lindon moved that question to the back of his mind.

Elder Rahm had shouted almost the entire time as they moved at speeds greater than he’d ever imagined, but now that they had come to a stop, he was quiet.

Lindon remembered the Heaven’s Glory School—at least the part he’d seen—as a collection of smooth rainstone buildings that always glistened as though slick with water. Each living area was next to a small garden with a tree and a few colorful plants.

All of that…had been here, once.

Someone had treated the Heaven’s Glory School like the Dreadgod had treated Sky’s Edge. Buildings were sheared in half as though by massive swords, rubble was scattered around by explosions, and great gashes had been torn in the ground. Lindon didn’t see a single garden that hadn’t either been burned completely away or at least scorched.

Heaven’s Glory apprentices with copper, iron, or even wooden badges scurried everywhere, in the middle of construction projects. Some stood on ladders to repair rooftops, others filled in holes with dirt, still others patched up windows or carted away debris or re-planted trees.

And every one of them froze as Lindon and the others emerged abruptly from the woods.

One long pause later, they all screamed and ran, scurrying every direction and shouting for fighters to protect them.

Eithan walked casually up to the street that ran through the center of the school, gesturing to the debris around him. “Lindon, what’s your take on this?”

Lindon unceremoniously dumped Elder Rahm from his shoulder. The old Jade twisted and landed in a crouch. He tried to dash away but ran straight into Yerin’s outstretched hand.

Weakened she may have been, but Rahm was still no match for her. Her fist tightened on his outer robe, but she remained stone-faced. As he recalled, she didn’t have the same grudge against Rahm that she had against the other Jades.

What do you think, Dross? Lindon asked.

In Lindon’s vision, piles of debris and some of the streaks on the ground glowed purple. It took him a moment to sort all the information Dross was sending him, but once he did, Lindon began to speak.

“Heaven’s Glory was pushed back to this point. Their barrier was halfway made of Forged madra, and not all of it has been reduced to essence yet.” He gestured to a pile of what looked like golden glass shards. “The rest was stacks of wood, half of which was cleared away, but the rest is over there.” A pile of charred wood rested against a building to their right.

Lindon pointed down the street, to a building that was completely ruined. “The attackers got whatever was in there, then tried to force their way through this direction, but were forced back by Heaven’s Glory defenders.”

That story was told by the angle of the scorch marks and the damage on the buildings behind them. Lindon didn’t even need Dross to tell that someone had been using some serious Striker techniques, firing in this direction. They had sliced straight through stone.

“Did you see this from up there?” Lindon asked.

“I assure you, my abilities are significantly reduced compared to normal. You’ll have to take my word for it. Now, what’s your conclusion?”

“Please correct me if I’m mistaken, but it seems to me that someone raided the School from deeper in the valley, stole whatever was in that building, and was discovered either when they were inside the building or shortly outside. Then they pushed their way in this direction in an attempt to escape.”

The attackers had tried to leave Sacred Valley. Interesting that, after getting what they wanted from Heaven’s Glory, they had wanted to escape the valley completely instead of returning home.

“That would be my guess as well,” Eithan agreed. “However, it is a guess. Deduction is not an exact science. It could be that these attackers became enraged and wished to inflict damage on the rest of Heaven’s Glory, not trying to escape.”

“Pardon, but then I would expect more damage to the buildings.” Most were broken in some way, true, but the enemy techniques had clearly been focused onto the barricade. If the attackers had been interested only in inflicting as much pain as possible, they could have launched these destructive techniques in every direction.

Eithan waved a hand. “Certainly. I just think we ought to remember that there are many things we can’t know.”

An alarm horn blared in the distance, and shouts showed that Heaven’s Glory warriors were on their way.

“Now, I wonder…” Eithan began, and Lindon didn’t need him to finish.

Both dashed over to the rubble of the most thoroughly destroyed building visible.

It was actually one house back from the street, and whatever battle had leveled the rainstone had carved visible chunks out of the surrounding homes. This building had been larger than the others, similar to the size Lindon remembered of the Lesser Treasure Hall, but otherwise Lindon could glean almost nothing from its remains.

At this point, it was basically a rectangular pit filled with fragments of a diced building.

“If you already know what’s down there, I would appreciate it if you would tell me,” Lindon said.

Eithan grimaced. “Lots of grimy blankets, some destroyed tools, and a shallow sewer of human waste. I would call it a prison, but those aren’t usually kept twenty feet from the main thoroughfare.”

People. People had been stored here.

Lindon didn’t like the picture that was forming. Someone had attacked Heaven’s Glory from within the valley, taking someone from this prison and leaving the building in ruins, and had then tried to leave. But they’d been forced to retreat.

And it seemed like this person was an exile of the Wei clan. Lindon was beginning to feel sick, and he couldn’t tell if it was his imagination or a premonition.

A Striker technique lanced toward Eithan’s back, a streaking line of golden madra.

Lindon reached out and caught it on his right hand, absorbing the power into his hunger arm. He vented what he couldn’t process, but it was pathetically little.

Eithan dipped his head slightly. “Thank you.”

“Name yourselves!” A furious woman’s shout came from behind them.

Lindon turned to see an old woman with a jade badge leading a contingent of about ten Irons.

[Twelve,] Dross corrected.

Lindon held both his hands over his head. “I apologize for our haste, honored Elder, but we come in peace.”

“Liar!” Elder Rahm shouted from where he stood behind Yerin. “These are enemies of the School!”

“Strikers!” the new Elder commanded.

Five more streaks of light flashed out, all aimed at Yerin.

Lindon felt a spike of alarm and anger. Mercy instantly moved to cover Yerin, and the knot in his heart loosened, but they had still attacked instantly. As far as he knew, they could have killed her.

In a flash, Yerin vanished.

She reappeared next to the Jade woman, blade drawn, its white edge pressed against the elder’s throat.

The Irons behind panicked, staggering back and preparing weapons…but none of them attacked, clearly unwilling to risk the Jade’s life.

Yerin spoke while panting. “Now…would you bet we’re here to talk, or draw blood?”

After another moment, in which she met the eyes of all the Irons, Yerin slid her sword away and back into its sheath.

The elder raised two fingers to her throat, felt no blood, and then lowered her trembling hand. “Guests don’t usually sneak in to capture one of our Jades.”

Lindon took over. “We came to warn you. There is a great disaster on its way. You may have already felt it: earthquakes, spiritual pressure, earth aura behaving strangely.”

The elder gave one cautious nod.

“It is coming to destroy Sacred Valley. We can take you to safety, but you have to leave with us.”

Her eyes narrowed. “What reason do I have to think this isn’t a plot to destroy us?”

“Because we don’t need to plot to destroy you,” Lindon said simply. He kept his spirit wide open, his madra cycling slowly.

After a moment, her spiritual perception extended from her and ran through him in a soul-shivering scan. He allowed it.

Her sense was vague and weak, but she shook when she was finished. He almost didn’t hear her whisper “Gold? All of you?”

Lindon hesitated.

“Sure,” Mercy allowed.

Yerin gave a dry laugh. “You’re short by a long mile.”

“We’re far beyond Golds!” Eithan declared.

Ziel just shook his head.

The Elder looked to all of them in clear confusion, returning to Lindon. He simply said, “Yes.”

Rahm scanned them all, and each time, the shock in his expression grew.

“Forgiveness,” the Jade woman said with a bow. “I was disrespectful. We should find a place to talk where we won’t be on display to every peeping Copper in the school.”

There was indeed a significant crowd staring at them, some close and some far away, with varying degrees of anger or fear.

As he looked around, Lindon caught note of a building he recognized. He pointed. “We can speak in the Lesser Treasure Hall.”

The female elder’s face twisted in confusion. “Forgiveness, but the Treasure Hall is crowded. And I’m sure nothing in there would catch the eye of a Gold.”

“I would feel more comfortable if we were in Elder Rahm’s home,” Lindon explained.

“Elder Rahm oversees all three of our Treasure Halls. At least let me guide you to the Elder Treasure Hall, where we are better equipped to host honored guests such as yourselves.”

Lindon realized he was pinching his void key and lowered his hand. “Let’s start with the Lesser Hall,” he said. “One step at a time.”

6

Lindon remembered the Lesser Treasure Hall of Heaven’s Glory as a wide hall packed with pedestals. Sitting on each pedestal, covered in transparent panes of glass-like Forged madra, were treasures.

As he entered now, years later, the first thing he noticed was how small the place was.

Yerin glanced around at the floor and ceiling. “Got the place all swept and shiny new.” There was no trace of her battle with Rahm, which had destroyed much of the interior before.

Elder Rahm gave a harsh laugh as she dragged him along behind. “Such little damage was simple to repair.”

His colleague entered after the rest of them, following inside only after Mercy, Ziel, and Eithan had joined them. She didn’t bring any guards along with her, though she did position herself near the exit.

When they had all entered, the old woman bowed. “Apologies for the late introduction. I am Grand Elder Emara. I have not held the position for long, so please forgive me if my knowledge is lacking.”

“You’re forgiven,” Eithan intoned.

Lindon glanced at a wooden card sitting next to a case carrying a scripted sword. Flying Sword, it said. When powered by Iron-quality madra, this weapon is capable of levitating through vital aura and striking with the force of a real sword.

He remembered it, though he wasn’t sure if this was the same weapon. When he was here before, he had ached at having to leave this behind. It had no aspect requirement, so he’d wanted to keep it for later in his advancement.

Next to it was a dormant construct, a tiny humanoid puppet of wood and bronze with arms curled around its knees. Guardian Puppet. Requires a constant infusion of madra, but can be controlled directly in combat.

Aspect requirement: earth preferred.

Lindon didn’t remember seeing this one here before. Would he have taken it, if it had been? How would that have changed his first battles?

On his shoulder, Little Blue peeped curiously. He wondered if she remembered starting her life here.

Down the row, he spotted a shining Starlotus bud. The spirit-fruit that had started him to Copper. There were scripted boundary flags, various weapons, one construct he suspected was a drudge, even two Thousand-Mile Clouds.

Looking out over it all, Lindon found it hard to remember what he’d seen before.

“Some of these are the products of our craftsmen,” Grand Elder Emara explained. “Others we have commissioned or captured. They might not meet your standards, but these can become valuable to the development of our young Coppers and Irons. Elder Rahm can explain further.”

“I gave them a tour once,” Rahm said stiffly. “I won’t be repeating that mistake.”

With a smile plastered on her face, Emara sidled up to Rahm to whisper into his ear.

Eithan held up a hand. “I’m sorry to order you about in your own home, but why don’t you speak so we can all hear? We wouldn’t want any collusion against us, would we?”

They all could have heard the two elders whispering from next door, especially Eithan, so Lindon wondered why he would prevent the Jades from talking. If they thought they were speaking privately, they might reveal something valuable.

But the elders were only getting part of his attention. Most of Lindon’s focus went to the Lesser Treasure Hall.

Ziel strolled back down an aisle. When he reached Lindon, he spoke under his breath. “This is junk.”

That summarized Lindon’s thoughts rather succinctly.

The flying sword had been made from cheap iron. Its edges were brittle, its script clumsily carved. Just by etching the runes more precisely, they could have improved the efficiency by half. And the script was so long and poorly designed that it would interfere with any other scripts added to the weapon; if they had chosen their runes better, they could have added two, maybe three more modifications to the sword.

The Guardian Puppet would shatter like dry twigs in front of the first real attack. And it couldn’t function autonomously at all, so what good was it? If you were pouring your madra into something, you might as well just swing a hammer.

Even the Starlotus bud, toward which Lindon still felt some affection, now struck him as pathetic. Compared to a real spirit-fruit, it was like a drop of dew next to a glass of wine.

“At least there’s some halfsilver,” Lindon whispered back to Ziel, who dipped his head in concession.

Of everything in the hall, the only things worth Lindon’s attention were the weapons of halfsilver and goldsteel. And even then, only for their raw materials.

In an afternoon of work, Lindon could fill this hall with more powerful treasures. Using only local Remnants and scrap metal.

He shouldn’t have been disappointed, but he was.

If he got the chance, he still wanted to check out the Elder Treasure Hall, but he was much less eager to do so. He now suspected there was nothing of value in this entire school.

“…would like to hear more about this threat,” Emara was saying to Eithan. “If you have come here in the hopes of conquering territory, I can assure you, the Heaven’s Glory School is more than willing to negotiate.”

“Ah, but we are not the threat. How could we be? Look at our charming faces! No, the threat comes from the west.” Eithan tapped the ground with the point of his shoe. “Surely you’ve noticed.”

Emara and Rahm exchanged glances, and this time even Rahm looked worried. The earth trembled beneath them at that moment. It was almost gentle, but some of the objects rattled against their cases.

“We have spoken with the other schools about these signs,” the Grand Elder allowed. “Our final decision has been delayed due to a cowardly attack by our enemies.”

Rahm shifted to whisper into Emara’s ear, but he was stopped by a sharp smile from Eithan. The Jade woman continued without seeming to notice. “Please, allow us the time to consult with the other elders when they return.”

“And where are they?” Eithan asked.

“They have gone to punish our attackers. We needed every Jade we could spare to deal with their—”

“Wait!” Rahm shouted, but he was too late to stop her.

“—giant turtle,” she finished. Then she turned a frown on Rahm.

Lindon’s breath left him.

He’d felt Orthos’ presence as they approached. Those Striker techniques that had cut rainstone buildings to pieces: black dragon’s breath.

Orthos had come here. To his home. He’d attacked the Heaven’s Glory School to get something.

Someone.

He had tried to escape…and failed.

Three days ago.

Yerin seized the woman by the front of her outer robe. “Where?” Yerin demanded.

“The…the camp at the base of the Fallen Leaf—”

“Point!”

The Jade extended a shaky finger pointing deeper into the valley.

Eithan closed his eyes, and Lindon felt his perception extend. He even caught the hair-thin strands of madra from his Arelius bloodline power, so subtle that ordinarily no one could detect them.

“I see where they passed through, but I can’t…” He gave a frustrated grunt and opened his eyes again. “…I can’t see them. I’m sorry.”

“But you can confirm their direction?” Lindon asked.

Eithan nodded.

Lindon slipped Little Blue into his void key, opening it for only an instant. Then he took off running.

He shot away from the Heaven’s Glory School with the full speed of the Soul Cloak, pure madra flowing around him in waves of blue and white.

There were other routes out of the School. Heaven’s Glory covered more of the mountain than he had ever seen, but he only knew one way in and out. Fortunately, it was the route just ahead of him.

A soft pink glow came from the edge of the cliff he was sprinting towards. But it wasn’t a cliff; the road headed straight for it.

It was the top of a staircase.

Lindon plunged into the cloud of dream madra without hesitation.

When he was here last, the Heaven’s Glory School had called the process of climbing these stairs the Trial of Glorious Ascension. Those students who could make it up within a time limit were rewarded beyond those who could not.

To the mortal eye, it looked like a cloud of pink mist with hazy silhouettes flickering through. Sounds, strange and intimidating, drifted away from its heart.

To the spiritual senses, it felt like a concentration of emotions and dreams, a nexus of spiritual pressure and illusions. It was haunted by Remnants and natural spirits, either grown in this unique environment or cultivated by the Heaven’s Glory School. As soon as he crossed the barrier, they turned hungry eyes to him.

Then they bolted.

As Lindon sprinted down the vast staircase, he felt dream Remnants fleeing from him in all directions.

The illusions generated by dream aura, both naturally and as part of the Trial’s intentionally designed mechanisms, didn’t fool him for an instant. He ran through a paper-thin image of a bloody warrior with axe raised, and didn’t flinch at the sound of his mother crying for his help.

He had dissected his share of dream Remnants. They hunted with their spiritual perception as well as some purely mental senses that didn’t translate particularly well to living humans.

Whether they sensed his thoughts or his spirit or his will, they wanted only to avoid his notice.

Dross had been quiet for a while, but he was roused by the lesser spirits around him. [You know, I’ve always wondered what it was like to have someone cower before me. I like it. It’s a lot more fun than being the one cowering.]

The staircase switched directions a few times, but for the most part was a straight shot down the mountain.

Lindon cleared it in minutes, leaping some of the longer sections. He emerged from the fog of pink aura, turning and sighting on the location of the Wei clan. It was close, nestled roughly to the northeast of the valley.

Eithan emerged from the Trial an instant behind him, and Lindon slowed to allow him to catch up.

The Arelius pointed one finger in the direction of Yoma Mountain. “That’s where they headed, but they could have changed course.”

If they really were heading to the base of the Fallen Leaf School, their route would take them past the Wei clan, not through it. Then again, the Heaven’s Glory members hadn’t said they were after the Wei clan, but rather Wei exiles.

Lindon flared the Soul Cloak and pushed his speed.

To his surprise, he quickly left Eithan behind.

Eithan’s Path didn’t have a full-body Enforcer technique, though he had never known Eithan to need one. This was the effect of Sacred Valley’s suppression field.

He was starting to feel some effects himself, but as an Underlord, he would be drained far more slowly than Eithan the Archlord. To his spiritual sense, Eithan already felt more like a Truegold.

Which, he realized, was the weakest he’d ever sensed Eithan.

Lindon cut his speed. He wouldn’t be any good without a guide, though it grated on him to slow at all.

Eithan grimaced. “I’m not used to people slowing down to let me catch up.”

“I don’t prefer it either. Have you found them yet?”

Mercy reached them, flying on her staff, though she lurched and bobbed unsteadily in midair, the aura too thin to support a smooth flight. “Do you know where we’re going?”

Eithan ducked a tree branch that extended over the path. “They passed through here, but it won’t be long before you’ll be able to see farther than I can.”

Lindon had extended his own spiritual perception before Eithan had said anything. Since leaving, he’d kept his spirit wide open.

Orthos’ presence smoldered in the back of his mind.

The turtle didn’t feel any closer now than he had before. Lindon was getting no direction, no clear emotion. It still felt like Orthos was a hundred miles away.

Were they going the wrong direction?

He had to trust in whatever Eithan saw, but he hated how little they knew. What if the Heaven’s Glory Elders had misled them? What if the giant turtle who had fought them wasn’t actually Orthos?

If everything was as it seemed, and a group of Heaven’s Glory fighters had gone after Orthos, then Orthos would be in battle soon. He would give some signal, and Lindon would feel it.

Unless the curse of Sacred Valley interfered with their contract more than he suspected. Maybe Orthos was fighting now, and this was all Lindon could feel.

Dross tried to reassure him. They were doing the best they could with the information they had. But nothing helped his worries.

Until he felt what he was looking for.

Orthos’ presence went from a smoldering coal to a dark, blazing torch. Hot anger covered a layer of cold fear, and it was all suffused with grim determination.

Lindon felt the moment when Orthos sensed his presence too.

Relief. Urgency. Pure joy.

Lindon couldn’t tell where Orthos’ feelings ended and his own began.

And now he had a direction.

“Follow me,” Lindon ordered.

He filled himself with the Path of Black Flame, and the Burning Cloak blasted him onward.

* * *

Wei Shi Kelsa had failed everyone.

Heaven’s Glory burned tents and sliced open boxes as they cut their way across what had once been the camp of the exiles that had sheltered her. There were hundreds of them, along with at least a dozen Jades, and they cut down stragglers and those too old or sick or injured to run. There was no mercy, only a burning, golden advance.

This was her fault.

It was her failing that had led her to be captured in Heaven’s Glory. If she had been more skilled in the Path of the White Fox, they would never have been caught. If she were stronger, as strong as Orthos, then they could have won the fight. If she were smarter, she would have stopped them from tracking her back here.

She looked down over the camp as Heaven’s Glory marched onward. Most of the exiles had escaped into the hills at the base of Yoma Mountain. Her father was among them. And her mother.

But they were caught between a tiger and a pack of wolves. The Fallen Leaf School wouldn’t protect them, and this mountain was their home. The best they would do would be to hand the exiles back to Heaven’s Glory.

Her father was with those fleeing up the mountain, but she had stayed back on this hill to watch the attack.

Her three allies—maybe the three most powerful people in Sacred Valley—stood with her. And none of them could do a thing.

Orthos grunted and hauled himself to his feet. The huge turtle’s leathery black skin was wet with his blood. His left eye was swollen shut, he favored his left foreleg, and his spirit was weak. He was running on his last drops of madra, after having practically dragged her back here.

“Go,” the turtle said, his voice like a gentle earthquake. “Hide with the others. I will thin their ranks.”

Jai Chen stepped up on his other side, and her eyes were full of tears. She was a small woman, at least compared to Kelsa and her family, and she looked…soft. In every sense of the word. Eyes, skin, hair, hands, demeanor. Soft.

But she had fought at Kelsa’s side, and soft didn’t always mean weak.

She raised a trembling hand to place on Orthos, but his shell was radiating heat, and she couldn’t touch him.

Her brother spoke softly to Kelsa from within the scripted red bandages that covered his head. “We should head up the mountain to the Fallen Leaf pass. All of us.”

Kelsa grabbed his outer robe and bowed her head. She couldn’t see his face even if she looked up, but she was about to make a shameless request, and she didn’t want to see disgust in his eyes.

“Please, stay and fight. This one begs you.”

Over the last week, she’d seen him in battle. If he and his sister and Orthos chose to fight with her, maybe they could resist even these overwhelming numbers. They could hold a pass, or strike at them and retreat, or…something.

She was already in their debt. They had risked their safety for her, a stranger, and she couldn’t repay them. Now, they weren’t strangers any longer, but she hated to ask for any more.

Jai Long’s voice sounded awkward when it wasn’t cold and distant. “Kelsa, this is…hopeless. Come with us. I promise you, I can get your parents out.”

“…I can’t.”

Kelsa released him and took a deep breath, squaring herself. She looked him evenly in the eyes. “This is my fault.” Behind her, she felt the heat of Heaven’s Glory madra like a wildfire. “I will pay the cost of my choices, but I would be grateful if you would look out for my parents as you leave.”

“Fine.” Jai Long’s icy tone was back. He turned to Orthos. “And you?”

Orthos nudged Jai Chen with his head, sending her stumbling closer to her brother. “Go. They have no dragons fighting for them, so I say they’re outnumbered.” The blood running down his leg turned the dirt to mud.

“Very well, then. Die with honor, turtle.”

“You as well, human.”

They traded nods before Jai Long left, pulling Jai Chen behind him. She mouthed an apology to Orthos, and the pink serpentine dragon-spirit floating over her shoulder gave a long, mournful flute note.

But they both left.

Kelsa didn’t blame them.

They had done more for her than they needed to. They weren’t family. She had been embarrassed to ask for their help in the first place, and they were well within their rights to refuse.

She rose to her feet as gold light speared down from the heavens and incinerated the tree stump her father had used as a table for his game board.

“Okay. How can we do the most damage?” she asked.

Orthos looked at her with his one good eye and started to chuckle. “I don’t need a Jade standing beside me.”

“You’re Jade too, for now,” she pointed out. “And this is my mess. It’s only fair that I clean it up.”

The turtle squared himself on all four feet, including the injured one. Red light and black smoke rose from his shell. “What makes you think there will be any left for you?”

He unveiled his spirit.

And immediately froze.

Kelsa knew something was wrong, but she couldn’t figure out what it was. She cycled her madra and extended her perception, trying to figure out if he was under attack or if he’d seen something else coming.

He began to laugh.

Not the grim chuckle of a moment before, but full-bellied, joyous laughter.

He had gone insane.

“He’s here,” Orthos said.

Kelsa was not following this at all, but Heaven’s Glory had spotted them. Already hands and weapons were launching techniques in their direction, and she had to shelter behind a nearby tree. “Who?” she called.

The turtle didn’t answer her, as chuckles shook his body. “Hold on for a little longer, girl. This battle is almost won.”

No matter how Kelsa turned it in her mind, she didn’t understand his confidence. No matter who came for them, they would be reduced to Jade, just like him.

But she held on to that tiny, flickering hope for all she was worth.

On the slopes of the mountain above them, green light flared. Sacred artists in the uniforms of the Fallen Leaf School shoved at the wave of fleeing people. Trees and vines came to life, pushing them back, trapping them.

At least the school hadn’t started slaughtering the exiles, but it was the next best thing. Fallen Leaf had denied them shelter, leaving them to die.

Despair choked her, but it was nothing compared to the terror she felt when she turned back.

Heaven’s Glory was already upon them.

Four Jades had abandoned their meticulous march, dashing out ahead of their fellows to focus on Orthos.

The man at their vanguard was in his forties, with silver-winged hair and a stern expression. He gestured one arm that had been scarred and mangled, and a scripted sword flew at them with the speed of an arrow.

Orthos breathed black-and-red fire at it, but a pane of golden glass appeared in front of his Striker technique. The Forged Heaven’s Glory madra was destroyed, but it slowed the dragon’s breath enough to allow the sword to follow its course.

Kelsa was ready to launch the Fox Dream, her Ruler technique, when she realized the weapon had changed direction.

It was coming for her.

Her technique scattered, and she dove away, using the tree as cover.

The sword broke the trunk in a spray of splinters. It crashed through and rushed at her, and she raised her hands to try and knock it aside. She knew it would be futile.

Orthos arrived like a dark wind.

Red-and-black light surrounded him in a blaze of fire and destruction, and she had to lean back from the heat even as he intercepted the sword on his shell.

He moved his head to swat it aside, but the sword changed direction again.

It plunged directly into Orthos’ side.

He screamed in pain, letting out a rush of black dragon’s breath.

All his time in Sacred Valley, Orthos had held back from killing as much as possible. She had seen it. He didn’t want to make a habit out of killing the weak, he said. You couldn’t always avoid it in a fight, but when he could spare someone, he did.

This time, his dragon’s breath made a man vanish from the waist up.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t the Elder who controlled the sword. That one gestured with his scarred hand again, and his flying sword pulled back and looped around.

Orthos dodged to one side, but his movements were heavy and his spirit was almost empty. Kelsa knew the feeling. She gathered more madra to work them into a technique, and it was like trying to mold handfuls of soft mud.

She was exhausted.

And then the other two Jades joined the battle.

Golden walls of transparent Forged madra grew around them, and constructs drifted over their heads. A man with a jade Enforcer badge ran in, carrying a two-handed hammer.

It crashed down on Orthos’ shell, but it was only a glancing blow. Orthos’ returning blast of dragon’s breath was thin and insubstantial, and it splashed against a halfsilver-laced shield that the man raised.

Kelsa caught the Forger in a Fox Dream, and he staggered down the hill a few steps, but she couldn’t do anything about the Enforcer or the flying sword.

Orthos bled from even fresher wounds, and he was still moving with more agility than she thought should be possible from a turtle.

He spun, flipping around the sword, and lashed his tail against the hammer-wielding Enforcer in midair.

The instant he landed, Orthos said, “Yield.”

Neither men acknowledged him.

The third Jade, the woman Forger, shook off Kelsa’s Fox Dream and re-focused on her with a look of irritation. She glared up the hill, gathering power.

“We have reinforcements coming,” Orthos said again. “We will accept your surrender.”

The Elder with the scarred arm gestured, and the flying sword flew back to his hand. It gathered power, then shot toward Orthos with greater power than ever before.

Orthos stood his ground, the last of his Blackflame madra gathering in his jaws.

The sword stopped.

It took Kelsa a moment to realize that someone was holding it.

A stranger had appeared out of nowhere, a blur of motion that Kelsa had barely registered before he arrived, and he held the flying sword by the hilt in the grip of a pale right hand.

She didn’t recognize the huge man with the Remnant arm. He glared with eyes like Orthos’, and he was covered by a translucent blaze of black and red. She sensed fiery destruction from him on a level greater even than the turtle.

He had run up behind the sword. Overtaking it and seizing it in mid-flight.

The sword shivered in his grip, trying to escape, but his fingers might as well have been cast from steel.

The stranger’s red-and-black eyes stopped on Orthos before passing over her, and with the surge she felt from his spirit, she was sure he was about to kill her in rage.

He wore robes of black, white, and purple, and around his neck hung a shadesilk ribbon carrying a badge. Not a hammer, a shield, a scepter, or an arrow. One symbol in the old language was carved into that white metal.

Unsouled.

Suddenly, the image of this stranger congealed with the descriptions Orthos had given her. Even so, she couldn’t bring herself to believe it.

How could this be her little brother?

“Lindon?”

Lindon spun and hurled the sword back at the Heaven’s Glory Elder.

Flying swords were controlled by scripts. When activated by a specific wielder’s madra, their script guided wind aura that allowed the weapon to fly.

You could never use a flying sword against its owner. It was keyed to their spirit. Throwing it back at them would only free up their weapon.

Unless, it seemed, you threw it with overwhelming strength.

The sword blasted straight through the center of the Elder, leaving a bloody hole in his middle and a crater in the earth behind him.

The man looked down at himself. His jade badge was gone.

He collapsed in a heap.

The Enforcer landed a hit, his two-handed hammer crashing into the side of Lindon’s head. It had slightly less effect than a spoon tapping the side of a teacup.

A white hand closed around the neck of the Heaven’s Glory Enforcer.

Gold walls were already going up around the rest of the area, and Kelsa knew from experience that, when broken, those panes of Forged madra burned like live coals.

Lindon gripped the Enforcer by the neck, then looked down the hill at the Forger who was raising her own defense.

He threw the full-grown Jade in his hand at the Forger in an overhand pitch.

The man blasted through three layers of Forged Heaven’s Glory madra, and his clothes were burning with natural fire when he collided with the other Elder.

“Collided” was actually too polite a word. Together, they smashed against the bottom of the hill with a sickening crunch.

White light swelled into a bubble next to Kelsa, and she dodged backwards. She didn’t sense Heaven’s Glory madra from the light, but she knew it had to be an attack of theirs. Kelsa immediately wove her madra into Foxfire. She was draining her spirit dry, but she extended her perception to find the one who had cast the technique.

In the center of the white light, a girl appeared.

Shorter than Kelsa, she was compact, with flowing black hair interrupted by a streak of blood-red. Six arms of metallic crimson metal extended from her back, their ends sharpened and hammered flat like sword blades.

Hurriedly, Kelsa redirected her Foxfire and hurled it into the newcomer.

One of those sword-arms flicked the Striker technique out of the air. The scarlet girl turned, steadily getting her ragged breathing under control.

She didn’t seem to move quickly, but before Kelsa knew what was happening, a hand grasped her by the throat.

Kelsa looked into red eyes and prepared to die.

“Hey, give me your name.”

Kelsa found she had no trouble speaking. The young woman’s grip was loose.

“You first,” Kelsa said.

A faint smile pulled up the corner of the new girl’s mouth. She let Kelsa go and turned to Orthos, taking in a sharp breath. “You look about five miles past dead.”

He rumbled agreement. “Something stranger has happened to you.”

“Can’t argue with that.” She placed a hand on Orthos’ head, though even standing close to him must have been agonizing in the heat. “Wish you’d been with us.”

She was Orthos’ friend?

That meant…she didn’t exactly match the description, but she must be Yerin. The girl who had taken Lindon away from Sacred Valley.

But Kelsa couldn’t think about that now. There was still a battle going on.

Before Kelsa even looked back down the hill, she knew it had gotten worse. The heat had grown stifling, red fire aura rising by the second. The Heaven’s Glory School must be gathering their Ruler techniques…

It took her a few seconds to put the scene together.

Lindon stood in the center of the burning wreckage that had once been the camp. Shattered Heaven’s Glory Forger techniques surrounded him, licking his feet with flames, but even his shoes weren’t burned.

Heaven’s Glory Enforcers crawled away from him. As she watched, he caught one of their Striker techniques. The beam of golden light sank into his Remnant hand, and after only an instant he sent it back. It was tinged slightly darker than before.

But most of the enemies were fleeing. Maybe a hundred, maybe more, including some she recognized as Jades.

They fled because the sky had turned dark.

Hundreds of feet over Lindon’s head, black and red aura swirled so intensely that they had become visible as a dense, spinning cloud of dark fire.

She spent several breaths fumbling with her new Jade senses, trying to unravel how Heaven’s Glory had used such a Ruler technique and how Lindon had gained control of it.

Finally, she came to the inevitable conclusion: he had generated this all by himself.

“You should stop him,” Orthos said. “He’ll regret this.”

Yerin patted him on the head. “You’ve been gone an age and a half. It’s your turn.”

Orthos lifted his wounded leg. “I’m not running anywhere.”

Yerin lifted her hand from him and vanished in an implosion of light. She reappeared at the same instant next to Lindon, panting.

He turned immediately, focusing on her instead of Heaven’s Glory, reaching out to steady her. She didn’t need his help, but rested a hand on his left arm anyway.

Interesting.

They exchanged words, Lindon gesturing angrily to Heaven’s Glory, but Yerin pointed back toward where Orthos stood.

The turtle inclined his head once.

Again, Lindon moved with speed Kelsa couldn’t track, but this time she could at least see a blur like a flying arrow as he ran up the hill and came to a stop next to the turtle.

“Forgiveness,” Lindon said. “I lost my focus.”

When the dark fire and red circles bled from his eyes, leaving them human black, he looked to Kelsa with apology in his eyes.

That was the first time she really recognized her brother.

He gave her a gesture of acknowledgement, but first he turned to Orthos and threw his arms around the turtle’s neck.

The sacred beast closed his good eye and rumbled deep in his chest.

They didn’t say anything, but when Lindon separated, his eyes were wet. Only then did he return to Kelsa.

When he did, he bowed deeply over fists pressed together. “Forgiveness. I left without telling you. I…I had no idea you were…I didn’t know things were this bad. My deepest apologies.”

At the moment, Kelsa didn’t understand her own feelings.

She was glad her brother wasn’t the type of person to completely butcher a retreating enemy…but she had wanted him to do it.

He could never have known what Heaven’s Glory had done in his absence…but part of her still blamed him for it.

For years, she had believed that he was dead, and was glad to see him alive…but he frightened her.

Orthos had told her stories about sacred artists outside, and about Lindon in particular, but her imagination had not been enough. She felt like she was within arm’s reach of a wild tiger.

He was still bowing to her, and he would stay that way until she responded.

He had always been like that.

Kelsa’s eyes filled, and she took in a rough breath. “You took too long,” she said in a broken voice.

Lindon straightened, now even taller than she was, and she wrapped him up in a hug before she wept. From the shaking of his chest, she knew he was crying too.

7

Lindon watched Eithan spread his arms wide as if to embrace the crowd before him, his smile gentle. “Brothers and sisters of the Fallen Leaf School, I am humbled and grateful by this overwhelming show of hospitality.”

All thirty-two Jades of the Fallen Leaf School knelt on the ground in front of him, their foreheads pressed to the dirt.

They had seen Lindon face Heaven’s Glory, and that had been enough to stop them from pushing the exiles back. It hadn’t made them open their doors.

That had taken the arrival of the Akura Golds.

If Eithan’s power and skill hadn’t intimidated them, the arrival of over two hundred and fifty new Jades—as the Sacred Valley inhabitants would see them—had certainly done the trick.

Lindon had seen only glimpses of the process. He’d been catching up with Orthos and waiting for Kelsa to find their parents; it was only at his sister’s insistence that he hadn’t gone to find them immediately.

In the few fragments he’d seen of Eithan’s negotiation, the Fallen Leaf School representatives had gone from wary to goggle-eyed to tripping all over themselves to agree as more and more Golds in black and purple descended from the skies.

Lindon was fairly certain that they would have promised anything to get these outsiders to leave. They would marry off their children to the exiles if it would get these powerful outsiders to leave them alone.

He guessed it would only be a matter of minutes before the first members of the School approached them privately, trying to get a hint about how to grow stronger.

But that had little to do with Lindon.

The Fallen Leaf School looked more like a farming community than an organization dedicated to the sacred arts, with barns and tilled fields separated by grassy plains. He and Orthos stood in the shade of a tall, purple-leafed orus tree as Little Blue sat on the turtle’s head, recounting their adventures to him in a series of chirps and ringing tones that sounded something like a bell tumbling down a flight of stairs.

Listening to Little Blue calmed him.

And the quiet gave him time to wrestle with his anger.

[Everyone’s alive,] Dross pointed out. [Everyone you cared about, that is. Some people are dead. So it could be worse! They could have been killed while you were gone, when you would never have known.]

Orthos hadn’t told him the details of what Heaven’s Glory had done to his family, but he couldn’t gloss over the core details.

The Heaven’s Glory School had hunted Lindon’s family down and punished them because of what Lindon had done. The Wei clan had given them up. They had suffered for over three years, living like scavengers in the wilderness.

And Lindon had held back his Void Dragon’s Dance. He could have wiped them all out in one stroke.

He preferred the anger to the guilt. Picturing what he could do to the Heaven’s Glory School kept him from thinking about what he should have done differently.

The sooner he punished them, the better. Both for his own satisfaction and because he was getting weaker.

He cycled Blackflame, and the madra felt fainter than it had in years. He hadn’t recovered from his expense yesterday, and it seemed that while he was here, he wouldn’t fully regain what he’d lost. The more power he spent, the weaker he would become, until he was truly fighting like a Jade.

But he had another core.

Even his pure madra was weaker than usual, but his second core gave him an advantage over the others. He could retain his power longer than anyone else. He would slowly lose it, just like everyone, but he could hold on to his original strength the longest.

Although he could bring ruin to Heaven’s Glory even if he had to do it as a Jade.

Kelsa emerged from the other side of a tiny cabin. She looked leaner now than he remembered her, harder edged. The deprivation had left its mark.

[Hey, there’s another bright side! As long as she’s with you, she won’t have to worry about food anymore!]

“No, she will not,” Lindon said aloud.

Kelsa looked grave as she met his eyes. “Mother’s only been back for a few days. She’s still not quite herself, yet. She and Father haven’t had much time to catch up. Did Orthos prepare you?”

Lindon found it hard to speak through the tightness in his throat. “Not…not really.”

Kelsa’s style had always been to deliver painful truth bluntly. A fast cut was cleaner.

“Father’s eyes were burned,” she said, and the words struck Lindon strangely. They should have meaning, but that meaning didn’t quite sink in like it should. “He can see basic shapes and can tell the difference between light and dark, but he gets by mostly with his ears and his cane.”

[There’s a bright side to that too!] Dross was starting to sound a little desperate. [Human eyes aren’t so great. With Remnant eyes, he’ll be able to see brand-new colors he never even imagined!]

“He’s been living this way for years now,” Kelsa said. “It isn’t so bad. To tell you the truth, he’s still more upset about his leg.”

That brought a faint smile from Lindon. As far back as he could remember, his father had been bitter about a leg injury he’d gotten as a young man. He blamed the wound for his failure to reach Jade.

“Mother has been held by Heaven’s Glory. They needed her to work for them, so they didn’t treat her too roughly, but she has been a prisoner for a long time. She hasn’t slept in days, and she’s still convinced that she will be captured again.”

Lindon was more prepared for that. While Orthos had said little about his father, suggesting that it was Kelsa’s place to tell him, the turtle couldn’t avoid telling Lindon about his mother.

She was the one that Orthos and Kelsa had gone to rescue from Heaven’s Glory.

Lindon had assumed that she’d been captured recently. He hadn’t imagined that Seisha had been a prisoner for so long.

The guilt for that settled on him like a pile of bricks. It was yet another way that his family had paid the price for vengeance directed at him.

There’s a bright side for you, Dross, Lindon said silently. I’m done thinking about what I’m going to do to Heaven’s Glory.

There was no point wasting his thoughts on the dead.

[…I’m not sure how bright that side is.]

“And you?” Lindon asked Kelsa. “You can’t have escaped unharmed.”

She looked at him like he was crazy. “They were the ones who suffered. I was the lucky one.”

Lindon had already heard from Orthos what she’d been through. He knew already.

His sister had lain motionless in the cold, waiting for sentries to pass, trying not to shiver in case they heard the motion. She’d stolen scraps of food, gotten caught, taken beatings, and gone back the next night because if she failed, their father wouldn’t be able to eat. After a day of scavenging whatever she could, of taking care of exiles that weren’t even part of her clan, she had spent nights studying her Path manual and working on the one technique she’d ever learned.

When Orthos arrived, she’d spent every spare moment training and re-training, un-learning the habits that Sacred Valley had ingrained into her. She had reversed her Iron body, a process that sounded agonizing, and gained another one so her foundation would be solid.

On the day she reached Jade, under Orthos’ instruction, she had started working to free her mother.

Orthos said he saw Lindon in her, but Lindon didn’t agree.

He had been shown a world beyond this one. When he pushed for improvement, it was because he knew improvement was possible.

She had fought for a victory that she must have believed impossible. Every day. For three years.

But she wouldn’t have to anymore.

“I’m ready,” Lindon said.

Kelsa didn’t question that or prepare him any further. She didn’t give him any more advice. She only walked through the cabin’s door, leaving it open for him to follow.

Lindon ducked through the doorway and entered.

The interior of the cabin was simple: wooden walls and wooden floors, covered by a rough-woven rug. A one-person bed had been pushed against the back wall, and his parents sat at a tiny table in chairs that looked like they had been hand-carved by the cabin’s owner.

These people looked like his parents, so familiar he could never mistake them. At the same time, they looked like strangers.

They were both tall, broad people, built for the battlefield. His father had more gray in his hair and had lost some of his muscle, his shoulders more rounded and his middle a little softer, but he was still unmistakably Wei Shi Jaran. His bad leg was stretched out on a chair, his cane held loosely across his lap.

Wei Shi Seisha had gray in her hair too, which he didn’t remember, but hers was still a deep brown like no one else in the clan. She looked healthier than Jaran or Kelsa, and she had the same drudge floating over her shoulder: a brown segmented fish made of dead matter that reminded Lindon of petrified wood.

But even as his stomach made an eager leap at the sight of his mother and father, it sank as he saw the things that were different.

Seisha’s head had shot up at the sound of the door opening, though Kelsa’s return couldn’t have come as a surprise. She held a book on which she could take notes, but instead of paying more attention to it than her surroundings, she clutched it like a child clenching a blanket to ward off nightmares.

Jaran’s eyes were clouded over, and he stared slightly over the doorway. Kelsa announced herself as she entered, and Lindon realized she must have developed that habit for their father’s sake. “It’s me, and I brought Lindon.”

Seisha’s eyes grew wide as she saw him. “Lindon.” She took a deep breath and said it again. “Lindon. You look…well.”

The badge she wore was still iron. She couldn’t sense him.

“I am.”

There should be something better to say, but he couldn’t find it.

Jaran smacked his cane on the ground. “Why didn’t you come back?” he demanded.

Lindon wished his father had stabbed him instead.

“Not right now!” Kelsa snapped. “He’s alive, and he’s Gold now. He’s going to take us away from here. Won’t you, Lindon?”

“Yes,” Lindon said, but the word came out as more of a whisper. “You can come live with me, and nobody will…nobody can…what I mean is, you’ll be safe.”

Neither of his parents said anything to that for a long time. Too long.

“So you’re Gold?” his mother asked at last. She glanced down to his badge, which clearly wasn’t made of gold.

“Something like that.” That sounded like he was weaker than Gold, so he clarified. “I’m strong. More than any of us ever imagined, and the friends I brought are even stronger.”

Seisha nodded and pointed her finger at the sky in a gesture so familiar it clenched a fist around his heart. That was what she did when she finally understood the truth of a problem.

“Ah, I see. So they lent you their power.”

Jaran leaned forward. “Can they give it to us too? At least Kelsa, she’s young. Orthos has trained her well.”

Lindon looked to the floor.

Even now, his parents didn’t believe that he could have earned power on his own. He must have borrowed someone else’s.

Then again, they were somewhat right.

Yerin had protected him, pushed him, and fought for him when he was too weak to do it for himself. Eithan had given him his Iron body, his Blackflame Path, his Jade cycling technique, his contract with Orthos…almost everything. And what Eithan hadn’t given him, Mercy’s clan had.

The only one whose power he hadn’t borrowed was Ziel.

Kelsa made a dismissive sound. “Stop it. I know you know about the fire in the sky that drove away Heaven’s Glory. That was Lindon.”

Jaran made an expression of clear doubt. “I heard that was Orthos.”

“It was Lindon. Alone. If I had to bet on a fight between Lindon and the whole Heaven’s Glory School, I’d put all my money on Lindon.”

She glanced at Lindon quickly, and he suspected she wanted him to confirm that she was right. He gave her a tiny nod.

Jaran blew air out of his cheeks. “The heavens have blessed you enough for a lifetime, boy.”

“They have.”

That had been true before he’d even left Sacred Valley. If life was fair, Suriel descending from heaven to bring him back from death would have been the only miracle he ever received.

Seisha’s hand tightened on her notebook. “Are you going to fight Heaven’s Glory? You and your friends, I mean.” She gave Kelsa a faint smile. “Orthos has already done more than we could expect, but if you and the others are really all Gold…”

“I’m sure we will.” Lindon had been on fire to do that very thing before he’d walked into this room. Now, the cabin felt claustrophobic, and he wanted nothing more than to leave.

His mother’s grip tightened further, to the point that the wooden backing of the notebook splintered slightly. “Do you have to? Can’t we all go now?”

“I won’t leave until we’ve made Heaven’s Glory pay in blood!” Jaran announced.

“And what are you going to do?” Seisha shot back. “What can any of us do? They only came for us today because we fought them.” She softened as she looked back to Kelsa. “Not that it’s your fault. You were very brave.”

“I don’t think you understand how much stronger they are than the Jades,” Kelsa said. “I’m not sure I understand.”

Seisha carefully set her strained notebook down on the table. “No one is invincible. Orthos is stronger than they are, and look what happened to him.”

“Now we have hundreds like Orthos,” Jaran insisted. “We can take the fight to their gates!”

“I can’t imagine they’re all like Orthos. And how do we know what secrets the Schools have hidden up their sleeves?”

Lindon fumbled behind him for the door. He was afraid he was going to throw up.

This had been a mistake.

He should have saved his family without meeting them. What had he expected?

His family argued with each other as though he wasn’t present. If he opened the door to leave, Kelsa would notice and include him in the conversation. His parents would halfheartedly loop him in, but they would continue making decisions without him.

It was as though he’d never left.

As he was about to turn, his vision filled with purple.

Dross, in physical form, drifted ahead of him. Seisha jerked back with a gasp while Kelsa gathered White Fox madra.

One boneless purple arm raised in greeting. [Hello! Don’t be alarmed! I am Dross, the spirit that lives inside your son’s brain.]

Jaran inclined his head in the entirely wrong direction. Dross’ voice was inside his head, so it didn’t give any clues to his location. “Greetings, Dross. I am Wei Shi Jaran. Thank you for protecting my son.”

[Ah, yes, I thought you were making that mistake. It’s not easy for me to admit this, but it’s actually the other way around. Without him, I’d still be rusting at the bottom of a well. Oh no, wait, I’d have been torn apart by collapsing space. That’s even worse than I thought.]

“You can stop, Dross,” Lindon said quietly.

[I could show you some of your son’s memories, or maybe all of them? No, he doesn’t like that idea. So I guess that means he’s going to share his thoughts with you the boring way: with his mouth. Now take it away, Lindon!] Dross drifted to the side, gesturing to Lindon with both arms wide.

The three members of Lindon’s family waited.

“I don’t want to do this,” Lindon muttered.

[Oh, this is embarrassing. This is one of those things where he says one thing, but he actually means another, because he does have something he wants to say. Quite a lot, actually.]

Lindon looked back to his family and, after another moment where he desperately wished to leave, he allowed the words to spill out.

“I’m not a Gold. I’m a Lord. It’s an entire realm beyond.” His parents wrinkled their brows in confusion, but Kelsa nodded sharply.

“Even at that level, I’m…” He tried to think of a way to say it that didn’t sound too proud, but he was too tired for that. “…I’m very good. One of the best. If you took away my advancement, I’d still be a better fighter than you or anyone you’ve ever met. Did Orthos tell you why I left?”

It didn’t matter if he had or not, so Lindon just kept talking. “I saw the future. You were all going to die. Here. In this Dreadgod attack.”

Or maybe another one. The attack Suriel had seen was supposed to happen in thirty years, not three, but he didn’t think that was relevant enough to mention.

“If I got strong enough, I could stop it,” he continued. “I left so I could grow. I left for this.”

Lindon turned to his father. “You asked me why I didn’t come back. Why would I come back?”

No one responded.

Dross gestured for him to keep going.

“I’m only here now because you’re in danger. If I hadn’t come back, you would have all died without knowing anything. Stick with me, and I’ll protect you, because I can. While you’re with me, you’ll never have to worry about anything ever again.”

He turned his back to them and grabbed the door handle. “But first, I’m taking you away from Sacred Valley whether you like it or not. After that, if you want to crawl back here and die, you can do it on your own.”

Distracted, he pulled the door instead of pushing.

Lindon pulled the handle out with a snap. The entire door cracked down the side, and even the doorframe bent inward.

He almost apologized. Instead, he tapped into his soulfire and just blew the remaining door off its hinges.

Before the splinters had fallen to the ground, he was gone.

He didn’t realize where he was going until he found Yerin sitting with Mercy and Orthos, a spoon halfway to her mouth.

Dross may have said something to her without informing Lindon, or maybe she just read it on his face. She dropped her bowl, following him to a lonely corner just outside the Fallen Leaf School.

When he was sure they were alone, Lindon broke down and wept.

8

Tal’gullour, Fortress of the Mad King

Daruman clenched his Scythe and focused his authority, preparing to re-enter the Way.

He had to be careful. He couldn’t bring his fortress with him, and without Tal’gullour to contain his power, the entire Way would sense his movement. When he entered an Iteration, the very stars trembled.

With every step he took, the eyes of the Abidan would be upon him.

He could warp Fate by nature of his authority over chaos, and thus dodge the noses of the Hounds. If he could move without the Spiders detecting him immediately, he would have brought the Abidan system down before.

A dark voice laughed, unrestrained, in the depths of his soul. A voice so familiar that it was almost indistinguishable from his own.

You tried, once, the Conqueror reminded him.

Unbidden, the Fiend Oth’kimeth summoned up the memory of Daruman’s most painful defeat.

He had spent centuries gathering the right ingredients. He personally retrieved the Mask of the Unweaver from an Assassin Idol’s Temple in the fragment of a dead world. He traded with the Angler for an invisibility cloak she had woven with her own hands when she was a mortal. A world he conquered brought him tribute of the greatest artifacts ever forged in their Iteration, including a conceptual spirit of stealth who could hide from Fate itself.

And, in one of his greatest triumphs, he had raided the personal collection of the Third Judge of the Abidan Court: Darandiel, the Ghost. He had taken from her a band of silver bound with living runes, designed to allow even a Judge to veil their power.

His greatest craftsman, gathered from dozens of dead worlds, labored for years to break these items down to their conceptual essence and combine them together.

After thirty years, they forged his four priceless treasures into a device that would hide the very origin of his existence. It resembled a living, shifting thread made from smoke and shadow, which swirled around him in a twisting cocoon.

As they looked upon him, even his closest advisors could not recognize him. He was as a void in reality itself.

With his Origin Shroud upon him, he took a step into reality.

Into Iteration 216. The world called Limit.

Even two hundred standard years later, the memory frustrated him. Limit should have been the perfect world to experiment with. It was doomed to fall soon, its population devastated by a mystical plague and the rise of new insectoid monsters. The ecosystem was close to collapsing, and the decline of human lives had already led to steady breakdowns in local physics.

There was no reason for an Abidan to be there. In fact, he arrived over a churning sea without Sector Control contacting a Judge, and he knew he had won.

Oth’kimeth gleefully reminded him of the triumph he had felt in that moment. He had seen himself striding into Haven or Cradle or even Sanctum itself unnoticed, wreaking such devastation before the Judges were recalled that the Abidan would begin to crumble.

It was while he was lost in his own victory that he had felt another presence. A rock-solid presence of order buried beneath the ocean. An Abidan in Limit.

The timing, he felt, was perfect.

His enemy had not noticed him, and he could be upon them with lethal force in an instant. A shark taking a swimmer.

His will bent and tore reality—one more wound among many in the dying world—and he stepped through a hole in space. He found himself in an underground chamber that sheltered millions of local lives.

And he was standing face-to-face with Ozriel.

It was only afterwards that Oth’kimeth, acting in conjunction with his Presence, had reconstructed the image of the Abidan standing there in his black armor, white hair falling around his shoulders, ice-cold look on his face. The Mad King hadn’t seen that at the time.

He had seen only the Scythe.

The first strike of the weapon blasted his mortal form to messy pieces, splattering him across the far wall in one blow.

He had re-formed in an instant, miles overhead, and begun to open a hole into the Void. His Origin Shroud was still intact, as Ozriel hadn’t unleashed the full force of his Scythe.

Ozriel was hiding too. That was his only saving grace.

If he removed his Shroud and released his full power, so would Ozriel, and the remaining Judges would be on him in moments.

How had Ozriel known?

Even two hundred years later, Daruman couldn’t figure it out. Had he really seen so far, through chaos-corrupted Fate?

At the time, he had been convinced that there had been some flaw in his Origin Shroud. If he could get away and fix it, he could try again.

But Ozriel had followed him.

They had traded blows in the sky, enough to tear space and strain the already-weak fabric of the Iteration, but neither at their full power.

Otherwise, their first exchange would have torn the planet in half.

Daruman had finally managed to keep his void portal open long enough to escape, but then Ozriel had spoken to him.

Oth’kimeth made sure he remembered the statement in Ozriel’s own smug and icy tones.

“I can let you run…but I can’t let you keep that.”

The authority of Ozriel’s Scythe focused on Daruman’s Origin Shroud, and there was nothing he could do. The spinning thread of shadows and smoke was torn from him, its pieces drifting back into Limit as he himself fell into the Void.

So he couldn’t even forge it again.

Oth’kimeth had been laughing at him about it for two hundred years.

You had to wait until Ozriel was gone. You creep around like a mouse because you cannot stride like a lion.

I can now, Daruman countered.

And he tore his way from the Void into a world. The Abidan called it Iteration One Twenty-nine: Oasis.

Reality screamed around him. Distant stars shook. Prophets and oracles fainted or died where they stood, sensing his presence.

And the fourteen Abidan stationed on this world instantly sent out desperate calls for aid. He couldn’t stop them, but he didn’t need to.

The Mad King had come. He wore his armor carved from the bones of Oth’kimeth’s physical body, and in his right hand he clutched a Scythe of his own.

He no longer had any use for stealth. Let them see him coming.

He would crush them and their defenses together.

Daruman raised his Scythe and reaped Abidan lives.

* * *

Jai Long spoke coldly to the guardians of the Fallen Leaf School. “Let me out.”

There was a living barrier between him and the northern exit from Sacred Valley. It was a nest of thorns thicker than his thumb, with a flock of sacred vultures flying overhead and cawing warnings down to him.

Three guards, a Jade and two Irons, stood in his way and prevented him from carving his way out. He could feel life madra from them, as he could from their entire School, but they were still Jades at best.

He could cut them apart as easily as the thorns, but his sister was with him, looking to him with concern. That, and he had killed those who were helpless to stop him before. He hadn’t liked it.

Which annoyed him. A conscience wasn’t something a sacred artist could afford, if he wished to keep climbing the ladder.

But then, Jai Long had come here specifically to escape that climb. In a sense, he wasn’t even a sacred artist anymore.

Though he was still more of one than any five natives of Sacred Valley put together. Even if you set aside the curse, he had been thoroughly unimpressed with the attitudes of the people here. They spent all their time using the sacred arts to jockey for position instead of actually pursuing excellence.

Except Kelsa. He had grown to believe that she and her brother were unique among their kin.

She would do well no matter where she ended up, and her parents were safe now. Jai Long had no more reason to stay.

The Fallen Leaf Jade, a woman with gray in her hair, held up a staff. It was a sacred instrument designed to channel her life madra, and he could feel the connection it held to the thorns behind her. “You have been granted permission to stay among us, but not to use our gateway to the outside.”

Jai Long gripped his spear and steadied himself. He knew that he was perhaps the most suspicious-looking person alive. As much with the script covering his head as without it.

But he was showing great restraint by talking to this person at all. He could defeat all three of them without killing them. Probably.

A white snake of madra curled around Jai Long’s weapon. “I can leave whether you permit it or not. I am asking you to stand aside out of courtesy and a concern for your well-being.”

The Irons, two boys that he suspected were brothers, paled and readied shining green light. They had brown hair and wore badges big enough to be half breastplates, covering most of their chests.

“If you can,” the Jade said, “then do it.”

A new voice rang out before the battle could begin: “Apologies!”

Jai Long kept a wary eye and his spiritual perception on the Jade guard, but he paced several steps to the side so he could catch a glimpse of the man who had spoken.

It was exactly who he had expected.

Wei Shi Lindon Arelius walked up in the clothes of the Akura clan, wearing his own badge, though his had the symbol for “Empty” in the old language. Its white material matched his new arm, which looked advanced for a Remnant prosthetic. Perhaps Jai Long had done him a favor by removing it.

Jai Chen bowed when she saw Lindon, but Jai Long had stayed on his guard. He had expected to run into Lindon at some point, but had hoped to escape before that.

When an old enemy showed up with an army at his back, it was wise to leave.

As far as Jai Long was concerned, accounts between the two of them had been balanced. But you could never tell who would hold a grudge.

This meant he had four people to disable without killing. Lindon was a real sacred artist, and therefore the most threatening among Jai Long’s opponents, but that was like being the fattest mosquito in the swarm.

One swat would be good enough.

Lindon faced Jai Long, and his expression was difficult to read. “Pardon, but you don’t want to walk. The outside world is…inhospitable right now.”

“We’ll take our chances.”

A blue spirit, like a tiny woman in a flowing dress, peeped and waved her hand at Jai Chen. Her eyes lit up in recognition; this must be the spirit who had helped restore the damage to her soul.

Jai Chen’s dragon-spirit floated warily over to Lindon, giving him and the female spirit a curious inspection.

“What’s wrong out there?” Jai Chen asked.

“There’s a Dreadgod coming.”

She gasped, and Jai Long suspected he had made a similar sound himself. They had sensed disturbances in the aura recently coming from the west, and everyone felt the tremors in the earth, but Dreadgods were several levels beyond what he had expected. At worst, he had thought it was Heralds coming to blows.

“The Wandering Titan?” he guessed, and Lindon nodded.

“The Akura clan has provided a fleet of cloudships for evacuation, and they’re waiting at the eastern entrance.”

“What is a Dreadgod?” the Fallen Leaf Jade asked sharply.

Lindon looked surprised, but he bowed to her over fists pressed together. “Forgiveness, please. I assumed the other elders had warned you. My friends and I have come to warn you of a monster of unimaginable strength making its way to Sacred Valley. Think of it as an insane sacred beast as tall as a mountain. We have plenty of room for you and your whole School to evacuate before its coming.”

She did not look like someone who had just heard that her home was going to be destroyed. She wore an expression of deep skepticism. “Have the elders decided to flee before this threat?”

Lindon sighed. “They are still making their decision.”

He turned back to the Jai siblings and dipped his head. “Apologies.”

“I hope you can save your home,” Jai Chen said.

“So do I.” He gave her a sad half-smile. “I wish you could stay here in peace. When the threat of the Dreadgod has passed, perhaps you can return.”

“Thank you for the warning,” Jai Long said, “but I’m not foolish enough to ignore an open door now for the promise of one later.” He lifted his spear. “If there is a Dreadgod out there, all the more reason to leave as soon as we can.”

It wasn’t as though the Wandering Titan was crouched on the other side of this pass with its mouth open. It must be hundreds of miles away, and far to the west. They had witnessed the Bleeding Phoenix back in the Blackflame Empire, and Dreadgods were hard to miss.

They could leave through this entrance to the north, and then—if it turned out Lindon was telling the truth—they could take a cloudship anywhere they wanted.

Besides, he wouldn’t trust a ship given to him by someone whose limb he had chopped off.

Life madra flowed out from the Fallen Leaf Jade, and thorns came to life behind her. Vines slithered over the ground even as his own white madra came to life in the form of serpents, hissing at their opponent.

“Please don’t do that,” Lindon said quietly.

Jai Long moved for one of the Irons first. Take out the weakest, reduce the numbers on the enemy side.

His Striker technique, in the form of a white snake, blasted out to protect him from the thorns as he lunged for the Iron.

He aimed for a shallow cut on the boy’s calf. He would probably have to slap the Iron around a few times to get him to give up, but this would at least keep him out of the fight for a moment.

A blue-and-white figure stood between them.

It was Lindon, his eyes made of blue crystal with white circles for irises. He held Jai Long’s spear in his hand of flesh and a sword in his right. The Iron had swung a blade to try and intercept Jai Long, and though the blow would never have landed, Lindon gripped the weapon by its blade with no apparent discomfort.

Thorns wrapped around his leg, but he ignored them, turning his disquieting gaze on Jai Long. “We’re trying to negotiate with the Fallen Leaf School. Please don’t kill them.”

Jai Long filled himself with his Flowing Starlight technique, which Enforced his entire body. White madra filled his limbs, standing out on his skin like shining serpentine tattoos.

With all the strength he could muster—what was left to him in this cursed valley—he pulled at his spear. Lindon didn’t budge.

For the first time, Jai Long scanned Lindon.

And his heart ran cold.

He released his spear, staggering backward. He pushed his sister away. “Run!” he shouted.

She was the picture of confusion. Even her dragon flew in aimless loops in midair. More importantly, she didn’t run.

“Underlord!” Jai Long screamed.

It was the worst-case scenario. One of their enemies had tracked them down from the world beyond, and had found them before the curse drained their power.

Lindon only gave off the spiritual strength of a Truegold, but Jai Long didn’t know what kind of advantages a Lord’s body would retain in this place.

Even if he was down to Lowgold, he had more strength left than Jai Long could call up. And he had a personal grudge. Lindon wouldn’t give up until they were both dead.

Jai Chen looked from side to side. “I know.”

Madra still ran through Jai Long’s limbs, and he pushed his Enforcer technique as far as it would go, ready to intercept Lindon. Would he be fast enough?

But Lindon didn’t move. He looked vaguely uncomfortable.

Only then did his sister’s words make it into Jai Long’s ears. “You know?”

“I scanned him when he walked up. I don’t think he’s going to attack us.”

Lindon scratched the side of his head. “I’m not. If you don’t want to come with us, you’re welcome to go your own way. I just…don’t recommend it.”

Jai Chen walked up to look at the blue spirit on Lindon’s shoulder. She extended a hand. “May I?”

The spirit chimed and stepped lightly onto her hand, scurrying up to her shoulder and chattering into her ear.

By this time, the Jade’s thorns had wrapped all the way up Lindon’s thigh. He glanced down. “Do you mind if I remove these? They’re starting to get…uncomfortable.”

“Not until you explain yourself,” the Jade said firmly. “What is an Underlord? How do you know about this…Dread God?”

Lindon switched to his Blackflame core, controlled aura for just a blink, and the entire vine burned to ash. “Apologies, but that was making me nervous.”

Jai Long found himself still in a fighting crouch, madra flowing through him, as Jai Chen chatted merrily to Lindon’s Riverseed and Lindon himself reassured a Jade that he meant no harm.

At that moment, he was glad for the strips of cloth covering his face. He didn’t want anyone seeing his face turn bright red.

* * *

“I feel like you’re about to dump me into a pot and boil me,” Orthos rumbled.

Lindon felt the turtle’s emotions, and he wasn’t as irritated as he pretended. He sat in front of a fireplace in a lodge of the Fallen Leaf School, taking up most of the living room. Orthos felt relaxed, as though he were with family for the first time in years.

Lindon only wished he felt the same with his own family.

The sacred turtle was covered in bandages. Eithan stood over him, one eye closed, examining him like a painter looking for the perfect spot to place a brush. With one swipe of his finger, he spread green goop over Orthos’ injuries.

The room was already filled with the scent of mint and flowers, created by this powerful healing salve. The wound closed up instantly, but Eithan clicked his tongue and shook his head.

“Not enough. With only this much, I’m afraid the flavor won’t set in.”

Orthos flicked his tail. “Some Archlords do eat intelligent sacred beasts.”

“There’s one such Archlord before you now. Be silent and marinate.”

Lindon returned his attention to the map spread out before him. He’d studied maps of Sacred Valley as a child working in their clan’s library, and little had changed since then, but it was still better to refresh himself.

“We can reach the Wei clan well before sunrise,” Lindon said. “But we can’t go together. We don’t—”

He was cut off by the ground quaking, rattling mugs on shelves and causing sparks to fly from the fire. Earth aura surged beneath his feet, accompanied by a fleeting sense of deep hunger.

“…we need to split everyone up,” he continued. “We have almost three hundred Golds, and we need to put them to use.”

He didn’t need to say the rest. The Dreadgod was coming.

They were almost out of time.

Orthos snorted out smoke. A bandage covered one eye, though Lindon was sure that Eithan had already healed that eye with a pill, and his other eye swiveled to Lindon.

“Do you want to set the Wei clan aflame yourself?”

Lindon sighed. “No, I’m going to save them.”

They may have exiled his family, which had led to his parents’ suffering, but he didn’t see what other choice the clan elders had. The Heaven’s Glory School was both more powerful and more influential than the Wei clan.

Orthos made a sound like another earthquake. “Your sister isn’t as inclined to forgiveness as you are.”

“If I had been here, I might not be able to forgive them either.” If he had watched the clan turn his family over, maybe he would leave them here to die, but he had enough distance that he was sure he could handle it.

Dross popped out over his right shoulder. [Don’t worry! Lindon has me to restrain his murderous impulses. And I’ve seen his memories of this place; his clan leaders are reasonable people. We can talk it out, I’m certain.]

Lindon wondered if he and Dross had watched the same memories.

Eithan leaned over at a new angle, judging distance with his thumb, and then swiped another slash of green salve onto Orthos. Lindon didn’t even think there was a wound there.

“Yerin and I can go to the Wei clan,” Lindon said as he rolled up the map. “We still need people to visit the Holy Wind School, the Golden Sword School, the Li clan, and the Kazan clan. Eithan, why don’t you assign people to those?”

“Hmmmmm…I don’t know, I might just want to lounge here in the very lap of luxury.” He poked a thin cushion with one hand, shuddered, and remained standing. “I don’t see why I should bow to your authority.”

Lindon suppressed his irritation. He didn’t want to waste time dealing with Eithan’s sense of humor, but at the same time, he did need Eithan’s help.

He pressed his fists together. “Apologies. It was only a request, not a command.”

“Ah, that’s disappointing. Yes sir, I would certainly be more motivated if I knew that you were backing me with your authority. You don’t need to be a Sage to see—”

Lindon held up a hand. “I understand.” He didn’t know if Eithan wanted to see how far Lindon had come or if he just wanted Lindon to dance to his tune, but he clearly wanted a demonstration of Sage powers.

Lindon had been looking for an excuse to practice anyway.

He focused his attention on one of the empty mugs on the shelf, gathering his concentration until only the mug existed. Finally, when it felt like he was pushing through a screen to something deeper than reality, he commanded the mug.

“Move.”

The mug disappeared from the shelf and appeared on the table in front of him.

He sank down into his chair, taking a deep breath. Exercising his willpower like that didn’t leave him physically exhausted exactly, but rather mentally drained. It took intense concentration, and tired him accordingly.

“And hence he earned his title,” Eithan said gravely. “To this day, legends speak of the Cup Sage.”

Orthos only had to stretch out his head to reach the table, and he examined the mug curiously. “So this is the power of a Sage. What else can you do?”

“I’m not sure yet. I plan on doing thorough research after we leave.”

Eithan pulled a watch from his outer pocket and checked it. “The ladies have yet to return, so it seems that we have a few minutes free.”

Lindon wanted to test out the scope of his authority, but this felt like a waste of time. Surely there was something else he could be doing to work toward the evacuation of Sacred Valley. Then again, if he could figure out how to open portals or other equally miraculous Sage abilities, that might be its own solution.

He moved his eyes to Dross. The spirit nodded eagerly.

“Just a little,” Lindon allowed.

He focused on the mug again, finding it slightly easier the second time. This time, he wanted to transform the mug into something else. Not anything too complicated, like a living thing, but something similar enough that it might actually work. Maybe a bowl.

He pictured the mug flattening out, widening, taking the new shape in his mind. His will tightened.

“Change,” Lindon ordered.

The mug rattled slightly.

Eithan, Dross, and Orthos all leaned closer and examined it.

“I see,” Eithan said. “You have changed it to a different mug that is identical in appearance. Clever.”

Lindon squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the sense of exhaustion to pass. “That one doesn’t work, Dross.”

[I’ll check it off the list. We can’t change its shape. Boom, there it goes. Gone from the list. Now how about color, can you change the color?]

Lindon started to focus again, but Eithan waved a hand in front of his eyes to stop him. “I’ve heard it said that all Sages can accomplish with their authority whatever they could accomplish without it.”

[Oh, that’s clever!] Dross said. [Very memorable saying, very snappy. Too bad it’s, you know, wrong.]

“I can’t re-open a portal with my madra,” Lindon pointed out.

“Ah, yes, let me clarify. There are things that any Sage can do, and then there are things that only you can do, with your Icon and your unique relationship to that Icon. I thought it might be prudent to start with the things that any Sage could do.”

Lindon watched the mug as though committing it to memory might help him somehow. “Pardon, but I couldn’t transport the mug directly from the shelf to the table without my authority.”

“I can,” Eithan said, rolling up his sleeves. “Let me show you.”

His smile dropped and his eyes sharpened. He held out his hands, focusing his will.

Then he grabbed the mug, lifted it, and placed it on the other end of the table. “Behold!” he cried. “I have transported the cup!”

Dross applauded furiously.

Lindon spoke his own thoughts aloud. “So I get the same end result, but skip the process.”

“That’s exactly right.” Eithan sounded somewhat surprised.

That was an intuitive connection, but it felt right. There was something missing, though. Charity had opened portals and brought techniques to life. Northstrider had brought back the dead. Those weren’t things he was capable of doing without authority.

One step at a time, he reminded himself.

There was a large jug of clean water by the door, where a Fallen Leaf Copper had left it for them. “With my hands, I could fill that cup,” Lindon said.

Eithan gestured for him to go ahead. Orthos craned his neck to get a better look.

Lindon concentrated. This seemed to take more of his willpower than before, encompassing both the mug and the jar of water. Finally, when he could clearly picture water filling the cup, he spoke.

“Fill.”

Water appeared in the mug.

Lindon’s vision faded.

He found himself lying on his back only seconds later, staring up at the wooden beams on the inside of the ceiling. Orthos radiated concern, and Dross curiosity.

Eithan was taking a sip of water.

“That obviously took more out of you,” Eithan observed. “Do you—ah, this is crisp. Very refreshing. Do you know why?”

Lindon struggled to stand up, and he felt like he was speaking through a mouthful of cotton. “It’s refreshing because it’s still cold.”

The water was most likely melted snow, and there were scripts around the jar that blocked heat.

“Ah, no, I meant ‘Do you know why you struggled more with that working?’”

“I had to split my focus.” He was working largely from instinct, but his will had encompassed both the mug and the water. That had made it more than twice as hard.

“Correct, but there are other factors at play as well.” Eithan took another sip of water and then placed the mug back down. “Try emptying the mug.”

Lindon shook his head. “Apologies, I’m too weak. I’ll try again tomorrow.”

“I highly doubt you will find this so exhausting.”

Eithan must have a point. He always did. And despite feeling like he had just completed a hundred complex mathematical equations while performing a delicate Soulsmithing operation, Lindon was still ecstatic about getting some kind of grasp on his Sage abilities.

He could try a little more.

He gathered his focus and spoke the order: “Empty.”

The water vanished from the mug.

Lindon braced himself to fall again, but he felt nothing. He had ordered the water as easily as he might order a pet. Concentrating to gather his willpower was still a bit tiring, but the actual command had taken almost nothing out of him.

He understood why immediately, and it was like a light dawning in his mind, revealing an entirely new world of possibility.

“It’s in line with my Icon.”

“And it’s something you were capable of doing on your own,” Eithan pointed out. “Emptying a vessel is well within the concept of the Void, and pouring water out of a cup is simple for anyone. Also, you in particular could have burned that water away with Blackflame. Therefore, very easy.”

Lindon peered into the jug. “Did the water return?”

“What do you think?”

“I suspect it did, because when I thought of emptying the cup, I thought of pouring it back into the jug. But that means all I really did was move water from one place to another. So why was that easier than moving the mug?”

Eithan waved a hand. “You’re thinking about it like it’s a sacred arts technique. You’re working on a conceptual level now. Don’t cling to literal definitions.”

“If it’s all a matter of perspective, then I can do anything,” Lindon continued, letting his thoughts guide his words. “I could move the mug by emptying the shelf of the mug. Could I heal someone by emptying them of injuries?”

That sounded ridiculous, but maybe that was how Sages worked.

“That sounds ridiculous,” Eithan said, and once again Lindon wondered if the man was reading his mind. “Some of those actions may be in line with your Icon, and some of them certainly are not, but you’ll have to feel that out for yourself.”

Lindon scooped up another glass of water, by hand this time, and concentrated, ready to try again. This time, he wanted to vanish the water entirely.

“Empty,” he said.

The mug stayed full. Something had stopped him.

Someone.

He had felt the will working against his, and he recognized it. Lindon looked up to Eithan, who was giving a broad, innocent smile. “How did you do that?”

“If your will is the only one working on an object, you have complete authority over it. If someone else wants to do something with that object, you must overcome their will first.” He took the mug from Lindon by hand and drank from it.

“As I am not yet a Sage, I can’t do what you can do. But I can stop you.”

Lindon had hundreds of questions, most of which could only be answered through practice.

“Dross, can you model this?”

[Can I? Of course I can! Accurately? No. I don’t really understand the limitations. We’ve seen enough Sages and Monarchs working, but I don’t know what Icons they have connections to, and you weren’t advanced enough to sense what wills might have been working against them at the time, and also being here in this valley tires me out, and I’d kind of like to start fresh in the morning. Maybe several mornings from now.]

Lindon couldn’t wait. The sooner he could get a grasp on his abilities, the sooner he could begin thinking of new applications. Maybe new solutions.

He swept the table clear, moving his rolled-up map of Sacred Valley carefully to the side in case he spilled some water…and then he stopped with the map in his hand.

The ground shook beneath his feet.

“A few mornings from now,” Lindon agreed. “That should be plenty.”

Orthos glanced nervously at the earth aura beneath his feet.

Eithan cheerily raised his mug. “Plenty of time! I can’t think of a single reason why we might need a Sage in the next few days.”

Lindon snatched the mug back.

* * *

When everyone had returned and gathered around the table, Dross materialized in front of Lindon. He clapped his boneless arms together, projecting a deafening clapping noise into everyone’s mind.

[We’re going to make this quick, all right? Just listen to me, I’ll give you your assignments, and everything will go smoothly. Focus…actually, that’s too much, that’s embarrassing. Everyone looking at me. Give me about eighty percent of your attention, that should be plenty.]

Little Blue, seated on the table, turned slightly so that she was only halfway looking at Dross.

[That’s perfect, keep that ratio exactly.] He gestured, and a purple light shone over the map of Sacred Valley spread across the table. It lit up Mount Venture, the sacred peak to the west.

[There are four schools here, one on each mountain, and three clans splitting the valley part of the…valley. The school over here, to the west, is the Golden Sword School.]

He gestured again, and the purple light indicating the Golden Sword School was crossed out by a red slash. [They’re gone! They’re out. Vanished. Complete ghost town over there.]

The Fallen Leaf School had several methods of contacting the other schools, and some of the Akura Golds had techniques or constructs intended to spy on far-off locations. They were often slow or blurry because of the suppression field, but they all indicated the same thing: the Golden Sword School had left days ago, if not weeks.

“Where did they go?” Mercy asked, concerned.

Ziel sighed. “Anywhere’s better than here.”

“Yeah, but can a school full of Jades make it in the real world on their own?”

“They’re going to have to,” Lindon pointed out.

[Forget them, they’re already dead. Probably. But who cares, really?] Dross waved again, and this time a light shone over the mountain to the south. The Greatfather.

[Holy Wind School, not gone yet, but going. At least there are some smart people in Sacred Valley.] A few images floated in the air, showing the mass exodus of the Holy Wind School. Most of them were carried on the back of a huge floating raft, not a cloudship, that inched its way south.

“They’ve been trapped here for generations,” Orthos rumbled. “That doesn’t make them idiots.”

Lindon felt a surprising amount of irritation from Orthos on behalf of the inhabitants of Sacred Valley, which was touching. Lindon rested a hand on the back of the turtle’s head and just enjoyed having him back.

[Oh, of course, yes. Not idiots. There are two more schools of non-idiots: here at the Fallen Leaf School—] A light shone on the north mountain. [—and the Heaven’s Glory School. The most…wisdom-challenged…of them all. Then, of course, we have the three clans.]

Three more lights shone in the center of the valley. The Kazan clan to the west, the Li clan to the south, and the Wei clan to the northeast.

[We need somebody on each of these lights, not counting me, because I’m trapped inside a living skull.]

Yerin leaned against Lindon’s side like he was a doorpost, arms crossed and Goldsigns fortunately retracted. “Don’t think I’m jumping anybody to say we’re going to the Wei clan. Can’t head anywhere on my own, because I’m two seconds from falling on my face, and Lindon’s been talking about going home since the day we left.”

Lindon nodded silently. That was the most obvious assignment.

The violet light over the Wei clan turned into a little picture of Yerin. And Dross.

[All right, that’s one taken care of. Good pace. Someone will have to stay here—]

“Apologies, but are you planning on leaving me behind?”

Dross gave an annoyed sigh. [Anywhere I go, you go. It’s implied. But if it bothers you that much, I can soothe your ego.]

A tiny model of Lindon hovered next to Yerin. And over them both, like a fat moon, hung an image of Dross. He was much more detailed than they were, too.

[Now, who wants to make sure the Fallen Leaf School makes it out the eastern exit?]

“I will,” Orthos said. “The exiles are here, and they know me.”

And, Lindon knew, the other options required much more flying.

Little Blue piped up, standing up to her full foot of height and sticking her hand in the air. Lindon was shocked. She had never volunteered to be apart from him before.

She turned to look at Lindon, whistling a question, and he nodded. If she wanted to stay with Orthos, there was nothing wrong with that. And Orthos could protect her.

Then again, she had grown alongside Lindon for a long time now. Maybe she would be the one protecting him.

[Okay, Orthos and Blue here at Fallen Leaf.] Dross waved his hand and the northern mountain light changed to a model of Blue sitting on Orthos’ shell. [Heaven’s Glory, anyone? Yerin, how about you? You don’t need to go with Lindon, and we didn’t do a headcount of whatever Jades they have left. We probably wouldn’t notice if one or two went missing…]

He let that temptation hang there in the air, but Eithan had already raised his hand.

“I would be delighted to secure Heaven’s Glory myself. It’s very important that we hold that exit and soothe relations between the school and the Golds, and you know what they say: if you want something done right, get Eithan to do it.”

[Done!] The purple light shifted into an image of Eithan sweeping something into a pile. It looked suspiciously like a pile of bodies. [That leaves the Li and Kazan clans for Ziel and Mercy. Who wants which one?]

“The Li clan!” Mercy said brightly. “I like their name!”

[Which leaves the Kazan for you, Ziel. You think you can handle it?]

“I know literally nothing about either of them. Just tell me where to go.”

[I like you, Ziel,] Dross said. [You’re so…compliant.]

9

Ziel took his host of Golds and marched for the Kazan clan territory.

Well, they took him.

He didn’t mind his role here. He was saving people from a Dreadgod attack. That was worth his time and attention, so he was more than willing to do it. It’s just that there wasn’t much he could do that his bunch of Akura Golds couldn’t handle on their own.

That suited him just fine. He would throw his weight around if necessary, but he didn’t need to do much other than be there.

Ziel drifted along on a borrowed Thousand-Mile Cloud, letting the Truegold woman in charge of his retinue drag him after them.

The Kazan clan had a solid series of walls around their territory, large bricks mortared by layers of old scripts. Their gates were hammered bronze, lined here and there with halfsilver or goldsteel to disperse attacks.

Ziel’s Golds declared themselves to the sentries, negotiated their way inside, and arranged a meeting with the leaders of the Kazan clan while Ziel laid back on his cloud, half-asleep.

The people here seemed…sturdy. That was the best way to put it. They were generally stocky, looked as though they were no strangers to a hard day’s work, and the badges on their chests were almost the size of breastplates.

Most of the homes here were made of stone and rough-hewn logs, and were built to last. He got the impression of a clan of people who valued diligence and practicality, with few frills or decorations to speak of. He approved. Sacred artists should be hard workers.

He was fully aware of his own position, lying on a cloud and drinking elixir straight from a bottle that he’d stored in his void key.

But his spirit hadn’t settled yet. Eithan had completed the Pure Storm Baptism before leaving—otherwise, Ziel wouldn’t have come along.

It would be some time before his madra system stabilized fully. Until then, he wasn’t supposed to strain himself.

While he was reduced to the strength of a Jade, there wasn’t much he could do to strain his madra channels. Jade madra shouldn’t hurt him even if he tried to attack himself from the inside out.

Even so, it would be best to take it easy.

Ziel took another swig from the bottle. Technically it was an elixir, as it had beneficial effects on the spirit, but you could also accurately call it wine.

He laid back and threw his arm over his eyes to block out the sun.

They drifted through the Kazan clan for a while, his assistant explaining several times that they were Golds from outside of the valley, they represented the Akura clan and the Sage of Twin Stars, and they were here to warn the clan leaders of incoming danger.

At some point, they passed inside, and Ziel could stop protecting his eyes. It was cooler out of the sun, and a brief glimpse showed him that they were drifting through polished stone hallways with decorations of worked metal. He felt earth aura all around him, which would ordinarily feel soothing.

Now, it felt like he was inside a nervously beating heart.

The Dreadgod’s influence was powerful here. The veins of aura throughout the stone quivered with chaos as the Wandering Titan grew closer.

They entered a bright room, and the murmur of people grew quiet. Ziel’s cloud came to a halt.

“Patriarch of the Kazan clan,” the Truegold woman announced, “I present to you Ziel of the Wastelands, chosen of Northstrider, Uncrowned of the Uncrowned King tournament, former leader of the Dawnwing Sect, and representative of the Akura clan and the Sage of Twin Stars. Let his words be as the voice of heaven to you.”

Ziel groaned as he realized she was going to make him speak. He was not needed for this. She could tell them all about the Dreadgod, and only if they resisted would he need to strongarm them into listening.

But he was here now. He might as well do what he could.

Slowly, Ziel sat up and opened his eyes to see what he was dealing with.

The Kazan Patriarch was a stocky, black-bearded man clad in chainmail. His jade badge was roughly carved with a shield, and he wore a bear’s pelt across his shoulders. He sat not at a desk, but on a log bench at the far end of a long table.

Ziel was certain there had been more people in the room before, as this seemed to be some kind of dining hall filled with empty tables, but apparently they had filtered out while his eyes were shut. He swept his spiritual perception out and found them clustered on the other sides of the oaken doors.

The only people in the large room with him were his Truegold assistant, the Patriarch, and a woman he assumed to be the Patriarch’s wife. She stood behind him with a worried expression and a hand on his shoulder.

Her badge was made of iron, and she wore it literally as a breastplate, strapped to her as armor. There was no way this Patriarch would allow people he assumed to be Jade or higher to be alone with him and his Iron wife without some level of protection.

Instead of saying anything, Ziel leaned down to peer under the table, where he saw a dimly lit script around the two of them. He traced that script back to constructs all around the room.

With enough attention, he could figure out what they did, but that would take more attention than he was willing to spare.

By this point, he had been silent for a long time. He tapped the right side of his own breast.

“You have something in your pocket,” Ziel said. “Take it out.”

The Patriarch’s wife frowned more deeply, but the Jade himself only reached with two fingers into a breast pocket behind his badge and pulled out a pair of halfsilver bracelets. He placed them down on the table without explanation.

Ziel held out both his wrists. “Go ahead.”

The Akura Truegold threw out her hand to stop him. “I can’t allow that, sir. We can’t guarantee your safety with your spirit restricted.”

“Your job isn’t to protect me,” Ziel said. “It’s to protect them.” He kept his arms out.

The Patriarch must have been confused, but he kept his expression blank as he slid the halfsilver rings over Ziel’s wrists.

Ziel grunted in discomfort as the scripts in the rings activated, restricting his madra.

They weren’t cuffs. He could throw them off if he wanted. They were surely designed to be tied in place somehow, but the gesture was what was important, not the actual effect on his spirit.

“This is not necessary,” the Kazan Patriarch said. “I intend to hear you out in good faith.”

“Yeah, well, I skipped a step. We’re not here to hurt you or take anything. I’m going to lay out the situation for you, and if you don’t like what I have to say, we’ll turn around and leave.”

The Patriarch’s eyes flicked to the Akura Truegold, who looked like she was having trouble keeping her hand away from the long knife at her belt. “Your people said you came to warn us.”

Ziel jerked his head toward the stone wall. “You can feel it yourself. There’s a monster coming.” These people were earth artists; they would have sensed the Titan coming, even if they didn’t know what caused it.

“It’s called a Dreadgod, and we expect it to arrive in a matter of days. When it gets here, everybody in the valley is dead. We have cloudships to take you all to safety, but if you want to take your chances, that’s up to you.”

Ziel stopped to take another swig from his bottle. “That’s it. If you don’t trust us, you should still leave on your own.”

He sensed another presence coming closer, creeping along the edges of the wall. It was only at the Foundation stage, so he ignored it.

“Our defenses are strong,” the Kazan Patriarch said, and he didn’t sound overly proud. He was simply stating a fact. “We had planned to retreat into our strongholds and withstand the coming storm.”

“These strongholds. They’re underground, aren’t they?”

The Patriarch didn’t say anything, but his wife twitched.

“This Dreadgod can eat entire mountains,” Ziel said. “Hope you’ve got some good scripts.”

With that, he looked down to his side, where the Foundation presence had reappeared. Dark, glittering eyes regarded his cloud in awe.

It was a child. A little boy.

The Patriarch’s wife took in a breath. “Maret! Forgiveness, please, I’ll take him!”

She rushed over as the boy grabbed onto Ziel’s Thousand-Mile Cloud, pulling his tiny body up. Ziel dismissed him.

“He’s fine. He won’t hurt himself.”

The boy’s mother froze. She seemed to be holding herself back from snatching up her son. Ziel understood that; you never knew what would set off strange, possibly hostile sacred artists. If she expressed a lack of trust in him, then as far as she knew, he might become enraged at the disrespect and attack.

He let out a sigh. “I would never lower myself to harm a child. But if it would put you at ease, by all means take him.”

The cloud bobbed beneath him as Maret jumped up and down, giggling at the springy cloud madra.

She looked somewhat relieved and bowed. “This one is…certain that he can come to no harm under your watch, so long as he is not giving offense.”

Ziel had actually been hoping she would take the child back, but it was too much effort to clarify. He just pretended not to notice the boy jumping up and down behind him.

The Patriarch cleared his throat. “Pardon us. Our littlest one is a…curious child. I should have scanned for him when the others left the room.”

Judging by the clumsiness Ziel had seen from the Jades here, his scan would have been slightly less useful than just glancing around with his eyes.

Tiny fists grabbed handfuls of Ziel’s hair, but it would take hundreds of pounds more weight to free even one of Ziel’s hairs. He pushed the boy to the back of his mind and continued.

“If you come with us, we can help you evacuate. We hope that you will be able to return soon, and that your homes will be intact. But if not…well, there is no replacing human lives.”

“Forgiveness, but if you don’t know how much destruction this Dreadgod will cause, then how much danger are we in?”

That slipped in through the cracks in Ziel’s heart, finding an unexpectedly tender place.

He had spoken those words, or ones very similar, years ago upon finding out that the Weeping Dragon was approaching. He’d known all about the Dreadgods, of course, but their sect was ancient. Well-defended. Protected by scripts and constructs.

How much danger could they be in?

As it turned out, they had survived the Dreadgod itself. But not the scavengers that fed in its wake.

When Ziel spoke, his voice was dead. “I used to lead a sect of my own. We decided that we could survive a Dreadgod. I decided. First, we felt the aura tremble, like footsteps shaking the ground. What you’re feeling now.”

He nodded to the walls. “Next, the sky changed color. It’s a change that accompanies each of the Dreadgods, as their power overwhelms all aspects of vital aura. We hunkered down inside defenses, layers of scripts that had stood for centuries.”

Ziel trailed off for a moment as he remembered the sky, raining lightning.

No one else spoke.

“One by one, it stripped away our defenses. Tore off the roof. Toppled buildings. Our techniques were only food for it. And the Dreadgod never stopped, it never saw us, it simply flew on by. We were stripped to the bone by its footsteps, by the wind from its passage. To it, we were only ants.”

Silence still reigned in the room.

Until Ziel felt a child giggle.

He realized that there was a weight on his head, and craned his eyes upward. While he’d been speaking, Maret had climbed up his hair and come to rest on top of his skull, and was now holding onto his horns, rocking back and forth as though riding a bull.

The horrified looks on the faces of the boy’s parents now took on a whole new dimension.

The Patriarch tore his gaze down and cleared his throat. “My sympathies. If your home was destroyed by this Dreadgod as well, then you above all have reason to warn us.”

“Not this Dreadgod,” Ziel said. He reached up and peeled away the child from his head, holding him out to his mother.

She was only too glad to take him.

“There are three others,” Ziel continued. “And what we survived was merely its passing. In front of an attack, there is no survival. There is escape, or there is death.”

Slowly, with no sudden movements that might signal an attack, Ziel pulled off the halfsilver rings restricting his madra and placed them onto the table.

“It is your decision to make. But I wish I had taken this chance myself.”

He turned and urged his Thousand-Mile Cloud to slide toward the door.

“We need time,” the Patriarch called.

“You don’t have it,” Ziel responded.

“It will take at least a day for the clan to respond to our emergency beacon!” the Patriarch’s wife protested.

Ziel stopped and slowly turned around. “You’re going to call your clan to evacuate?”

The Patriarch nodded. “As soon as we leave this room. But our territory is large. One day is already the fastest we can gather, and that’s if we use all our alarms of war and our swiftest riders.”

“I thought you needed time to decide,” Ziel said.

“Everything you’ve said lines up with the reports of our scouts and scholars. And I believe you.” The Kazan Patriarch inclined his head. “We entrust ourselves to your honor.”

“Oh. Well…good.”

Ziel became acutely aware of the weight of command settling onto his shoulders. He realized he had just taken responsibility for another clan of people.

What a stupid decision.

He should have let the Golds handle it.

* * *

The wall surrounding the Li clan was a work of art, a smooth expanse of pale, polished wood decorated by a functional script in a way that evoked the image of a slithering serpent. Treetops rose from behind it, and the sky was filled with birds of every description.

Mercy was impressed. Their commitment to aesthetics was all the more commendable considering their lack of resources. She could only imagine the effort it would take to build something so expansive and delicate with a workforce of Irons.

She only wished she had seen more of the Li clan than the outside.

“The Matriarch has arrived,” one of the guards announced from the top of the wall, and Mercy let out a relieved breath. She had spent most of the afternoon negotiating with underlings, trying to get a word with the clan leader.

Her Golds were behind her. She didn’t want to overwhelm the Jades.

Now, at last, she’d finally gotten somewhere.

A gray-haired woman stepped up to the edge of the wall. She was tall, thin, and dignified, with an emerald-set silver tiara in her hair and rings on each finger. A snake rested on her shoulders, and even it was decorated with gold and jewels.

Mercy dipped her head. “Humble greetings, honored Matriarch. I am Akura Mercy, and I have come to offer the assistance of the Akura clan in the face of the incoming threat.”

The Matriarch lifted one eyebrow. “And what threat is that?”

They knew exactly what the threat was. Even if they were blind to the increasing earthquakes and the bizarre behavior of the aura all around them, Mercy had explained the situation half a dozen times already.

But she gave no hint of impatience as she responded, “The Dreadgod, honored Matriarch. You can feel its footsteps in the earth. My mother is the guardian of the lands all around Sacred Valley, and I come as her representative to shelter you until the danger is passed.”

“And what proof do you bring that this danger is real?”

“I would be happy to leave a dream tablet for you, or to swear an oath on my soul, if that would convince you.”

The Matriarch waved a hand. “That isn’t necessary yet. Assuming I believe you, what would you have us do?”

“We have a fleet of cloudships ready to evacuate your clan outside the eastern passage to the valley. I urge you to let us help evacuate you and your families, so that we can fly you to safety.”

“Hmmm. Well, thank you for bringing this to my attention. I will consult with the clan elders and let you know our decision soon.”

She began to turn away, but Mercy cut in desperately. “I apologize for pressing you for details, but how soon?”

“Soon.”

“We expect the Wandering Titan to arrive in only a week, honored Matriarch. Once it begins its attack, it will be too late to escape.”

“I’m beginning to find your insistence rude, Akura Mercy,” the Matriarch said. She folded her arms and looked down on Mercy sternly. “If you really were the daughter of a ruler, you would know better than to show such…desperation. It is enough to make me wonder what you have to gain by rushing us into a decision. Perhaps you hope we will make ourselves vulnerable in our haste.”

Frustration tightened its grip on Mercy’s heart, but she threw herself to her knees. “I swear on my soul that every word I have said is true to the best of my knowledge,” she called.

Her spirit tightened slightly. A one-sided oath wasn’t as binding as an agreement with another soul, but it was still foolish to break.

“Then you are a very earnest messenger,” the Matriarch said, “but still perhaps an enemy. Enough. I have heard everything I need to hear, and I will make my own decision.”

With that, the leader of the Li clan strode away.

Mercy knelt in the dirt, frustration and helplessness twisting inside her.

She felt a building tide of madra, and looked to the side to see Kashi, the Truegold commander of her Akura troops. He was a conscript from Akura lands, not a member of the clan, and he was ganglier and more awkward than a stork.

He had drawn a pair of swords, which crackled with silver madra, and there was deadly ice in his eyes as he looked on the enemy wall.

“With your permission, Overlady, I can have her on her knees before you in ten breaths or less.”

“No, that would send entirely the wrong message. We’re here to help them.”

“Then let’s help them,” Kashi said. “Whether they want us to or not.”

Mercy pushed herself to her feet, brushing off her knees. “They’ve seen the signs of the Dreadgod’s coming. They’ll leave.”

“Forgive me, Overlady, but we can’t wait for them to come to a decision. If we can’t start evacuating them now, then we won’t have enough time to get them out.”

“But she was right that we can’t push her into a decision. We can afford to wait until tomorrow.”

Tomorrow the Matriarch would see reason, Mercy told herself. Rushing would only ruin negotiations. The Titan was more than a day away; they would see it coming long before they ran out of time.

She kept telling herself that instead of chewing the Goldsign from her hand in frustration.

* * *

Jai Long sat with Jai Chen in the corner of a tiny cloudship. It was hard to call it a proper cloudship at all, actually; it was more of a raft on the back of a Thousand-Mile Cloud.

They were part of a small fleet of these…cloud-rafts, some of which had been brought by the Akura Golds, though most had been confiscated from the Fallen Leaf School. They were designed to work in this low-aura environment, and as such were painfully slow. Jai Long often considered leaping down to the ground and running.

But down there, he would run into trouble. Up here, at least he had an escort.

They were returning to the Heaven’s Glory School—and the eastern exit from Sacred Valley—with a team of forty Akura Golds, a few dozen old or wounded exiles from the Wei clan…and Eithan Arelius.

Who would not leave them alone.

He drifted at their side on a dark blue one-person cloud that he had surely brought himself, and no matter how Jai Long steered his own raft, he couldn’t escape.

Jai Long had managed to dodge or bluntly ignore all the Underlord’s questions up until now, but Jai Chen wasn’t helping. She chatted with him easily, she and her dragon spirit.

“You’ve cared for your bonded spirit well,” Eithan observed. “Have you named it?”

“We call him Fingerling,” Jai Chen said, looking a little sheepish. “He started off the size of a finger, and he loves eating small fish. It started as a nickname, but then it just…stuck.”

The pink, serpentine dragon trilled proudly at the sound of his name. It undulated through the wind on Jai Chen’s shoulder and gave Eithan a haughty look.

“I quite understand. In the original language of my homeland, ‘Eithan’ also means ‘tiny fish.’”

She leaned forward. “Really?”

“No. It means ‘embodiment of impossible perfection.’”

Jai Long didn’t believe that either.

“Speaking of my homeland, I seem to recall that you were able to use a version of my bloodline power. Can you still see things through strands of madra around you?”

Jai Long shifted, trying to get his sister’s attention to signal her not to answer the question. Eithan was pushing them, questing for their weaknesses. The less she told these strangers, the better.

“Only if I concentrate,” Jai Chen said happily, and Jai Long cursed his own failure. He had raised her to be too trusting.

She gestured to her dragon. “He’s better at it. If he really tries, he can see things over a mile away.”

“Then he is very talented,” Eithan said, and the sincerity in his voice convinced Jai Long that he must be lying. Of course, Jai Long thought the same about every word from Eithan’s mouth.

The Underlord inclined his head to the pink dragon, and Fingerling preened under the attention.

“And how about you, Jai Long?” Eithan asked. “I hear you’ve been having quite the adventures here in Sacred Valley.”

Jai Long had known this was coming, and he had an ironclad defense ready.

“Not by choice. I have nothing left to do with the sacred arts. I’m done.”

If he made a vague statement, the Arelius Patriarch would interpret it however he wanted. Jai Long would leave no doubt: he wanted nothing to do with the world of sacred artists anymore.

Eithan nodded along as though he understood. “A wise decision. Who needs to sprint from advancement to advancement? Stay as an Underlord, I say.”

Jai Long had to keep himself from snorting in disdain. Eithan had made it to Underlord young enough that he would almost certainly reach Overlord one day, especially considering how strong he was and how many resources he had access to. There was no way he would be content as an Underlord.

Eithan snapped his fingers. “You’re not an Underlord yet, are you? But you made it so close. Surely you’d want to stay somewhere with stronger aura for a while, just to see if you could take that last step.”

“I would not dare to take the leap to Underlord so lightly, Patriarch Arelius.” He hoped his tone would shut Eithan up, but if it didn’t, he could stonewall the conversation all day.

In fact, he had been tempted to go stay outside Sacred Valley for a few months, to test himself and see if he could reach Underlord.

But that temptation was nothing weighed against safety. And Sacred Valley, while not exactly welcoming, was at least filled with weaklings.

“Patriarch Arelius?” Eithan repeated. “We’re old friends at this point, Jai Long. By all means, relax.”

“If you insist.” It would be wiser to keep his mouth shut, but Jai Long saw the opportunity to strike back. “You must be proud to have trained another Underlord so young. Perhaps he’ll even reach Overlord soon. Isn’t the dream of every master to be surpassed by their student?”

Jai Long had known enough Underlords. They all said they wanted their disciples to surpass them, but every time someone showed greater talent than theirs, they erupted out of wounded pride.

That should be enough of a jab that he would get to enjoy some discomfort on Eithan’s face, but not enough that he’d display open anger in front of all these Akura Golds.

Instead, Eithan’s eyebrows shot up.

“Underlord? Haven’t you heard? Lindon’s a Sage.”

This time, Jai Long did snort in disbelief. He didn’t say anything, but his contempt should be clear. Joking around was one thing, but Eithan would have to make his lies more believable if he wanted to deceive Jai Long.

But Jai Long didn’t like the look of the smile that slowly widened on Eithan’s face. “Waaaaait a moment. Have you not scanned Yerin?”

He hadn’t, but only because he’d been trying to stay away from Yerin as much as possible. Even if Lindon didn’t hold a grudge—which Jai Long still doubted—the Sword Sage’s apprentice certainly would.

“I did,” Jai Chen put in. “I don’t mean to be rude, but is there something wrong with her? Her spirit was…strange.”

“How so?” Eithan asked, in the tone of a man who already knew the exact answer to his question.

“It felt like her spirit was all tangled up with her body. Like her madra channels had melted into her, if that makes sense.” Jai Chen lowered her voice. “Was she injured? Is that why she’s so weak now?”

“That is not why,” Eithan said. “Young lady, you have done well to keep your eyes open. Your brother is…woefully uninformed.”

Eithan was clearly implying something, but if he expected Jai Long to display any curiosity whatsoever, then he was hoping in vain. This would all end with the Underlord trying to get something out of them, he was sure, and Jai Long wasn’t about to fall for it.

Eithan waved a hand, and a Truegold in Akura colors quickly sped up to catch up with him. “Yes, Eithan?”

“Ikari, if you don’t mind, would you address me by title? Just once.”

“Of course, Archlord. In fact, I would be happy to continue—”

“You can go back to before, thank you, Ikari.”

The Truegold woman gave a bow and fell back among her fellows, but Jai Long was staring at Eithan.

Archlord.

There was no way it was true.

Jai Long hadn’t thoroughly scanned Eithan, that being a good way to start a fight, but he had been close enough to the man to get a good sense of his power. He was still an Underlord, Jai Long was sure.

Even accounting for the curse of Sacred Valley, which left them all little better than Jades, he was certain that Eithan hadn’t grown any stronger than before.

He was…almost certain.

Eithan spread his arms wide. “By all means, Jai Long, I invite you to scan me and confirm for yourself.”

With the feeling that he was falling for some kind of trap, Jai Long extended his spiritual perception.

He wasn’t sure what he was looking for, exactly. He had never had the chance to personally sense an Overlord, much less an Archlord. If he could feel the full force of Eithan’s spirit, he could be certain, but everyone was suppressed here.

Certainly, Eithan’s body had been thoroughly reforged in soulfire. It felt like a perfect conduit for energy, even more so than the Underlords Jai Long had sensed before. But did that mean he had advanced, or just that he was above average in this one aspect?

Jai Long couldn’t tell if the man was truly an Archlord or simply a peak Underlord, and was about to say so.

“Ah, excuse me, I forgot a veil.”

Then a dim part of Eithan’s spirit became clear, and Jai Long felt the pool of soulfire at the center of his spirit. A dense flame of reflective chrome, like quicksilver imitating fire.

Archlord soulfire. It had to be.

Jai Long had never seen it before, but it was unmistakable. This was at least two grades higher than the soulfire he held in his own spirit.

He withdrew his perception as though the silver flame had burned him and fell to one knee. He was breathing unnaturally quickly, but he couldn’t keep it under control.

This was what Eithan had been after. He’d been toying with them all along, just to see their reactions.

The difference between Underlord and Archlord was like the distance between the lowest valley and the highest stars. There was no Archlord in all the Blackflame Empire.

Even in Sacred Valley, where Eithan would be closer to mortal than anywhere else, Jai Long couldn’t antagonize him any further. Who knew what an Archlord could do?

“Archlord, I apologize for any disrespect. I was ignorant and unaware.”

“Aren’t we all?” Eithan didn’t seem to have reacted much to Jai Long’s panic, though even Jai Chen had curled up and was holding Fingerling protectively in her hands.

He gave her a reassuring smile. “I have nothing but fondness for the both of you, don’t worry. However, if it’s not too much to ask, I would love to know one thing: after you leave the valley, where are you headed?”

This time, Jai Chen was the one to answer.

“We’re not sure, Archlord.”

“As a mighty Archlord, I command you to call me Eithan. Titles change too often.”

“I still have contacts in the Desolate Wilds,” Jai Long said, as much to take his attention away from Jai Chen as to demonstrate compliance. “They will shelter us for a time, but after that…wherever the heavens lead us.”

He felt it was wise to give Eithan a vague answer, but it was also the truth. Their immediate plans were simply to get away from the Dreadgod.

“If by whatever twist of fate you find yourselves without a roof over your heads, I’m certain we can find space for you. We’re quite in favor at the moment.”

“Lindon already invited us,” Jai Chen said. “But we can’t commit to anyone with our futures so uncertain.” She dipped her head, but Eithan looked surprised.

“Lindon invited you? Good for him! But I hate that I didn’t know that already. I’m used to eavesdropping on him all the time, you see.”

Jai Long felt an unexpected pang of sympathy for Lindon.

“Well, if either or both of you change your mind, I’m certain you can find a way to contact us. We’d be happy to have you.”

The conversation ended there, which left Jai Long wondering…

Why?

Why had Lindon and Eithan both independently decided to recruit them? If Eithan was an Archlord, Lindon a Sage—which Jai Long still didn’t believe—and Yerin a…whatever...then someone who hadn’t even reached Underlord would be far beneath them.

They wouldn’t be impressed by his advancement, so what was it? Jai Chen’s bonded spirit and unique madra? Was this some kind of elaborate revenge, like taking a trophy?

By the time the fleet of clouds landed in the Heaven’s Glory School, Jai Long still hadn’t decided.

While the Akura clan unloaded refugees and Eithan established his leadership of Heaven’s Glory, Jai Long and Jai Chen left.

They marched straight east, out of Sacred Valley the same way they came in. At first, he was certain that the dirty looks from Heaven’s Glory would result in drawn weapons, but the presence of the Akura servants meant they didn’t have to deal with anything more than glares.

Finally, more easily than he had ever imagined possible, they stood in the passage leading out of Sacred Valley.

As the ring of light glared down on him from overhead, he stared at the forest beneath and the mountains ahead. Beyond them lay the Desolate Wilds, and even further, the Blackflame Empire.

Their past.

Jai Chen hitched a pack on her back, Fingerling trilled excitement, and she gave him a wide smile. “It’s been a while since we’ve made a camp!”

He waited too long, lost in thought. When he realized she was waiting on a response, he grunted agreement.

They had spent the better part of two years here. Now, it was like that time had never happened.

In the end, there had been no point to anything they’d done. The long journey to get here, the home they’d built. The people they’d traded with.

Fighting side-by-side with Orthos and Wei Shi Kelsa. Learning to work with them. Rescuing Kelsa’s mother. All the lives they’d taken from Heaven’s Glory.

It all felt like such a waste.

They could have just stayed in hiding, then left when the Dreadgod grew close. Kelsa would have found another way to rescue her mother, with Orthos’ help. She hadn’t really needed his power in the first place.

Jai Chen leaned in, watching his face.

“They still need help with the evacuation,” she pointed out.

Jai Long shook himself out of his own thoughts. “They can handle it. We need to put distance between us and the Titan.”

He still wasn’t sure if the Desolate Wilds would be far enough away to escape a Dreadgod, and the sooner they left, the safer they’d be.

“We’d make it a lot further on a cloudship,” she pointed out.

Jai Long looked over all the large, passenger cloudships perched everywhere in view. They had been sent here for the mass exodus from Sacred Valley.

But they’d been sent by the Akura clan, which Jai Long only knew as a dark, distant force. He couldn’t trust them.

“I don’t want to take chances on strangers with a Dreadgod coming,” he said.

“What chance? It’s better to wait for the ships to leave than to walk. And in the meantime, we can help other people get out.”

“That’s true…” he murmured.

While he was still thinking, his sister led him back inside.

10

The walls of the Wei clan had seemed taller when Lindon was younger.

In his mind’s eye, he saw the gates into the main clan territory as an ancient edifice that scraped the sky. He remembered when they had changed out the doors for freshly carved and decorated ones, in honor of the last Seven-Year Festival. But now, as an Underlord, he saw the plain wood used to make them. The peeling paint. And the walls were only about thirty feet tall.

He could leap over them with a flat-footed jump.

At least Elder Whisper’s tower was as tall as he remembered it. It stood out like a spear from behind the wall. He wondered what the snowfox would say about Lindon’s advancement.

He took another breath, more nervous than he should have been. He couldn’t put a name to his mix of feelings.

Yerin took his left hand in hers. “Try your hardest not to burn the whole place down.”

The Iron guard took a tight grip on his spear. “What?”

“Wouldn’t judge if you had to kill one or two.”

Foxfire gathered on the end of the Iron’s weapon. He levered it at Yerin, but addressed Lindon. “Give me your name, Unsouled.”

Lindon had not missed that title. But he couldn’t blame the Iron for being on edge; there were forty Akura clan Golds behind them, after all, each hovering a foot or two off the ground on the back of a Thousand-Mile Cloud or other floating construct.

A Truegold man with gray in his hair stepped forward before Lindon could say anything. “The Akura clan presents the Sage of Twin Stars and the reigning champion of the Uncrowned King tournament. Present the leader of your clan or we will find them ourselves.”

Lindon dipped his head. “Apologies, older brother. We intended no threats. My name is Wei Shi Lindon, and I am here to see the First Elder about the recent earthquakes.”

The ground was steadily buzzing now, a low-pitched thrum beneath Lindon’s feet that never went away. The veins of earth aura pulsed as though they ran with lightning.

The Iron looked up at the people spread out before him and set his jaw. He had no spiritual sense to speak of, but he had the confidence of a man with an entire clan at his back.

“You forget yourself, Unsouled.” The Foxfire at the tip of his weapon disappeared, but the guard reversed his spear. “Whoever your masters are now, you should speak to me with respect.”

He brandished the butt of his spear, cocking it back in a silent threat.

Lindon held up a hand before the Truegold to his left annihilated this Iron. “You see all these people behind me, don’t you?”

“Word has already been sent to the Jades. They will decide what to do with our guests.” The guard’s chin tilted up. “In the meantime, I was told to expect outsiders at our gates. And to show them the strength and dignity of the Wei clan.”

Lindon understood now. This guard thought they were inhabitants of Sacred Valley, but not one of the clans. He assumed they belonged to the collection of exiles and wild families that provided for themselves in the wilderness.

Even without his spiritual perception, he should have seen better than that. They were far too well-equipped, and the Golds all wore a uniform.

But the Iron had made up his mind, and he stood proudly.

“Hit me,” Lindon said.

The guard frowned. “What did you say?”

“You suggested you were going to hit me with your spear. Do it. I want to show you something.”

The Iron’s frown took on an edge of disgust, and he drew himself up straighter. “I’m not giving you the excuse.”

“Then I’m heading in.” Lindon started to walk for the gate, with Yerin at his side. He expected her to be laughing to herself.

She wasn’t. She scowled like she couldn’t wait to punch a hole in this man’s chest.

Sacred Valley really did not agree with her.

Finally, something in the Iron snapped. “Don’t blame me for this!” he shouted to the Akura Golds.

The Truegold at the front rolled his eyes.

The Iron guard hauled back his spear and smacked Lindon’s cheek with the butt end.

Wood cracked.

It wasn’t a full-force blow, but the Iron hadn’t exactly held back either. If Lindon really had been an Unsouled, he would have faced a broken jaw at least.

Old anger leaked out, but Lindon pushed it away. He couldn’t hurl an Iron into the sky for doing as he’d asked.

He did, however, seize the spear. When the guard tried to pull it back with all his strength, Lindon’s hand didn’t budge an inch.

With one thumb, Lindon snapped off one third of the spear’s shaft.

“Tell the First Elder that Wei Shi Lindon is here to see him.”

The guard abandoned his spear and ran through the half-open gates into the Wei clan, screaming for backup.

Yerin thumped Lindon’s chest with the back of her fist. “Not certain I can take this. I was about to split him in half the long way.”

“You were the one who told me to hold back.”

“Easier to say it than do it.”

Lindon stopped the Golds before they followed him through. “Stand by for now. We’ve made our show, so I want to meet with the elders first. I’ll call you when we need you.”

The Truegold looked displeased, but bowed in acceptance nonetheless.

When Lindon and Yerin walked through the gate, one of his suspicions was confirmed: the guard hadn’t sent word to the First Elder. He’d gathered the other guards, half a dozen Irons who surrounded them with weapons drawn. A security script in the street just inside the gate lit up, trapping Lindon and Yerin inside.

Lindon felt crystal flasks in the ground drained of madra to power the script. From a quick glance at the runes, he felt certain it would block them from throwing any techniques out of the circle.

At least, it was supposed to.

The guards were shouting demands, but Lindon spoke quietly to Yerin. “We’ll have to show off some more.”

He expected a rejoinder from her, but he heard only harsh breathing.

When he looked to her, she was half bent over, her metallic crimson Goldsigns extended and sagging. She gripped her stomach with one hand as though her core was paining her, breathing harshly. It seemed like she was barely on her feet.

He instantly abandoned his previous plan.

Lindon drove his foot down and through the stone of the street, breaking the runes and the circle. The glowing script fuzzed and died, sending essence flying into the air like sparks.

The Fox Dream Ruler technique settled onto the both of them, intending to disrupt the dream aura in their minds.

[Wrong!] Dross shouted.

The Irons all flinched back. One fell onto his backside.

[I don’t want to judge you based on your treatment of dream madra, I really don’t, but if I did, I’d say you’re like monkeys doing carpentry. That is to say, you’re clumsy and very stupid.]

The Wei clan Irons were familiar with spirits advanced enough to talk, but they had probably never seen one speak into their minds before. Lindon left Dross to it; he could subdue this entire crowd alone if they caused a problem.

He was focused entirely on Yerin.

Fortunately, the second the script broke, Yerin had taken a deep breath and straightened. “Whew. Wouldn’t try that again, if I get a wish.”

“You can go back and rest, if you need to,” Lindon said.

Yerin stretched her arms and Goldsigns. “Not sure I see what’s so shiny and bright about being a Herald. These days, it’s a bumpy path full of sharp rocks.”

“Your madra was having enough trouble supporting your body in Sacred Valley at all.”

Outside of Sacred Valley, she would have shrugged this off. It may have weakened her, if it had been powered by more than Iron-level madra, but it certainly wouldn’t have crippled her.

Still, this was far more severe than it should have been. Lindon couldn’t imagine Fury unable to breathe because of a simple script.

This was Lindon’s fault. He had been careless.

He dipped his head. “Apolo—”

“Nope,” she interrupted. “None of that. Time to get back to the job, true?”

The ground still vibrated beneath them while Dross kept the guards distracted with insults. One of the Irons, a blocky red-faced man with an Enforcer badge, looked at Lindon strangely.

“Shi Lindon?” he asked.

Lindon had given his name at the gate, but there was recognition in the man’s voice. He looked closer at the face.

He thought he saw traces of a boy from years ago. They came with several unpleasant memories.

“Mon Teris?”

As a boy, Lindon had found himself on the receiving end of Wei Mon Teris’ temper several times. Including the memorable occasion when Teris had abandoned him to fight the Remnant of an ancestral tree, which had ended with Lindon taking down Teris’ father with the Empty Palm.

Lindon hadn’t thought of the Mon family in years.

Teris’ expression was hard, but he looked from Lindon to the hole Lindon’s foot had made in the stone. “I’ll bring you to the First Elder. Come.”

Lindon hesitated. The Mon family had never had any goodwill toward him, and the situation wouldn’t be improved now that he had returned from the dead more than three years later.

Yerin nudged him with her elbow. “What’s to worry about?”

[You should worry that he’s not about to lead you into a trap. Hey, if he does betray you, do you think you could slam him through a tree?]

They had a point. Yerin did, at least. There was no point in doubting Wei Mon Teris.

What could Teris do?

What if there are more scripts like the last one? Lindon thought. He’d have to keep an eye out.

“Lead the way, cousin,” Lindon said. He even attempted a smile, though it made Teris’ scowl deepen.

Teris led Lindon down the main thoroughfare, the same street the Kazan and Li clans had marched through during the Seven-Year Festival so long ago. This time, the road trembled, and he saw very few people out and about.

Those he did see scurried from place to place, many keeping their eyes on the aura beneath their feet. He sensed most people huddled inside.

Everyone here was scared and on edge. He had to take that into account when they treated him like an enemy.

But he could save them. The thought straightened his spine. He could protect them all.

Teris turned off a smaller side street, and Lindon stopped. “Are we not going to the Hall of Elders?”

“The First Elder isn’t there today. He’s consulting with the Eighth Elder about the earth aura.”

Lindon brightened at that. If the clan still had the same Eighth Elder as before, he had watched over Lindon in the clan archive. Lindon looked forward to seeing him again. He suspected Eithan and the Eighth Elder would get along well.

Teris marched on with no further explanation, but the tension was uncomfortable. When they left the main thoroughfare behind, they mostly passed isolated home complexes, most family homes surrounded by walls.

Families in the Wei clan had lots of space, and Lindon found himself staring into the patches of long grass and purple-leafed orus trees between the compounds and feeling pangs of nostalgia as he recognized certain sights. Or failed to recognize others.

Somewhere in this area was the Mon family home, and the thought gave Lindon an idea of how to push through the awkwardness. “Is your family well, cousin Teris?”

Teris shot a glance back at him. “Eri was accepted into the Holy Wind School. They say she’ll be Jade one day.”

He said it with a somewhat challenging tone, but Lindon was strangely happy to hear it. Eri had disturbed him, but he was glad to hear she was doing well.

Although the Holy Wind School was heading out of the valley already. Did Teris know that?

If he didn’t, it wasn’t really any of Lindon’s business. At least Eri would be safer outside Sacred Valley than in it.

“And your father?” Lindon asked. There were more members of the Mon family, but he didn’t know them well.

“Fine.”

[I’m sure he’s had a wonderful career as a warrior as long as he got over the humiliation of being defeated by a child.]

Dross had fortunately spoken only to Lindon.

They turned a corner to see a long grass path up a hill, to a walled compound that Lindon didn’t remember. Teris held out a hand toward it.

“Is this the Eighth Elder’s home?” Lindon asked.

“Did you forget?”

Lindon had. He was sure he must have seen the Eighth Elder’s house as a child at some point, but he mostly saw the man at the library.

Do you remember? Lindon asked Dross.

[If you don’t remember, I don’t. Except for all the things I know that you don’t. And all my secret plans.]

Lindon nodded, bracing himself, and walked toward the hill.

White Fox madra lit up behind him, and he closed his eyes. So Teris was betraying him after all.

He scanned thoroughly for scripts. There had to be more to this trap.

“Who are you?” Teris demanded. “Did you teach him that Enforcer technique?”

Slowly, Lindon turned around to see Teris holding a knife in front of Yerin.

For about half a second.

Then he was on the ground, his knife spinning off into the air, Yerin’s foot pushing his face into the grassy earth.

Lindon understood his line of logic, if it could be called logic.

From Teris’ perspective, Lindon was just Unsouled, so Yerin had to be the one in charge. And she had faltered in the script-circle earlier, so obviously something had weakened her. She must have been the one who had kept Lindon alive and taught him powerful new sacred arts, and now she was vulnerable.

An easy target.

Yerin’s foot pressed down on the back of Teris’ skull. “You’re a spineless pack of rotten rat leavings, aren’t you?”

Teris thrashed, trying to free himself.

[Can he breathe?] Dross wondered. [It doesn’t look like he can breathe.]

Lindon crouched next to the Iron, speaking into his ear. “Do you feel the ground shaking?”

The Iron’s scream was muffled by dirt.

“That means we don’t have much time,” Lindon went on. “I don’t want to have to continually prove myself to everyone who sees my badge, so here’s what I would prefer. Would you like to be my guide?”

Yerin eased up on his head, and Teris’ muddy face came up into a gasp. “Yes! Yes! I’ll do it!”

“Gratitude. I would be grateful if you could lead me to the First Elder, and if anyone else stops us, you can explain to them what a bad idea that would be. Do you agree?”

Teris nodded furiously.

“Perfect.”

Yerin moved her foot off, and Lindon pulled him to his feet. He helped brush dirt from Teris’ outer robe. “Now, where is the Elder?”

Teris shakily pointed up the hill to the house right in front of them.

“…really? He’s really in there?”

“I told you, ah, this one told you, honored…guests. The First Elder is visiting the Eighth.”

Yerin looked more offended now than when he’d pulled a weapon on her. “You pulled blades on us in bright sunlight ten steps from your clan elder’s house?”

“Do not harm this one,” Teris pleaded, bowing in half. “This one has a little girl.”

Yerin turned to Lindon. “Did you get the only spine in your whole clan?”

Lindon wasn’t listening.

“You have a daughter?” he asked.

Teris’ eyes bounced around, but he answered warily, “This one is honored to have a daughter that will soon see her second year.”

That was a bigger surprise to Lindon than when Teris had betrayed them. Teris was a year younger than Lindon himself.

A girl of eleven or twelve peeked her head out of the gate and saw them, shouting back inside that there was a fight going on outside. Yerin slapped Teris on the back.

“Your turn to guide.”

Teris preceded them through the gate, and Lindon and Yerin followed. As soon as they crossed through the compound wall, Lindon knew something was wrong.

The script around the outer wall had blocked his spiritual perception, which was already weaker here in Sacred Valley, so he hadn’t sensed much. But the outer courtyard of the Eighth Elder’s property was packed with people.

Wei clan members wearing iron or copper badges milled around in small groups, chatting nervously. They all turned to watch Lindon and Yerin enter, but they didn’t seem too interested.

As an Underlord, Lindon’s hearing was second only to Yerin’s. He caught snatches of conversation without trying.

They were waiting for the decision of the elders.

If it was just the Eighth Elder meeting with the First, there wouldn’t be so many people here. And they wouldn’t expect a unified clan decision.

That was when Lindon recognized another familiar face.

Wei Jin Amon’s hair was even longer and more luxurious than Lindon remembered. He stood proudly, a spear strapped to his back, and he reassured several Irons that his grandfather would sort things out.

Lindon extended his perception into the main house.

He didn’t scan anyone specifically, but he still felt the presence of Jades. At least ten, probably twelve or thirteen, close together in the same room.

All the clan elders and the Patriarch were gathered together. Well, all the human elders. Elder Whisper was nowhere to be seen.

Teris was passionately explaining that Yerin must be a Jade with no badge, but he stiffened as Lindon rested a hand on his shoulder.

“Cousin Teris, did you know that all the elders were gathered?”

Teris didn’t turn around, but he stammered an answer. “Th—this one didn’t know for sure.”

“That’s perfect. Gratitude.”

Lindon walked up to the outer house, where three guards waited for him. One of them was a gray-haired man with a jade badge: the Tenth Elder, the youngest and least of the clan’s ruling council.

Finally. A Jade, at least, would be able to sense his power.

Lindon pressed his fists together. “Honored Elder, my name is Wei Shi Lindon. I would like to address the elders about the shaking of the earth.”

With that, he removed his veil.

The elder looked from Lindon to Yerin suspiciously, then reached out with his own spiritual sense. The touch of his perception was slow and clumsy, like a numb hand groping in the dark.

He held it on Lindon, scanning him for so long that the shivering sensation became somewhat uncomfortable, but his eyes widened with every second. He finally brushed it over Yerin, then bowed deeply over his fists pressed together.

“You have benefited greatly from surviving the outside, young Shi Lindon, to have reached Jade at such a young age.”

Those close enough to hear exclaimed, and even Teris stiffened. Amon’s head swiveled to stare at Lindon.

“May I ask, what news have you come to bring us?”

Lindon had prepared his words in advance. “The earthquakes are signs of a coming disaster. A mad beast powerful enough to destroy the entire valley. We bring help from outside, and a way to flee before the beast arrives.”

Lindon couldn’t name the expression on the Tenth Elder’s face, but he bowed again. “That…is…difficult to hear, young Lindon. Come, present your case to the Patriarch.”

As far as Lindon could recall, he’d never met the Tenth Elder. Elders tended to have better things to do than to meet with Unsouled. The First Elder was only an exception because he had taken something of a personal interest in Lindon from Lindon’s first madra test.

The Tenth Elder led Lindon and Yerin past a network of hallways and a maze of curious, whispering people.

“You fast friends with these elders?” Yerin asked.

“There is one that I think will listen to me.”

“If I had to take a blind stab, I’d say it’s not your Patriarch.”

“He probably hates me.”

The Patriarch of the Wei clan had only taken special notice of Lindon once. It had been when Lindon defied him, then cheated his grandson Amon out of a coveted position in the Heaven’s Glory School.

If the Patriarch remembered Lindon for anything else, it would be disappearing and bringing down Heaven’s Glory on the Wei clan.

[It’s too bad he doesn’t remember getting his heart ripped out,] Dross mentioned. [Wait. That did happen, right?]

Yes, it did.

The invader from outside the world had killed the Patriarch shortly before he’d torn Lindon in half. Lindon remembered it clearly.

Dross gave a sigh of relief. [So that memory is real. I’d thought you said it was. Unless I remembered that wrong.]

Since they’d found out that some of Lindon’s memories of Suriel had been protected, so Dross couldn’t view them accurately, Lindon had gone over every inch and let Dross know what was accurate and what wasn’t.

But Dross continued to doubt. The knowledge that some of his own memories couldn’t be trusted had shaken him.

The Tenth Elder finally stopped and, without ceremony, threw open a perfectly ordinary door.

Lindon had somewhat expected to be beckoned into a great meeting hall, like the Hall of Elders where the Jades usually addressed the rest of the clan.

But this was just a family dining room.

Twelve men and women were inside the room. Eleven elders and the Patriarch. Most sat around a large dining table, though some sat on mismatched chairs or knelt on cushions around the walls.

The Patriarch, Wei Jin Sairus, paced in front of them all at the far end of the room with his hands clasped behind him. He had a mane like a gray lion, and Lindon remembered him as the picture of strength.

Though he’d never thought of it before, the Wei Patriarch of his memories gave him a similar impression to Reigan Shen. Powerful, regal, with the power and mane of a lion.

The Wei Jin Sairus of reality was…lacking.

His face was heavily creased, his build was flabbier than Lindon remembered, and the weakness of his spirit made him feel pathetic. He was considered perhaps the greatest fighter in the Wei clan, but from Lindon’s perspective he was no better than the other Jades in the room.

The Patriarch was speaking as they entered. “…Kazan deception cannot be discounted. While I myself doubt that they can mobilize a boundary formation of this scale, we must be half trusting and twice cunning. We will seize one of their southern fields and test their reactions.”

Some of the other elders had looked around at the opening door, but the Tenth Elder was clearly waiting for the Patriarch to finish speaking so he could introduce the visitors.

An ancient man with a white beard down to his waist examined them carefully. He stood in a corner, as though positioned to watch everyone else in the room, and he had turned his scrutiny to the newcomers.

Lindon didn’t feel any spiritual sense on him, but his stomach churned nonetheless.

“…Lindon?” the First Elder asked.

The Patriarch stopped his speech to turn toward them. The Tenth Elder bowed. “This young clansman has returned from outside claiming to bring news of our current situation. If it pleases the Patriarch, allow me to introduce Wei Shi Lindon.”

Several clumsy spiritual perceptions locked onto Lindon and began scanning his spirit, including the Patriarch’s.

Yerin’s red eyes remained on the Tenth Elder until it was clear he wasn’t going to introduce her. “People from your homeland think asking my name’s going to give them some nasty disease,” she said to Lindon in a perfectly normal voice.

Several of the spiritual senses turned to her.

Lindon saluted the First Elder. “I have returned, honored Elder.”

“Shi Lindon,” the Patriarch said. “What entrance did you use to return to the Valley?”

Lindon knew what that question really meant. “I came through Heaven’s Glory, Patriarch. And I brought allies with me.”

No murmuring went up between the old men, but several exchanged meaningful gazes. Heaven’s Glory had been after Lindon’s blood, but he had come through them unharmed. With a large enough force to escort him through enemy territory.

This was the Wei clan. No one would take him at his word. They would investigate his claim, but that would take time.

Patriarch Sairus made a doubtful sound. “You must have mighty friends indeed, if Heaven’s Glory respected them enough to allow you to pass.”

Lindon met his eyes. “Yes, Patriarch, I do.”

Before anyone could react to that statement, Lindon turned to the First Elder and dipped his head again. “A monster known as a Dreadgod comes for you. It is called the Wandering Titan, and the shaking in the earth you feel now is the least sign of its coming. If it passes through Sacred Valley, it will notice none of us, but its very footsteps will bury us all. You must leave.”

The First Elder’s white eyebrows climbed into his hair. “You have proof?”

“Dross,” Lindon said aloud.

They had practiced this on the way.

On cue, Dross projected Lindon’s memories into the minds of everyone in the room.

His first sight of the Wandering Titan sleeping face-down in the bay outside Sky’s Edge, its black shell the size of an island. The close-up view of its hand, each finger like a collapsed tower, as Lindon reached out with his Remnant arm to touch its rocky skin.

The feeling of overwhelming strength as it woke, the slashing of its tail kicking up waves, one cycle of its madra knocking a cloudship from the air.

With that, the memories cut off.

Every Elder exclaimed differently. Many of them had risen to their feet. Some demanded Lindon repeat his technique. Others were simply impressed, or in shock.

None looked more shocked than the First Elder. “Where did you train the Fox Dream?” he asked in disbelief. He glanced down at Lindon’s badge. “We can find a Ruler badge for you.”

That warmed Lindon more than he had expected. Even though he hadn’t been the one to use the technique, and he had passed beyond the understanding of Sacred Valley’s ranking system long ago.

Even so, this was the man who had once given him the badge declaring him Unsouled.

“You can’t expect us to take an illusion as proof, no matter how carefully crafted,” Patriarch Sairus said.

“Pardon, Patriarch,” Lindon said, “but I didn’t.”

Then he unleashed the full might of his spirit.

He had been drained down to roughly Gold, but his pure core was mostly full, so it was stronger than his Blackflame madra. Exerting spiritual pressure on someone had better results the greater the power difference and the more sensitive the receiver’s spiritual sense. It could be used on those under Jade, but its effects were blunted.

The senses of these Sacred Valley Jades were dull, but fortunately the gap in power was wide.

Everyone in the room collapsed to their knees, gasping for breath, as a great weight settled on them. Everyone except Lindon, Yerin, and the First Elder.

Lindon took it easy on him.

“I know more than most what power the words of the strong have over you,” Lindon said. “Let this represent the weight of my words.”

Patriarch Sairus struggled to speak, but Lindon continued. “I have strength beyond anyone and anything you have ever encountered.” A moment later he added, “…in this life.”

They had all seen Li Markuth and Suriel, though they had died for it.

“If I wanted you to suffer or die, I would not need to deceive you. I could have that now. If I wanted revenge, I could have it. I could have leveled the Heaven’s Glory School, but I did not. I do not want your lives. I want you to keep your lives.”

He released the spiritual pressure, and as they gasped and raised themselves, he bowed to the room in general. “Please, listen to me. We have vehicles prepared to take you to safety. Though I have not been here for several years, I do not want my own clan to fall.”

The various elders all had their own opinions, from apologizing for treating him so rudely to demanding that he apologize for treating them so rudely, but he was listening only for the Patriarch’s words.

“What would you have us do?” Patriarch Sairus finally asked. His voice was sore.

Lindon lifted himself from his bow. The Patriarch looked surly, but he should back down before superior power. At least when there was another way out that could benefit everyone.

“Contact everyone in the Wei clan, and anyone living in the wilds that you can. Bring everyone to the Heaven’s Glory School. We will use their pathway to the outside.”

“When?” the First Elder asked.

“Now. My allies are waiting just outside the walls to help.”

The room was quiet. All of them felt the floor vibrating beneath them.

The Patriarch seemed to struggle with himself, but finally he turned to the First Elder. “Call them.”

Relief flooded Lindon’s chest. He had been afraid he would have to carry the Wei clan elders to Mount Samara on his back.

A grieved expression crossed the Elder’s face, but he didn’t protest what he must have heard as the order to leave the only home he’d ever known.

The First Elder nodded to the Patriarch and swept out of the room…but not before placing his hand on Lindon’s shoulder.

“Welcome home, Lindon.”

11

It didn’t take the Wei elders long to whip the entire clan into action.

The Path of the White Fox was excellent for sending messages, at least compared to the other Paths of Sacred Valley, and the commands of the Patriarch spread all over Wei territory over the course of the day. The Akura Golds spread out as well, shipping small families or individuals back to Heaven’s Glory on personal clouds.

As the sun began to set and Samara’s ring started to shine, families in white and purple flowed east in a river. They took hand-pulled carts, Remnant-led carriages, wardrobes floating on clouds…anything they could use to carry their belongings away from home.

Lindon could hardly believe it. From his Thousand-Mile Cloud floating high in the air, he watched people filter out from buildings and choke the road, but he couldn’t convince himself that it had worked.

He was sure something would have gone wrong.

Have you heard from Eithan? Lindon asked Dross for the fifth time.

[I don’t remember hearing from Eithan.]

Dross had sent a message to Eithan telling him to prepare for the coming of the Wei clan, but they couldn’t be sure their transmission had reached him. The first waves of the Akura clan hadn’t returned yet either, so for the moment, they had to guess that Eithan had heard them.

They had also contacted Orthos at the Fallen Leaf School, but Lindon was certain that had worked. Orthos grew slightly closer by the minute.

Yerin braced herself on Lindon’s shoulder to lean out and watch the people beneath them. “It’s going to take them a year and a half to get out.”

That was one of Lindon’s concerns. Would the clan have enough time to escape before the Dreadgod arrived?

He opened his aura sight. Jagged veins of gold moving through the earth throbbed rapidly now, and the ground pulsed to the regular rhythm of a heartbeat.

While he couldn’t feel the Dreadgod with his spiritual sense yet, it only took his eyes and ears to know the Wandering Titan was close.

They still had monumental work ahead of them if they wanted to evacuate everyone in Sacred Valley, but between the Wei clan sending out messages, the Akura Golds providing their assistance, and Mercy and Ziel visiting the other clans in person, it should be possible. They only needed a few more days. Surely they had that long.

Although Lindon was relieved that, even if they didn’t manage to convince anyone else, at least he had helped his own clan.

He was somewhat ashamed of that thought. The other clans deserved to be saved just as much as his own, and he would still work to help them make it out, but the Wei clan just mattered more to him. Of course they did. They were his family.

[Should I start replaying the memories of all the horrible things they did to you, or do you not need my help with that?]

That didn’t matter anymore. He had gotten them to listen, which felt in a strange way as though he had gotten some revenge. Like the rivers of white-and-purple marching beneath him proved his worth.

That was silly, but he felt pride in it anyway.

Yerin shaded her eyes with one hand and looked east, toward Mount Samara. “Well, bleed and bury me if that isn’t a problem.”

With so many weak presences beneath him, Lindon couldn’t sense anything in that direction. At least not through the power of the Wandering Titan and the suppressive field of Sacred Valley.

But with Dross’ help, he picked out figures moving through the woods on either side of the road.

Heaven’s Glory. Armed and moving his direction.

[They really don’t learn their lesson, do they?] Dross mused.

Lindon was more than capable of flying over and taking them out himself, but he was worried about Yerin and the Wei clan. It was hard to tell how weak Yerin might be, and if any of the enemies made it past him, the Wei clansmen would have no warning.

He tried to keep his irritation from rising into anger.

The Heaven’s Glory School just would not leave them alone. He didn’t know how they made it past Eithan, but he couldn’t imagine they’d harmed him.

Then again, these were the very same people who had managed to kill the Sword Sage.

His frustration started to fade into worry as he landed next to the Patriarch. Wei Jin Sairus and a handful of Elders made a boulder in the flowing stream of the clan, and they stopped barking orders to turn to Lindon.

A couple of them saluted and bowed to him, and one elder Lindon didn’t recognize beckoned to nearby servants, but Lindon kept his eyes on the Patriarch.

Sairus dipped his head slightly, but that was all.

“The Heaven’s Glory School is coming,” Lindon reported. “They’ll reach our vanguard in minutes.”

The Patriarch’s gray eyebrows pinched together. “A battle group?”

“Weren’t coming to scratch our backs,” Yerin said.

“Then we should meet them ourselves.” Sairus gestured, and the nearby servants—who had been rummaging in saddlebags—instead dashed off to prepare mounts for the elders.

“We’ll meet you there,” Lindon said.

Yerin had never stepped off the cloud. This time, she sat down, her legs dangling off the edge. “Not saving any for them,” she muttered.

They arrived back at the forefront of the Wei clan evacuation as the people in purple-and-white were coming to a confused halt. Remnants pulled up short, carriages ground to a stop, and constructs settled to the ground.

Heaven’s Glory stretched across the road, a dozen Irons led by half as many Jades. Including Grand Elder Emara.

What was Eithan doing?

The Grand Elder stepped forward…and bowed at the waist. “Wei Shi Lindon, I apologize if we frightened you. Your master, Eithan, sent us to help you.”

Lindon felt like the world had flipped upside-down. He settled his cloud onto the ground as Thousand-Mile Clouds spread out behind the Heaven’s Glory artists.

Yerin kept a hand on her sword as she hopped to the ground, clearly on edge against the Heaven’s Glory Jades.

But the clan didn’t stop just because they were blocking the road. Wei clansmen bustled around him, flowing along, intermittently cutting off his view of the Grand Elder as travelers passed between him and the old woman.

“I admit, I did not expect to hear from you yet, Elder,” Lindon called over the din of the crowd. “If you could coordinate with the Wei elders, they will lead you to families that can use your help.”

The Jade dipped her head again. “Our paths up the mountain are already crowded. We will carry some through the air, and others through side paths.”

Heaven’s Glory spread out even as the Tenth Wei Elder scurried to greet their leader.

[I don’t like it here,] Dross muttered to Lindon. [There’s too many people around, and I can’t sense anything.] Between the normal Sacred Valley restrictions and the presence of the Wandering Titan, Lindon’s perception was restricted to the point that he felt as though he wore a wet sack over his head.

Keep an eye on them.

They had seen how strong Lindon was, and it seemed true that Eithan had sent them…but Lindon had killed several members of the Heaven’s Glory School. He didn’t trust them, and Yerin certainly didn’t. He expected them to have some kind of plan.

Of course, no matter how a spider spun its web, it was useless against the tiger. Lindon would scatter Heaven’s Glory one more time if it weren’t for the Wei clan streaming between—

The second Lindon returned his attention to the Wei citizens in front of him, he and Dross realized the same thing at the same moment.

The drivers in their carriages, and the riders on the backs of their saddled Remnants, weren’t casting nervous glances at Heaven’s Glory.

They were looking fearfully at Lindon.

He had been betrayed.

Again.

A deep anger came up from where he’d buried it. He’d managed to fight it back ever since he’d arrived here, but now it bubbled up.

Into the Path of Black Flame.

His Blackflame madra was no better than a Jade’s, but what more did he need? Threats would be worth more than truth, now, and intimidation better than actual power.

So Lindon drew inspiration from the person he knew who could best act like he was in charge even when surrounded by enemies, and he said what he thought Eithan would say.

“Gentlemen,” Lindon said, “this is a mistake.”

Each of the Wei clan surrounding them pumped madra into lengths of cloth they revealed from their backpacks, saddlebags, from the sides of their carriages. Each was woven with scripts.

Boundary flags.

The boundary formation snapped into position immediately, locking the aura surrounding Lindon and Yerin and suppressing their power. Aura of light and dreams was agitated, casting phantom images and sounds all around them.

To Lindon, they were just noise and nonsense, but he put a hand on Yerin’s shoulder. He needn’t have bothered; she looked around with completely clear eyes and sneered.

“Heaven’s truth, I was going to let them live,” she muttered.

Dross, where are the Golds?

[Not too many around, and they can’t see us. I can contact them, I think, but…] He hesitated. [Do we need them?]

Yerin might.

Dross sent out a call for help.

The Wei Patriarch arrived outside the circle, the First Elder at his side. “Stage two!” he shouted.

Wei clansmen ran forward, carrying a massive chain of scripted goldsteel and looping it around the outside of the boundary field.

Lindon’s wariness spiked. A script in goldsteel would be significantly sturdier than boundary flags, so whatever it did, it might actually affect them.

If this went any further, he was going to have to burn his way out.

So he wouldn’t let it go further.

He ignited the Burning Cloak and dashed in the direction of the Wei clan elders, who stood on a hill overlooking the road. He crashed into the side of a carriage, smashing the outside to splinters and sending it careening onto its side. The illusion field shattered.

Yerin followed up a second later, tapping one foot onto the upturned cart and leaping for the elders. Constructs erupted from the crowd all around.

Dozens.

Striker, Ruler, and Forger techniques shoved Yerin back with force, with wind, with water, with dreams, even with clouds.

She broke them all with a sweep of her sword, but they did push her back. Even Lindon felt like he had crashed into a soft cushion for a moment.

It was the clearest indication of how much advancement they’d lost. He should have waded through those techniques as though through still water.

In that second of distraction, the goldsteel chain finished wrapping around. The script-circle completed.

Instantly, bands wrapped around Lindon’s spirit. It was nothing to him, only mildly unpleasant, but he recognized the feeling of the same script that had bound him at the entrance to the Wei clan.

He shot out to steady Yerin, who was having trouble even breathing and staying upright. Sweat began to bead on her forehead already, and her Goldsigns hung heavy.

Blackflame kindled in Lindon’s outstretched hand. “Stop!” he demanded.

If he released, he was going to kill someone.

He turned to Heaven’s Glory. “Help us!”

The Grand Elder folded her hands in front of her, staring blithely over his head. Lindon turned back to the Wei clan, and the Patriarch met his eyes with cold disdain. “Stage three!”

Fizzing bottles flew through the air and landed beside them. Some were refiner’s work, elixirs that dispersed to gas immediately, but others were venom Ruler techniques. The air filled up with half a dozen types of poisonous gas.

Yerin flashed into white light. The Moonlight Bridge.

She reappeared two feet away, staggering and coughing.

She couldn’t cross the goldsteel script.

The poison seeped into Lindon’s lungs and crumbled before the might of his Bloodforged Iron body. His breathing would be more troubled by sitting too close to a campfire.

Dragon’s breath blasted the goldsteel chain.

It grew red-hot, but that was all. The substance was naturally resistant to all kinds of madra, and the script weakened his techniques even further.

So he had to try something else.

But Yerin was coughing, and his solution would take a moment. With brief flicker of his madra, he opened an unsteady rift onto a luxurious house.

He had found this device in Sophara’s void key, but he hadn’t had a chance to test it yet. Normal void keys wouldn’t close with a living being inside, but this was a home. It obeyed different rules. He hadn’t wanted to rely on this until he tested it more thoroughly, but it was the quickest way he knew of to shelter Yerin if she couldn’t leave.

Yerin stumbled through the gate, gasping in grateful lungfuls of air.

With a breath of relief, Lindon let the entrance close. Now he could gather his focus for a working. His authority as the Void Sage should be able to break—

The space spat Yerin back out.

She tumbled to the ground out of nowhere, and Lindon simply stared at her for a moment in disbelief. Why hadn’t it worked?

He sensed a sort of instability from the space, as though it were barely holding together. It must have ejected her as a security measure.

But when he realized she was hacking and coughing with tears in her eyes, he grabbed her and pulled her to the edge of the circle, where the air was clearest.

He still wanted to try his Sage powers against the script, but they were untested. The sooner he got Yerin out of this, the better, so he leaned on the abilities he knew.

It felt like there was an invisible wall over the script, and Lindon ran his white hand down until he rested fingers on the goldsteel. He activated the binding in his arm, Consuming madra from the script.

[Behind!]

Lindon turned and slapped three halfsilver-tipped arrows from the air.

A cloud of venom madra exploded at his feet, and Yerin shouted a warning.

The Wei Patriarch shouted again, and more arrows flew through the smoke. Lindon swatted them aside, but he felt so sluggish with his power restricted.

He missed one…and it stuck in his shoulder. The halfsilver penetrated only shallowly, but it disrupted his madra, stinging his body and spirit.

Through tear-stained eyes, Yerin saw him pull the halfsilver arrow from his arm.

She raised her sword. A distant bell rang, and was echoed by all the blades nearby. Sword aura erupted, tearing clothes and skin. It was enhanced by blood aura, so the cuts that bit flesh were deeper.

But the script had weakened her too much. One of the archers staggered back, but the others steadied bleeding hands and took aim.

At her, this time.

The world slowed and seemed to freeze.

Don’t stop me, Dross, Lindon thought, and the world returned to normal speed as the spirit released his grip.

Just as Lindon released his own.

Dragon’s breath obliterated one of the men standing over the goldsteel chain. The Striker technique burned arrows from the air, leaving sparkling bright arrowheads falling to the dirt.

With space cleared, Lindon fell down again, starting the Consume technique once more.

It was difficult to touch the chain directly, but that resistance was quickly overcome. Madra flooded into his white arm, most of it vented, but he cycled the Heart of Twin Stars and sorted it into its components.

There were a few different Paths used to fuel this barrier, but he kept only the madra from one of them. The most familiar.

Dross, Lindon thought.

[I’m not giving you a combat solution against a bunch of Irons.]

Break down the Path of the White Fox.

[Oh, that’s easy. Done.]

More arrows and techniques poured in until the air was thick, but even unsteady on her feet and blind through tears, Yerin hacked them away herself. He was certain that the only thing keeping her from throwing herself at the enemy was his presence.

Finally, the script failed.

He pulled her in front of him, shielding her with his body, and whispered, “Head to the ships.”

“Bury ‘em,” Yerin choked out.

In a flash of white, she vanished.

Leaving Lindon surrounded by enemies.

Lindon folded back into the poisonous smoke as techniques and arrows flew. When he was hidden, he Forged a disguise next to himself. It felt like molding a rough mannequin, but dream and light madra—guided by tweaks from Dross and Lindon’s own instincts—filled in the details.

A perfect copy of Lindon stood next to him.

[They craft every detail themselves, so they can’t get anything wrong. It’s a lot better to stay loose.]

This was the Fox Mirror.

Lindon grabbed the aura around him with his White Fox madra, shaping it into a distraction. This time, he didn’t have to fill in any of the details at all, other than ordering the illusion to make people look away from him. Their minds would fill in the details themselves.

He left the smoke, the Fox Dream hanging around him. The Irons who rushed in close, carrying weapons, were affected by the Dream and screamed or stared off in the distance or simply ignored him.

He walked through the crowd. This modification had been his own; he hadn’t needed Dross’ help with this one. He had worked enough with dream and light aura, and his own experience with shaping aura showed him that he could hold the Fox Dream as a continuous Ruler technique rather than a one-use ability that he simply cast on someone.

If anything, he was mimicking the same boundary field that the Wei clan had put up around him only a minute before.

The Patriarch and the Elder surrounding him were too far to be fooled by the Fox Dream, so they shouted orders.

Following their instructions, a steel-haired Jade with a pair of blades and a shield badge closed the distance with Lindon. One of the Elders, maybe the Seventh. Lindon didn’t care.

A sword flashed at Lindon, but his real weapon went lower. This was the Foxtail, an Enforcer attack technique that bent light and perception to hide movement.

In a fight between equals, it was a huge advantage. Lindon had once been proud of the way other clans avoided duels with Wei Enforcers.

Lindon slid past the real strike, letting the illusion pass through him, and seized the man by the neck.

He Consumed enough White Fox madra to replenish the amount that already moved through his veins; he couldn’t hold much without taking it into his core.

The man’s madra was weak, diffuse, dirty, and he was using it wrong.

A wave of attacks had pierced the decoy Lindon behind him, and his Forged madra dissipated, but Heaven’s Glory had gotten in on the action now. A wall of golden glass madra was Forged in front of him.

He conjured purple flickering Foxfire, and the Striker technique burned a doorway-shaped hole in the wall. They used their Striker technique only to inflict the illusion of pain, but it was a spiritual attack. It could fight against other spiritual energies, just like pure madra could.

Two Iron Enforcers waited for him on the other side, using the Foxtail, but he used the technique on his whole body at once.

His image lagged behind, and their real spears clashed in the middle of his afterimage. Lindon had never stopped walking up the hill where the elders stood.

Foxfire brought them both down.

He Forged a paper-thin illusion behind him according to the Fox Mirror. It was literally a huge blank wall. An Iron stumbled through it almost immediately, tearing the illusion apart.

But it did its job. It just needed to interrupt the view of the people behind him.

A pair of Akura Golds soared in on clouds, demanding to know what was happening, striking down a few who dared to launch techniques at them. They could handle themselves.

Lindon advanced on the two men who hadn’t run.

The Patriarch and the First Elder.

The elder looked regretful, sighing into his long white beard. The Patriarch remained stone-faced.

“Why?” Lindon asked.

“You may have learned powerful sacred arts,” the Patriarch said, “but you haven’t learned how the world works. You do not have absolute power. You tire. You will run out of madra. You cannot take the Wei clan from us so easily.”

In disbelief, Lindon turned to the First Elder. Was that really what they thought he was doing?

The First Elder regarded him with sad eyes. “Revenge does not become you, Lindon. If you had come to us with this talent, we would have welcomed you with open arms. But this…scheme…” He shook his head. “You never learned the real lessons you needed to.”

“You…” Lindon didn’t even know what to say. “…have you lied for so long that you are blind to the truth?”

The First Elder shook his sleeves out. “You may have great power, but we have honed our techniques over many years. You have never seen the true Path of the White Fox.”

The aura in Lindon’s mind was pinched with a deft touch. The First Elder was smoother, subtler, more skilled than anyone else Lindon had seen use the Fox Dream.

[He wants to distort our eyes so we see him to the right of where he actually is,] Dross reported. [Too bad his technique is…hm. Is it bad that I want to say “his technique is dross”?]

The Fox Dream technique itself was flawed. From the pathways the madra took through the First Elder’s spirit to the way he moved the aura, every step was clunky and inefficient. He had developed great skill with the technique, but the tool itself was lacking.

He was a self-taught swordsman who didn’t realize he was using a stick. No matter how skilled he became, he would never be as dangerous as someone with a real weapon.

At the same time, the First Elder Forged the image of a sword. He drew a three-foot blade from a sheath at his side, but the Forged image was a few inches shorter.

Between the Ruler technique and the Forger technique, anyone relying solely on their senses would be skewered before they realized what happened.

The elder twisted his sword through the air, lunging at Lindon in a practiced motion.

Lindon stepped to one side, seizing the First Elder’s arm in his white hand.

“No,” he said, “this is the Path of the White Fox. Pay attention.”

Madra leaked into Lindon, refilling his channels again. The elder broke his grip, and Lindon allowed it.

He left an image of himself standing still while he ran invisibly toward the First Elder and cast the Fox Dream over the man’s mind. The older man broke the Ruler technique, but Lindon had already caught him in the chest and shoved him back.

“One,” Lindon said.

He threw a punch, and the Elder twisted to one side to avoid it, but Lindon had concealed his movements with the Foxtail technique. His real punch clipped the Elder on the chin.

Lindon held back so he didn’t shatter the man’s jaw. The Elder only missed a step.

“Two.”

A sword came flashing in, but Lindon hurled a purple fireball and allowed the sword to land.

It stabbed into his shoulder…and stuck. With such little strength behind it, the blade couldn’t penetrate his Underlord body any deeper than the skin.

The Elder dispersed the first ball of Foxfire, and the second, but then Lindon used the rest of his White Fox madra. A barrage of Striker techniques struck the Elder all over, sending him falling to his knees in a cry of pain.

The ground rumbled. Earth aura flashed.

“Three,” Lindon announced. “I killed you three times.”

With that, he returned his attention to the Patriarch. Wei Jin Sairus scowled at him. “You disrespect your elders, Shi Lindon.”

His image stayed standing where it was. A Fox Mirror. But really, he crept invisibly to Lindon’s other side, a dagger clutched in his hand.

Lindon had seen him use this technique in the same way before, but not so clearly. The Patriarch had done this against Li Markuth, the winged terror that Suriel had banished. Markuth had not been fooled either.

Lindon dipped his head to the Mirror. “Patriarch.”

The Forger technique returned the gesture. Sairus really was skilled. “Unsouled,” his illusion said.

Lindon turned his head to meet the eyes of the “invisible” Patriarch. “Not anymore.”

As Sairus tried to plunge the dagger into Lindon’s side, Lindon ducked and drove his palm into the Patriarch’s core.

Pure madra flashed blue-white in a massive handprint that covered Sairus’ entire midsection. The Empty Palm wiped out his madra, flooding his system…and the power of Lindon’s spirit overwhelmed his.

Channels broke, his core cracked, and he convulsed with the pain in his soul. He made a choking sound and his eyes rolled up into his skull.

Without a word, the Patriarch fell to the ground as a spiritual cripple.

The First Elder straightened himself up in a display of dignity. “You will still not have your way. We will resist you to the death.”

Lindon felt like his bones had turned to lead. The Heaven’s Glory School had surrounded the hill. They were putting down more scripts. They still wouldn’t listen. They wouldn’t listen to reason, and they wouldn’t listen to force.

He had accomplished nothing.

The ground was shaking constantly now, and he finally realized that the power of the earth aura had not subsided. Instead of ebbing and flowing, as it had been doing for days, it had grown and grown without cease.

He felt what was about to happen and looked up to the sky. Suriel had shown him how to prevent this from happening, but he had to wonder if she had foreseen this. Was this why she hadn’t saved Sacred Valley herself? Because it was futile?

Why had she even saved Lindon?

One of the Akura clan shouted down to Lindon. “Honored Sage, we must leave! The Titan!”

Lindon nodded. Only a few more days, and they would have been able to evacuate everyone.

But what did it matter? These people didn’t want help.

He seized the First Elder by the scruff of the neck, hauling him up bodily with one hand. He spun the old man around facing west and shook him.

“Look at the aura!” Lindon demanded. “Look at it!”

Around Mount Venture, the squat red-tinged peak to the west, the earth aura was growing brighter and brighter as the ground shook. So much that it began to bleed into visibility.

The elder squirmed in his grip. “How are you doing this? What are you showing me?”

Lindon shoved him forward, and the elder caught himself only a few steps away. He turned, but Lindon pointed a finger west.

“Walk. Take that with you.” Lindon nudged the Patriarch with the tip of his toe. “You don’t want me to save you? Maybe he will.”

To the west, the Wandering Titan’s power waxed like a rising sun. The Dreadgod was slow, making its way ponderously through the mountains, and its head wasn’t visible yet.

But as the First Elder cast a nervous glance in that direction, the sky turned gold.

He opened his mouth, and Lindon didn’t care to hear what he had to say. A thin bar of Blackflame scorched a line in the ground in front of the man’s feet.

“I said walk.”

Lindon’s vision swayed as the willpower flooded out of him. He had stretched himself too far with that working, and he wasn’t even sure it would do what he wanted.

But, dragging the Patriarch behind him, the First Elder began to walk.

12

Mercy was in the middle of negotiations when the sky changed color.

One moment, she was demanding to see the Matriarch of the Li clan again. The clan’s Fourth Elder, manning the wall, repeatedly apologized and promised that the Matriarch would surely be on her way back soon. But they had been promising that for almost two days now.

When the sky turned gold, Mercy first felt panic. They were out of time. Even the smooth wooden walls of the Li clan shook with the quake that passed through Sacred Valley. Some of the guards lost their footing.

After the panic came relief. Now, surely, the Li clan would listen to her.

From her side, the Truegold Kashi fell to one knee to get her attention. “Please forgive me, Lady Mercy, but we must leave you now. Sage Charity’s orders.”

Some of the other Golds from the Akura clan had taken to their clouds, though none had left yet. They wouldn’t want to flee without permission from a member of the head family.

Mercy’s heart tightened. Without the support of the Golds, she wouldn’t be able to save more than a handful of the Li clan.

She kept her voice even. “We’re all leaving. Us, and as many of the Li clan as we can carry.”

“Yes, of course, but I am afraid that we can’t carry many of this clan if they fight us at every step.”

The ground wasn’t shaking anymore, which she prayed meant that the Dreadgod wasn’t walking any closer. She hopped onto Suu, flying up above the walls.

Some of the guardian birds screeched a warning to her, but the sacred beasts were just as afraid of the Dreadgod as she was, and they left her alone.

When she rose high enough, she could see the situation inside the Li clan.

They were trying to escape.

A mass of people, hundreds if not a thousand, pushed against the main gate. They weren’t exactly trampling each other yet, but they screamed for the door to open.

The Fourth Elder walked out on the wall, holding out his hands to calm them. “The Matriarch is on her way. When she arrives, she will guide us.”

Mercy had spent enough time waiting on that woman. She extended her spiritual perception, hunting for the Jade.

The Matriarch, it turned out, wasn’t far away. She stood on a roof, peering up at the sky and consulting with other elders.

Mercy kept her staff low, flying close enough to hear.

It didn’t take long. As an Overlady, her hearing stretched further than the spiritual senses of any of these Jades.

“…activate the scripts,” the Matriarch was saying. “Find the keys to the guardians, seal the gates, and inspect the boundary flags. If the heavens fall upon us, they will crack on our roof. Have we heard anything from the Kazan clan?”

An old man next to her, wearing an elaborate network of gold and jewels, shook his head. “We’ve heard they’re on the move, but not for us. They seem to be headed east. This has the feel of one of their boundary fields, though; in this one’s humble opinion, they have activated this formation to aid them in battle against the outsiders.”

Sickness bubbled up from Mercy’s stomach.

They hadn’t been listening to her at all. The Matriarch had been stringing Mercy along, and now she was taking the signs of the Dreadgod’s coming as evidence that there was no Dreadgod.

Mercy hovered there on her staff, cold wind whipping her hair, as she fought with her choices.

The Golds wanted to leave, and she couldn’t blame them. While she still had them, they could tear the gates of the Li clan open and let the average citizens free.

She could grab the Matriarch herself and fly her up to where the Dreadgod was visible, but depending on the Titan’s location, that could take hours.

And—as the Fourth Elder had reminded Mercy repeatedly over the last day—the Wei clan could craft convincing illusions. Just seeing with one’s own eyes was not necessarily evidence.

There was no guarantee she could convince them, but if she just captured the clan and dragged them off, they would work against her.

She couldn’t avoid the question that slipped out from the depths of her heart: What would my mother do?

Mercy knew exactly what Malice would do in this situation. Her exploits were practically myths in the Akura clan. Her approach would work, too.

Mercy just didn’t want to do it.

But it would save lives…

With more time, she could come up with a better plan. If only she didn’t need to act now.

With a sudden burst of speed, Mercy zipped up to the edge of the flat roof where the Matriarch was speaking. She was up and over as the first Jades were spinning at the feel of her spirit, pulling up their venomous techniques.

Mercy had already landed, staff whirling.

Two Jade elders went to the ground in the first instant, one clipped across the head and the other with her feet swept out from under her. An Iron Enforcer went over the edge of the roof, and she webbed a second guard to the floor with Strings of Shadow.

A Forged arrowhead of venomous madra crashed into her chest, shattering on her bloodline armor. She broke the wrist of the Jade who had used that technique and buckled the knees of another.

The Matriarch had begun a Ruler and Striker technique at the same time, venom aura condensing over her shoulder as green light twisted in her hand.

Mercy’s staff came up as a bow, the violet-eyed dragon’s head glaring at the Matriarch. Her arrow’s point gleamed black.

“Drop your technique,” Mercy commanded.

The Matriarch’s eyes shifted as she took in the situation.

Mercy released her bowstring.

The arrow pinned the Jade’s wrist to the wall behind her. She grunted in pain, and her two techniques puffed to nothing as her madra was overwhelmed by shadow.

When the arrow was removed, there would be no wound in the woman’s flesh, but as long as it was embedded here, it would still hurt.

Mercy leaned closer, tapping into her bloodline legacy just enough to make sure her eyes were shining. “When I give you an instruction, you do not hesitate to obey. Do you understand?”

Behind her, one of the Jades started forming another technique.

She shot Strings of Shadow out blindly, and the technique stopped.

“Answer me.”

“I understand,” the Matriarch said quickly. “You have defeated me, but it will take more than you alone to conquer the Li clan.”

“No, it won’t.” Mercy triggered a communication construct inside her pocket in a prearranged signal. “But why would I waste so much time?”

Only a second later, the first Akura rose into the sky outside the Li clan walls. The other fifty followed suit a moment afterwards, spreading out in the sky.

The Matriarch inclined her head. “You are very strong. But we in the Li clan are not without our own—”

Mercy used her communication construct again, and this time she spoke a command. “Unveil.”

It took a moment for the message to reach the others, but when it did, the Akura Golds revealed the full extent of their power immediately.

The Li Jades gasped, and the Matriarch’s eyes bulged in their sockets. “Jades? All of them?”

“Scan me,” Mercy ordered.

When the Matriarch hesitated, Mercy lifted her bow again.

Immediately, a scan shivered through Mercy’s spirit. This time, the older woman’s breath caught. Color drained from her skin, and she dropped to her knees. Awkwardly, as her wrist was still pinned to the wall behind her. “Gold,” she breathed.

The others on the roof were face-down in moments.

“No,” Mercy corrected. “Gold is what they are.”

“Forgiveness, please. This one has offended you. If only you had revealed yourselves, we would have given you our entire clan at a moment’s notice.”

“We’re not here to take your clan. We’re here to save your clan.”

The Matriarch trembled. “Then…there’s really…”

“I would not tarnish my own soul by lying to a Jade. Now, how fast can you evacuate your clan?”

“We can have nine out of ten at Heaven’s Glory by the setting of the sun, honored…Sage.” Mercy made a face at the title, but the Matriarch took it as displeasure and hurried on. “Apologies, but that is truly the fastest that our lacking abilities will allow.”

“No, that is faster than I expected of you,” Mercy allowed, still holding on to her impression of Malice. “Do not overestimate your own abilities because you think it will please me. If you say you can reach Heaven’s Glory by sunset, that is the standard to which I will hold you.”

“It is the pride of the Li clan that we have the greatest number of clouds and flying chariots in Sacred Valley, outside the Holy Wind School. As we had been preparing for an attack since we first began feeling the unnatural earthquakes, we are ready to mobilize as soon as this one gives the signal. With your permission, of course.”

Mercy reached out and touched the arrow, which dissolved into motes of black essence rising into the air. The others on the roof murmured when they saw that it had left no wound, which almost made Mercy roll her eyes. Even they had seen more impressive feats of sacred arts than this one, they were only trying to flatter her with a show of awe.

“You have more than my permission,” Mercy said. “It is my command. My soldiers wear black and violet. Let those who cannot reach Heaven’s Glory by sunset tonight report to them, and they will be carried. Everyone else is to travel for Heaven’s Glory at all speed.”

The Matriarch bowed deeply. “This one will comply. And this one thanks you once again for you—”

“Go. You all are no exceptions.”

The roof cleared as though Mercy had pushed them. The old man covered in jewelry actually leaped down to the streets.

Only seconds later, a horn signaled all throughout the Li clan. A moment later, the Matriarch’s words echoed out, repeating Mercy’s orders.

Once Mercy was alone, she collapsed.

She leaned up against the low wall around the rooftop, pulling up her legs and hugging her knees to herself.

All along, she had known this would work. In most places in the world, sacred artists were used to taking orders from the stronger. Even those like the Matriarch who were accustomed to power had spent their Iron years bowing before Jades, and their Copper years bowing before Irons. It was behavior ingrained so deep that it was practically instinct.

Malice wielded that instinct like a club, which Mercy hated. She had always tried to avoid it, whenever she could.

But this time she couldn’t. She’d had no choice, and this was for their own good.

Which was exactly what her mother always said.

* * *

When the sky turned gold, Ziel and the Kazan clan were caught off-guard. The change in color had been accompanied by one last, great heave of the earth, and their group had already been making their way across the uncertain footing of rocky foothills.

The Kazan clan stretched off in sinuous lines, and at the shaking of the earth, Ziel couldn’t count the number of people who fell.

From carriages losing their grip on the edge of a gravel road to rocks falling out from under marching feet, people slipped or slid or tumbled in a dozen different ways.

Some of the Akura Golds reacted, diving on their clouds to catch those nearby, but none of them were faster than Ziel.

A ring of green runes appeared beneath the first carriage he saw, catching it on a gentle plane of force, but he was already throwing out another. And another.

He didn’t have time to evaluate who was in the most danger, or even who was closer. He just Forged rings as fast as he could, straining himself to the limit in only a handful of seconds.

Then the quake was over. Anyone who was going to fall had already done so.

He hadn’t caught everyone. He hadn’t even been able to see everyone. But at least a dozen people were climbing out of his rings and back to safety.

“We don’t have time for a head count,” Ziel said, his eyes on the western sky. “Grab anyone who fell, but we have to keep moving.” Some of those who’d fallen would be safe, thanks to an Iron body or simply the luck of the fall.

The Akura Truegold looked at him strangely. “Regrettably, we have to leave. The Sage told us to prioritize our own lives at the first sign of the Titan’s approach.”

Some of the other Golds had already begun flying away, but she glanced to the Patriarch and his family. “We can take a handful with us,” she said. “Including you, of course.”

Ziel was already watching the nearby Patriarch and his family give orders and instruction. The column behind them stopped, as most people Ziel could see stared at the golden sky in horror, and their four children clustered around their mother’s knees.

He could guarantee they, at least, were safe. But if everyone saw the Patriarch’s family flying to safety, there would be even more panic.

“Make the offer,” he said to her in a low voice. “And please, don’t leave without taking some of them with you. Emphasize families with children.”

The Truegold woman reached out to a construct strapped to her wrist. “I’ll call them back. But once we fill our clouds, we’re leaving.”

“Good. Don’t take chances with a Dreadgod.”

Ziel settled wearily down on his own cloud, shutting his eyes so he wouldn’t have to see the Titan’s tinted sky.

“You can lead the way,” she said. “We’ll catch up to you.”

“I’ll stick with them a while longer. Don’t know how far they’ll make it without me around.”

There was a long pause before she said, “Yes, Archlord.”

“I’m not an Archlord,” he said automatically.

Though, he realized, his channels hadn’t felt like they were full of needles when he’d tossed out so many techniques in a handful of seconds. That wouldn’t make him an Archlord, even outside—he’d settle for being as capable as an Underlord—but it was a cheering thought.

Or it would cheer him, once there wasn’t a Dreadgod looming overhead.

“Of course, Archlord.”

She was mocking him. He cracked one eye, where the Truegold woman took a moment from staring worriedly at the western horizon to give him a brief smile.

She was young, if she still had the spirit to needle him with the Wandering Titan bearing down on them. Although, now that he thought of it, she couldn’t be more than five years younger than he was.

What a difference a life made.

“What’s your name?” he asked, for the first time.

“Akura Shira, Archlord.” So a close enough relative that she got the clan name, but not close to the head family. Otherwise she would have been named after one of their virtues, and she probably wouldn’t be stuck at Truegold.

“We were introduced when I was assigned to you,” she went on.

“Yeah, but I wasn’t paying attention. Stop dragging your feet and get out of here, Shira.”

Her brow creased in worry, and she looked from him to the clouds flying away, now with small Kazan families in tow. “If you don’t leave now, you’ll miss the cloudships.”

“Don’t worry, I know better than to stick around.”

Surviving one Dreadgod attack was enough for a lifetime. The second he saw an inch of the Wandering Titan’s tail, he was gone.

Until then, he could afford to wait for a little while.

* * *

Yerin reappeared a long way from where she meant to end up.

She generally recognized the spot. She was in between Mount Yoma to the north and Mount Somara to the east, in a grove of those purple-leafed orus trees. She wasn’t too far away from Orthos as he led the natives from the Fallen Leaf School to Heaven’s Glory, as she felt his presence. She’d be able to pinpoint him if she could focus her perception for a real scan.

The problem was, her Moonlight Bridge wasn’t supposed to miss.

Every time she’d used it before, she had just imagined where she wanted to end up, and the Bridge had taken her there. This time, it was off. Why?

Might be because I’m falling to pieces.

She had arrived on hands and knees, heaving air into scorched lungs, every breath coming out with a cough. Her whole body felt weak, her spirit ached, and she saw the trees only through a haze of pain, tears, and fury.

The Moonlight Bridge hadn’t worked quite right ever since they’d crossed the border to Sacred Valley. It took more out of her than it should.

Lindon had speculated that it was drawing on her willpower to make up for the authority that was being suppressed by Sacred Valley’s script, but he was just guessing.

Didn’t mean he was wrong. But it meant that she was lost and weak when she really didn’t want to be.

She caught her breath, wiped her eyes clean, and felt the Moonlight Bridge to see how much longer it might need to recharge. Her lungs had already started to clear, and she didn’t know if she had her almost-Herald body to thank for that or the weakness of the Wei clan poison.

That brought her thoughts back to Lindon, and her anger and fear came flooding back. By all rights, the Wei clan’s betrayal shouldn’t hurt anything more than his feelings. If he wanted, he could clean them up with no more madra than it took him to light a torch. Dross could probably do it without Lindon lifting a finger.

But her master had thought he was so far above that he was untouchable, and he had taken stupid risks.

Stupid risks like coming into this place.

This place that choked the sacred arts, the life, from your spirit. This place that bred treacherous idiots who would stab any hand extended to save them.

Images of Jades swarming over her master overlapped with Lindon, and she pushed herself to her feet. The Moonlight Bridge had recovered, and though she looked forward to using it again about as much as a Copper looked forward to carrying a boulder uphill, Lindon was in danger.

She’d have given up her sword to turn around and help, but she was a boulder tied to Lindon’s ankle here. Orthos could help. Lindon just needed to hang on until he got there. He could do that.

As long as nothing else went wrong.

At the exact moment she thought as much, the ground trembled strongly enough to shake her balance. She looked down at the earth aura and saw it brighter than ever, bleeding up into the air. It overwhelmed all other aspects of aura until it was visible to the naked eye.

That was when the sky turned gold. It might have been an earthquake, but she could have sworn she heard a distant roar.

For just a moment, she stared blankly into the west, with one thought dominating her mind.

This place is cursed.

Then the panic overtook her and she walked through the Moonlight Bridge.

It was like sliding through a tunnel of white light, and this time it came out where she intended: next to Orthos.

The great black turtle was munching on a fallen log as he marched, surrounded by the Fallen Leaf School. Little Blue sat on his head, and both of them turned to Yerin in surprise as she appeared.

“Lindon…” she said between breaths. “…clan…betrayed…”

She bent over and rested hands on her knees, gulping down air. Heavens above, she hated being weak. She wished she could scream out her words.

Orthos exchanged glances with Little Blue. “He does not feel like he is in danger.”

Blue chirped agreement.

Yerin’s heart eased a little. She had worried that Orthos would tell her that Lindon was horribly injured. Yerin took that to mean that she had enough spare time to catch her breath before she responded. “What does he feel like?”

“Old anger,” Orthos responded. “And deep sorrow.”

Blue sang a long, sad note.

“Bleed and bury them.” She was starting to think the Wei clan might be worth even less than the Heaven’s Glory School, though she suspected there wasn’t a rat hair’s difference between them. “Go anyway. Scoop up Lindon, and let’s fly ‘til we run out of sky. Let this whole place burn.”

Orthos’ head tilted upward again. “We were just discussing the sky. From what Little Blue tells me, that’s what we should be worried about.”

The Riverseed spread her arms and gave a high chime, emphasizing the size of the Dreadgod.

“Can’t contend she’s wrong.”

Yerin looked up to the rust-colored mountain, which had been stained with gold.

How much time did they have left? Two days? Three? Or would the Titan stop dragging its feet and just kill everyone already?

Yeah, it was time to leave. If anyone decided to stay after being warned and got crushed under a Dreadgod’s heel, that was between them and the heavens.

Something moved in the horizon, and she realized one of the distant peaks past Mount Venture had crumbled. No surprise there. With the earth shaking like it—

Her thought cut off as the Wandering Titan crashed through the mountain.

It swept through the mountain like it was brushing aside tree branches. Its dark silhouette was distant, and clouds cut off its head.

It walked a few steps closer, but those steps must have eaten miles. Only then did it move to its knees, disappearing below the reddish mountain.

The sound of a crash hit her like thunder a moment later, but her heart was racing.

The Titan wasn’t days away.

It was here.

It could make it to the Valley inside the hour, if it wanted. It was just taking its time.

Orthos took in a long breath. “The Wandering Titan…never did I think I would see not one, but two Dreadgods. And only a few years apart.”

“Trapped,” Yerin whispered.

They couldn’t escape in time. It was too late. Ziel and Mercy were too far away, and she couldn’t carry anyone in her Moonlight Bridge. She wasn’t certain how many more times she could use it herself.

They needed more time.

They needed help.

Yerin limbered up her shoulders, stretching herself as madra ran through her channels. None of that helped the soul-deep fatigue that came from the Moonlight Bridge, but she still focused her will.

“Grab Lindon,” she said. “I’ve got my own ditch to dig.”

Little Blue gave a whistle of alarm, and Orthos looked as though he agreed with the Riverseed. “What are you doing, Yerin?”

“Somebody’s got to slow that thing down. Heavens know I can’t do it myself.”

* * *

“You’re not from the Kazan clan!” Elder Rahm shouted.

Eithan held a hand to his chest, feigning offense. “Am I not? How can you be sure? Perhaps we’re very, very distant relatives.”

Elder Rahm thrust a finger at the small crowd of people hurrying into a two-story house. “Then what do you care about them?”

Unlike most of the other buildings in Heaven’s Glory, this house wasn’t made of rainstone, but of pale orus wood.

It was actually quite beautiful. Eithan wondered how much it had cost to import the lumber up the mountain.

“I consider myself a great humanitarian. How could I watch prisoners suffer, even when they are taken from a clan other than my own?”

These twelve prisoners from the Kazan clan hadn’t been abused as far as Eithan could tell, only confined. He suspected they were political hostages to keep the clan in line.

But the Heaven’s Glory School had planned to keep them here.

And unfortunately, he had only found them after his team of Akura Golds had all abandoned him. Shame on them, prioritizing things like “their individual human lives.”

The Heaven’s Glory School hadn’t listened at all when he told them about the doom that was coming, and indeed had ignored even his considerable charms.

Ordinarily, at this point, he would have resulted to threatening them until they were more frightened of him than of leaving their homes.

But he was already little better than a genuine Jade, and his bloodline senses were dull. He had to be careful…without looking like he was being careful.

He had given up on persuading the school, but he would take their prisoners with him. There were quite a few of those, it turned out. Several hundred scattered all over their territory. He had started with the Kazan hostages, but they needed somewhere to wait while the other prisoners were gathered.

So Eithan had co-opted Elder Rahm’s beautiful orus-wood home.

The prisoners filed through the door, huddling together, and Eithan waved at them to encourage them to head into the house. “If you don’t want to leave, I can’t make you,” Eithan said, though he regretted the truth of the statement. “But I would at least like to save those who are blameless.”

Elder Rahm spat on the ground. “Save. We are not children, to be led into death by obvious lies.”

“Let me ask: if I’m walking into certain death, why do you care if I take the prisoners with me?”

“They are not my enemies. They are the responsibility of Heaven’s Glory. It is up to us to preserve, protect, or punish them as they deserve.”

Eithan knew the real answer. Elder Rahm was stubbornly opposing anything Eithan wanted. He didn’t need a reason for it other than his distrust of outsiders.

They had no time for this. The aura was already in chaos. If the Dreadgod was more than two days away, then he had lost his touch. If they delayed any longer, the Akura cloudships would leave.

Eithan spread his hands and gave a helpless smile. “If I cannot persuade you, then so be it. As long as you allow others to leave as they wish.”

“You think too highly of yourself.” The old man’s glare was cutting. “It will be the ruin of you.”

“So I’ve been told.”

A shout for Elder Rahm came from behind Eithan, so he whirled around, striding across the street. “My apologies, but Elder Rahm is weary from diligent pursuit of his duties. How may I assist you?”

The Copper Heaven’s Glory disciple looked very uncertain, glancing over Eithan’s shoulder at Elder Rahm, but he quickly looked back to Eithan’s face. “This one was coming to tell the Elder that our envoy departed on time.”

With strands of his bloodline power, Eithan watched the Elder behind him. The old man stared furiously at Eithan’s back, gathering aura of fire and light.

A Ruler attack was the correct tool to use against Eithan, but the Sacred Valley Jade didn’t know that. Eithan raised his voice. “Don’t make a mistake you’ll regret, Elder Rahm.”

Rahm froze in the middle of his Ruler technique, then stubbornly continued pulling it together.

Something the Copper had said caught Eithan’s attention. “I’m sorry, young man. Your envoy to whom?”

“To…to the Wei clan.”

Lindon and Yerin were at the Wei clan. Eithan had just received a garbled transmission in Dross’ voice that he suspected meant the clan was on its way.

Heaven’s Glory had found out first and enacted a plan. That was galling. Eithan preferred to be the better-informed one.

“You’ve done a bad thing, Elder Rahm,” Eithan said as he slowly turned around.

“Not yet.”

The Ruler technique snapped into place. It was crude, but as soon as it completed, Eithan felt a genuine spike of alarm.

It wasn’t aimed at him.

A line of light focused on the wooden house.

Where the focused sunlight streamed down from heaven and touched the wood, flames leaped up as though the house had been soaked in lamp-oil.

Screams came from inside, but it would take a moment before the fire reached them. They could escape.

Eithan had already dashed back, seizing Rahm by the front of his robe. “What is this?” he asked quietly.

Elder Rahm’s jaw remained stubbornly shut, but there was a gleam of hatred in his eyes.

Heaven’s Glory members had filtered out from all over to watch. They muttered about the fire, but their attention was focused on Eithan.

He had come here prepared to be betrayed. If they all jumped him at once, he could still walk out with ease.

But now, he would have to abandon people under his protection.

A Kazan prisoner stumbled out of the door, but a line of Heaven’s Glory madra streaked in front of him, burning through the doorframe and setting it on fire. The prisoner staggered back, then turned to find another exit. The fire hadn’t spread fully yet. He could escape.

More Striker techniques poured in from the bystanders.

They couldn’t fight him.

But they defied him now.

Eithan turned his attention back to Rahm. “You would rather die than let them leave?”

“Rather die than bow to you.”

Eithan watched the old man’s face, and it was as though he saw Rahm through a new lens. He looked alien, like he had transformed into something other than human.

But he hadn’t changed. This was what people had always been like.

“Very well,” Eithan said.

He shoved Rahm back two steps, where a star from the Hollow King’s Crown hung in the air like a blue-white jewel. The Jade looked up.

The pure madra blasted down, spearing him through the soul.

His Remnant slowly split itself in half as it tried to rise, but Eithan had turned his attention to the rest of Heaven’s Glory. They had piled Striker and Ruler techniques onto the house, openly defying him, and still none had dared to actually attack him.

With his powers restricted, their numbers mattered. They could overwhelm him if they figured out something that would penetrate his Archlord body. Once he ran out of his weak and limited madra, anyway.

He could still leave, regroup with Lindon and Yerin, and together they would plow through the Heaven’s Glory School.

He would just have to leave twelve people in a burning building.

Eithan had made that choice long ago.

He stripped his turquoise outer robe, letting it fall to the snow. Before it landed, he’d reached an Iron Ruler holding sword and shield.

One twist, and the man’s arm was broken, his sword falling. Eithan reversed it, shattering his shin with the hilt.

A Striker technique lanced through the air where Eithan’s head had been a second ago. He stood in front of the Striker who’d launched it, breaking the woman’s jaw with the flat of his new sword.

A trio of Enforcers approached together.

Seconds later, when he was done with them, he stood over their groaning, bleeding, but still-living forms with blood spattered all over his face.

“Anyone who comes into that building with me will be forgiven,” Eithan said.

Several Heaven’s Glory ran away. Most people peeked around corners, unwilling to get closer. The house was all but consumed by fire now.

Eithan turned to the home himself. The sleeves of his under-robe were too long, so he tore them off. “I will remember this.”

Then he plunged into the flames.

Striker techniques followed him.

13

Yerin wasn’t really sure how her Moonlight Bridge worked.

When Ruby had stolen the Bridge to go to Lindon, she hadn’t given the Bridge any directions, and hadn’t known exactly where Lindon was. She had just willed the Divine Treasure to take her to Lindon, and it had done so.

Did the Bridge scan the whole world, find the person who matched her thoughts, and then take her there? Did it read her mind for some coordinates that even she wasn’t aware of? If she told it to take her to her closest living relative, or to the person who hated her the most, would it be able to do that?

Lindon would have already tested it to find out. Eventually, she would too. If you relied on a weapon you didn’t understand, you might find it turning in your hand.

But when she finally escaped the suppression field of Sacred Valley and willed the Moonlight Bridge to take her to Akura Malice, she was terrified.

What if the destination was off-track again? What if it stranded her far away, then took the full three days to recharge?

As it turned out, there was no need to brace herself. She was washed away in white light, re-forming immediately on the outstretched branch of an enormous tree.

Just the branch was as wide as a road prepared for wagons, and it looked thin as a twig next to the trunk of the tree itself, which stood as tall and wide as one of Ninecloud City’s towers. An icy wind blew leaves big enough to use as tents, and darkness covered the lands beneath her.

Shadow aura.

Akura Malice hovered above Yerin’s tree, close enough that Yerin could have lobbed a pebble and hit the Monarch in the back of the purple silk dress. Spread out before them both was a broad valley, not too unlike Sacred Valley, filled with buildings that looked as though they had been stolen from all over the world. They resembled toys from this distance, but no two were alike.

Except in their condition. If they were toys, the child playing with them had gotten bored and smashed them, poking holes in them or tossing them here and there. Long holes were gouged into the earth, and there was a broad indent in the center of the valley in which several buildings had been crushed. Yerin was uncomfortably certain it was a footprint.

A bow appeared in Malice’s hands, its shaft seemingly made of glacial ice that shimmered like moonbeams. Yerin’s spiritual sense shivered as she felt it, and while she didn’t examine it any closer, she tasted a confusing riot of impressions.

Malice lazily pulled back the string, and an arrow of the same material as the shaft appeared on the bow. She spent a moment taking aim, then loosed the arrow.

In the distance, a flock of silhouettes flapped furiously away. They were far enough away that they looked like a featureless cloud until Yerin focused on them.

That entire cloud dropped to the ground at the same instant Malice released her bowstring. Yerin tightened her gaze, finding her Herald body responding easily.

As she’d suspected, there was an iridescent blue-and-green arrow stuck in the body of each gold dragon.

“I’m so glad you decided to visit,” Malice said warmly, though she didn’t look down. She seemed to be tracking another target. “Would you like a turn?”

Yerin didn’t want to openly express her disgust at the sight of a Monarch taking lesser lives out of petty revenge, and she was in a hurry. “Don’t have so many seconds left that I can spare one.”

“Quite understandable. Would it help you if you knew what they’d done?” She flicked a hand, and tendrils of shadow seized a gold dragon halfway across the valley. Yerin wasn’t even sure how she’d understood where to look; maybe Malice was transmitting her intentions directly.

“He has power roughly equivalent to an Overlord, like yourself only recently, and he led many raids on human towns in the Wasteland. When he did, he would take living trophies. Once, he captured all of a town’s children, then trapped them on a small island with one knife each and told them that the one survivor would be rewarded and released unharmed.”

Yerin’s stomach twisted. “Burn him, then. Monarch, I need your help to stop the Titan.”

“Their desperation and lack of skill amused him,” Malice went on. “He was true to his word, in the end. He patched up the winner’s wounds, gave the boy food and water and a powerful sacred instrument, and released him. I was thinking I might do something similar. Poetic justice, I suppose.”

Malice drifted down to stand on the branch beside Yerin. “I could tell him I’ll release him if he defeats you in a duel, how about that? Or we could gather up some survivors, seal off their sacred arts, and make them scratch and claw each other until we spare the victor. What do you think?”

“Don’t want a turn of any game he’d play. If he deserves killing, kill him. Don’t play toys with him. But there’s a Dreadgod—”

“He does deserve it,” Malice said. The shadow-arms reached up and swallowed the golden speck whole; Yerin could sense nothing of him anymore, and she couldn’t be sure if Malice had erased the dragon or transported him somewhere else for capture.

“I respect your position,” the Monarch went on. “The rule of humanity is civilization, and civilizations are based on laws. We should not lower ourselves to our base instincts, or we are no better than they.”

Malice gave a cold smile. “And while I agree up to a point, there is something to be said for…proportional response.”

Yerin surveyed the ravaged valley. “Looks to me like you’ve got your response.”

“It is yet far from proportional.” But Malice warmed once again as she faced Yerin. “But they can wait. They are bare of defense before me…thanks to you.” She took Yerin’s hand in both of hers. “How can I bless your life, Yerin?”

You could start by opening your ears, Yerin thought.

But the sudden change in attitude threw her off. She had expected a positive reception—she had killed Malice’s biggest enemy, after all—but this was a little much.

Yerin met purple eyes that glistened in the picture of motherly affection. “What can you do about the Wandering Titan?”

“Oh my, you do think the world of me, don’t you?” Malice brushed a strand of hair away from Yerin’s eye. “You’re close enough to a Herald now; you should have a more realistic view of a Monarch’s limitations. I was able to keep the Bleeding Phoenix away from certain areas for a few days, but even so, I was not able to drive it off completely. And it had awakened early; it was not fighting at full strength. There’s an argument to be made that it would have destroyed less property in total had I not matched it in battle.”

Yerin appreciated the scale involved, but that didn’t change what she needed. “It’s about to trip over a boundary field that’ll make it weaker, if that helps you. The script’s supposed to work better and faster the stronger you are, and it’s got me weaker than a day-old kitten.”

“Is that so?” Malice murmured. “Poor thing. However, I’m afraid that there’s more. Last time, my focus on the Bleeding Phoenix and my subsequent recovery cost my people all over the world. We lost entire cities, alliances shifted, and territory changed hands while my eyes were turned.”

Yerin straightened her back. “Came armed for that. If all the Monarchs are riding in one boat, you can’t sink each other, true? Willing to make this my prize for the tournament.”

The final prize of the tournament had hovered in the back of her mind since she’d won. She and Lindon had spent a while talking about it, and while he was full of ideas, even he wasn’t sure what she should spend it on.

The obvious answer was “power,” but there wasn’t much more power the Monarchs could give her. And what else could they grant her that she couldn’t earn on her own?

Malice put a hand to her lips in a show of surprise. “Are you now? Well, then, how can we waste time?”

She swirled her hand, and darkness swallowed everything but Yerin and Malice. They still stood on a solid surface, but the whole world was blacker than a nightmare.

Yerin found that she could understand what Malice was doing even though her spiritual perception was blacked out. They hadn’t physically moved anywhere; this was just a way of communicating over great distances, like some kind of Monarch-level messenger construct.

She supposed she was sensing Malice’s will through the working, which was a strange feeling. She needed to get used to that.

A call had gone out in many different directions, and while Yerin couldn’t trace most of them, she knew one at least had gone out to Reigan Shen and his faction.

She knew that because the Blood Sage appeared before them almost instantly, the image of a roaring white lion announcing his presence.

The Sage of Red Faith was a tall, skeletal man with white hair all the way down to his knees and red lines tracing down from the corners of his eyes so that it always looked like he was weeping bloody tears. He was hunched forward like a scarecrow about to fall off its post, scanning the darkness.

When he saw Yerin, his eyes lit with a feverish light. He lunged forward, reaching for her, though his image didn’t move through the darkness at all.

“My girl!” he whispered. “Dear, sweet, wise, wonderful girl. You did it, you did it, you did it! Truly, it is the master’s joy to see his apprentice surpass him, but I would have never—”

“You’re not my master,” Yerin said, but he didn’t pause for even an instant to listen.

“—thought that you would proceed from such a great state of instability. Give me your memory, let me see it, and that’s the end. Our work will be complete. You and I will be responsible for the greatest revolution in the sacred arts since Emriss—no, we will be beyond even her; she can help us spread the word, others must know! Give me the dream tablet, make me a tablet, I want to see your memory, I want to taste it.”

“I don’t recall inviting you, Red Faith.” Malice sounded amused rather than disgusted, as Yerin had imagined she would be. “I’m surprised to see Shen trusted you with the authority to speak on his behalf.”

“Shen? We don’t need Shen anymore, don’t you understand?” He was still fixated on Yerin. “You hate Redmoon Hall, I know you do. I’ll tear it down with my own hands. Not a rat will remain alive. I’ll give you their heads, or I’ll deliver them to you alive, or I’ll pay you, I can pay you—”

He kept ranting, waving his hands in demonstration, but he no longer made a sound.

Another woman sighed in relief, though Yerin hadn’t seen her arrive. “Thank you, Malice. Our meetings are never productive with him around.”

Her skin was a human shade of dark brown, but it had the texture of bark. A reminder of her original life as a tree, like her hair, which was made of glowing blue-green vines braided together. She tapped the invisible ground with her staff, which was topped with a diamond shaped like a blooming flower.

Emriss gave Yerin a kindly smile. “He is correct in one respect: there is much to be learned from your advancement. I hope you do indeed share your experiences, though…not necessarily with him.”

Red Faith was biting at his fingernails as though to chew away the restriction of silence.

Yerin dipped her head to Emriss. “Thanks, Monarch. I know he’s a cockroach walking like a man, but he did help me out of a tough spot.”

Red Faith nodded furiously, pointing to Yerin. An indescribable, invisible ripple broke the darkness, and he pushed through Malice’s command for silence.

“Don’t be close-minded! She could share with all of us! This is the way forward! This is—”

His voice vanished again.

“Now, where did he find the authority for that?” Malice asked.

Emriss shook her head. “He is very old, and craftier than he appears. Who can say for certain what tricks he has in his pockets?”

Yerin couldn’t signal the Sage of Red Faith. The two Monarchs could sense everything she did, even in a sealed space like this. Maybe especially here.

But she lingered on his eyes longer than she needed to, hoping he would notice.

He didn’t stop chewing on his fingers, but she thought she saw his intelligence shine through for a moment. He gave her a brief, barely perceptible nod.

That’s a start, she thought.

When the fight for Sacred Valley was over, she had a use for him. Long ago, Eithan had stolen one of this man’s dream tablets for her. He’d given it to Yerin, which had helped her cultivate her Blood Shadow.

He’d gotten it from the labyrinth.

Where he had once performed experiments on the Bleeding Phoenix.

The dream tablet hadn’t been thorough; it was more of a personal recollection on his understanding of Blood Shadows. She wasn’t clear whether he’d had the entire Phoenix down there, or just pieces of it, or if the labyrinth was just where you went to hide if you wanted to do Dreadgod research.

But it was a firm connection between the Bleeding Phoenix and the labyrinth her master had been exploring before he died.

Now that she was back in Sacred Valley, it was time to track down some answers.

Or almost time. Once the other Dreadgod was taken care of.

While Yerin got the Sage’s attention, another woman had appeared, beneath the shining image of a golden knight. She was dressed in intricate golden armor, but she had her helmet off, revealing messy blonde hair.

Larian of the Eight-Man Empire looked around the circle, stopping to glare at the Blood Sage. “Who invited Red Faith? I won’t speak anywhere he does.”

Red Faith shouted something, but it released no sound.

“…perfect,” Larian finished.

A red dragon head with golden eyes snapped at the darkness, and Northstrider strode out from beneath that emblem. His hair was still trimmed and neat, his facial hair short, and he wore clean clothes. Similar to how he had appeared in the finals of the Uncrowned King tournament.

Yerin had expected him to go back to his homeless wanderer look by now.

“Has the time come for the champion to name her wish?” Northstrider asked.

He gave Yerin a…she couldn’t call it a smile, but it was at least an approving look. “We should all be of one mind. Let her state her desire so that we may grant it in all haste. I, for one, do not wish to take my gaze from the Titan for longer than I must.”

Yerin didn’t know if they were waiting on anyone else—had the Arelius family even been invited? What about the Ninecloud Court?—but she knew an opening when she saw one.

“You’re cutting to the heart of it,” Yerin said. “I want you to keep the Wandering Titan away from where it’s going. Don’t have to try and kill it, just push it away until we can get people out.”

There was silence around the circle. Malice looked amused.

Northstrider folded black-scaled arms. “There are restrictions on what requests we fulfill and how we fulfill them. If there were not, the winner could wish for one of us as a slave, or for the death of an entire country. One of those restrictions is that we will not satisfy a request that endangers the life of a Monarch or the existence of their faction.”

“Fighting a Dreadgod counts,” Larian said.

“It’s headed into a formation that keeps it tied up tight,” Yerin insisted. “This might be your chance to bury it for good.”

Emriss sighed. “That’s what we thought before.”

She leaned heavily on her flower-topped staff, and an image drifted up into the air ahead of her: a black-striped white tiger with an oversized white halo. It was big as an elephant, and Yerin recognized it from descriptions as the Silent King, though as a Dreadgod it was relatively tiny. It would have looked like a pet next to the Titan.

The only thing huge about it was the army of Remnants, sacred beasts, and blank-eyed sacred artists stretched out over the countryside behind it. And Yerin recognized that countryside.

Sacred Valley. It looked somewhat different—the mountains around it were shaped differently in ways she couldn’t quite put her finger on—but it was clearly the same place.

“The suppression field over the labyrinth will indeed weaken Dreadgods,” Emriss said. “Within minutes. It is designed to do precisely that. However…”

A flame kindled in the distance like an orange star, growing quickly as it approached until a fireball swallowed the entire horizon. It fell on Sacred Valley like the sun was collapsing.

“…it will do the same for us.”

The fireball itself split up into a thousand sparks as it sank closer and closer to Sacred Valley. Flames rained down all over, catching trees alight, but they didn’t even burn most of the sacred artists in the Silent King’s horde. Much less the Dreadgod itself.

All the power had been stolen by the suppression field.

The vision winked out.

“The Silent King is theoretically the most vulnerable of the Dreadgods, yet we were no more successful in damaging it there than anywhere else.” Emriss shook her head. “What we did learn is that the Dreadgods are unable to retrieve their prize, even without our intervention, and will soon forget its location and return to their random wandering. There are other entrances to the labyrinth, and they’ve never been successful in breaching those either.”

Yerin paid close attention to the story, filing it away for later, but none of that solved her problems.

“If I pare it down to the bone,” Yerin said, “you’re saying you won’t help.”

Emriss moved her gaze to the Akura Monarch. “Any evacuation of the native population should fall to Malice.”

Yerin didn’t wait for Malice to respond. “And what if that was my wish? What if I’m asking you to make sure everybody in the land gets a safe place to go?”

“Nah.” The blonde woman in the golden armor scratched vigorously at the back of her neck; uncomfortably so, as though she were trying to rid herself of a flea. “Can’t let you waste your request. Doesn’t look good for us if word gets out that we sent the best young Lady in the world away with a glass of water and a pat on the head, would it?”

Yerin was growing irritated by all these restrictions, so she fired back. “Glass of water’s worth a long stretch more than what I’ve gotten from you so far.”

The woman barked a chuckle, but still seemed more focused on scratching her elusive itch.

“Yerin,” Malice said, “didn’t you mention being uncomfortable in the valley? Why is that, do you think?”

Yerin saw through the tactic immediately. Malice was trying to steer her toward making some different wish.

Every second they wasted here was a second closer to Sacred Valley’s death.

Holding up two fingers, Yerin addressed the room. “Don’t have time to dance around, so there’s two trails we can take here. One, help me with the Dreadgod, and we’re all squared up. Two, I say you’ve all broken your promise to the Uncrowned. I’m making a wish inside your rules, and you’re turning me down. Monarchs should keep their word.”

Larian gave her a dangerous look, and Northstrider frowned. “Do not take advantage of your station to threaten us,” he said. “You do not understand the scope of what is involved.”

His tone rubbed Yerin the wrong way, but he wasn’t wrong, so she only spoke irritably. “Fine. Make me an offer.”

“I think I will,” Malice said. “We can fix you.”

“Your spirit and body merged, but they’re not balanced yet,” Larian said. She rapped her knuckles on her armor. “We see that from time to time. It can happen with new Heralds, and those who advance too fast. You’re both.”

Emriss picked up smoothly from where the Eight-Man Empire’s representative had left off. “Your condition is unique, and it’s possible that you would have reached equilibrium with enough time. However, being inside the suppression field so soon after your advancement has distorted you further.”

Yerin’s stomach twisted. “Feel fine when I’m not in the valley.”

“Of course. You’re still more than any other Overlord; your limitations will show only in conditions of extreme spiritual stress. Unfortunately, that includes any time you attempt to advance. The most likely scenario is that you spend the rest of your life as an incomplete pseudo-Herald.”

The rest of her life.

It didn’t hit Yerin as hard as she’d thought it would. She had been prepared for something like this when she’d advanced in the first place. At least she would keep the advancement she already had. As long as she stayed alive, there was a chance to find another solution.

And Emriss wouldn’t have brought this up if she didn’t have some kind of cure.

The Sage of Red Faith gestured furiously, and he looked like he was trying to catch Yerin’s attention, but Emriss held up a hand to soothe him.

“As I said, this case is unique. There are possible solutions, and it could be that if you avoid further spiritual stress for long enough, your body will balance itself.”

“Taking care of the Wandering Titan would save me worlds of stress.”

Malice leaned around to peek at Yerin. “Of course…the best solution would be for us to stabilize this fusion for you. It would save you years of suffering and roadblocks.”

“Agreed,” Northstrider said. “It is the one change we can make that will simultaneously grant you great power and improve your day-to-day life.”

Yerin looked from one Monarch to another, and they all seemed to have made up their minds. Even Red Faith was steadily nodding.

With a brief effort, Yerin tapped into the minor Divine Treasure resting in her soul, like a loop around her core. A black ring sprang into being over her head, distinct even from the darkness behind her.

“I’m not cracked in the head,” Yerin said quietly, as her Broken Crown burned in the darkness over her. “You can snap me like an old bone anytime you want. Don’t intend disrespect. But there’s a Dreadgod breathing down my collar right now.”

She met the eyes of all the others one at a time. None looked away. “Came here for help, ‘cause I’m at the end of my road, and fixing me doesn’t fix that. It’s a shiny prize, and I’d chew it over any other day. But today, I’m drowning, and you’re throwing me a bottle of wine.”

She let her Broken Crown vanish. “So you tell me what I’m supposed to make with that.”

Malice’s lips quirked up, and it might be Yerin’s imagination, but she thought the Monarch looked a little impressed. “Would it ease your worry to know that the Wandering Titan has not entered the valley yet? It has settled down to feed, and will remain in place for at least a short while.”

That was more than nothing, but it made Yerin even more eager to get this over with. If the Monarchs weren’t going to help, she had to return and move everybody away. She had some time now, but that didn’t mean she wanted to spend time polishing words.

Northstrider’s face, as usual, was stone. “We are united in recommending that you correct the instability of your spirit, a problem for which there is no quick cure besides rewriting reality itself. If you would prefer us to evacuate this territory before the Wandering Titan arrives, we will do that instead.”

Yerin breathed deeply. She hated feeling like she was cornered like this, and the fact that they had left her with no option other than to do as they wished made her want to refuse out of sheer brick-headed stubbornness.

But that would be stupid.

“This will help me work in Sacred Valley?” she asked.

“The suppression field will affect you no more than your peers,” Emriss confirmed. “You won’t be able to fully express the powers of a Herald until you reach the peak of Archlord no matter what we do, but this will remove the weaknesses and potential problems that might prevent you from getting there.”

“And you’re all telling me to do this?”

“You’d be stupid not to,” Larian said bluntly. “You’ve got time to get anybody you really like to safety, and even if everybody else dies, you’ll be able to save more later.”

The Blood Sage nodded along, which almost made Yerin change her mind.

“Right, then.” She’d hoped to return to Sacred Valley with her chin up, proudly saying that she’d taken care of the Dreadgod. But if she couldn’t do that, at least the suppression field wouldn’t cut so many of her strings anymore.

So there wouldn’t be any confusion, she continued. “As the Uncrowned King—Queen, whatever—I’m wishing for you to fix me up. Do what you can for me.”

And, because she didn’t want to leave too much of a bad impression on the collected Monarchs, she added, “Thank you.”

Though this was the wish they had decided on her behalf, so her gratitude had definite limits.

A great pulse of will passed between all the Monarchs, and they nodded as one. Yerin got the impression that the wave of intentions and willpower had moved far beyond them, connecting to Reigan Shen and Sha Miara and maybe some others, wherever they were.

“As the arbiter of the Uncrowned King tournament and the representative of the Monarchs’ collective decision, I agree to grant your request,” Northstrider said formally. “Brace yourself, and receive your reward.”

Suddenly the images of all the Monarchs flickered, and they were standing before her…but they were also standing thousands of miles away, and their wills reached out and held her, cupping her, surrounding her like an eggshell.

It was a disturbingly vulnerable feeling, as though they could flex their fist and crush her, but something else around her was unraveling. She couldn’t even tell what. Her fate, maybe?

Many voices spoke in unison, and it was as though the world itself spoke.

“Be healed.”

Yerin’s senses blanked out.

She came to herself an unknown time later, standing on the bough of the giant tree, staring down into the ruined valley of the gold dragons. Smoke and clouds of dust still rose.

Malice stood at her side, wearing a mysterious smile. “How do you feel?”

“If I’m any sturdier than I was two seconds ago, I couldn’t prove it.” Yerin felt cheated. She had only the Monarchs’ word for it that anything about her had changed at all.

“You will feel the effect of your request once you return to the boundary formation, but the true value you should hopefully never feel. We have removed problems that you would have faced, so if we have done our job, then you will never see them at all.” She ran hands down her bowstring and looked into the distance. “Now, shall we go greet the Wandering Titan?”

Yerin had thought she was following along, but now her thoughts scraped to a halt.

“…you played me like a flute.”

“The others will feel my power when I engage the Titan, but the more misinformation I spread about my intentions, the better.” She shot Yerin a wink. “Also, you called me petty earlier, so I thought I would prove you right.”

“Never said that.”

“That’s what you meant. Of course I was always going to help you. You killed Seshethkunaaz, may his name be forgotten by all who walk the earth. At the moment, you’re my favorite.”

Yerin was thoroughly sick of Monarchs. “What was all that about losing cities?”

Malice shrugged. “What’s a city or two compared to the favor of the Uncrowned Queen?”

* * *

Reigan Shen emerged from a tear in the world, striding out onto the blighted rock of the Wastelands.

He had gone to absurd lengths to disguise his actions from the other Monarchs. Usually, they would be able to track him the moment he stepped through the Way. Especially if they were watching him, and Malice had kept purple eyes trained on him for days.

He couldn’t imagine why.

Now, not only had he covered his tracks with false trails, dummy portals, and truly delicate manipulation of spatial authority, but Malice had finally taken her attention off him.

It would take her too long to realize her protections had been breached. By then, it would be too late.

Reigan Shen clasped hands behind his back and surveyed the round crimson shapes sticking onto the landscape. There were millions of them, like seed pods clutching anything they could reach all the way out to the horizon, each the size of his head. Some clung to crystal arches, others shone from within caves, and still others stuck to one another and hung from petrified trees like clusters of grapes.

Eggs of the Bleeding Phoenix.

When they felt the power in his blood, the eggs began to roll toward him or stretch out hair-thin feelers. He kept them away with an effortless use of aura.

The eggs couldn’t be destroyed, not really. They could be broken apart, but they would only re-form. Any attack capable of removing them conceptually would prompt the Dreadgod to reintegrate. Or, as with a lethal attack on any Dreadgod, would awaken the other three of its kind.

The previous generation of Monarchs had learned that the hard way.

The only realistic way to slow the Bleeding Phoenix’s recovery was to give its eggs nothing to feed on. Malice had quarantined this entire area, sealed it with scripts, troops, and constructs, and thereby kept as much prey away as possible.

Even so, every creature with blood running through its veins that had once lived in this section of the Wastelands was now part of the Dreadgod.

If someone else managed to break through the layers of security, they would only become Phoenix food. Even another Monarch wouldn’t be able to do much except potentially antagonize a deadly foe.

They didn’t have the key.

From one of his isolated pocket spaces, Reigan Shen pulled an oblong rectangular box. To the eye, it seemed to be made of seamless, unblemished steel polished to a mirror’s shine.

No force in Cradle could break this container. It was an Abidan artifact, one of the few in Shen’s possession.

It responded to his will as its rightful owner, unfolding like a flower into a square platter presenting its contents. The key to the western labyrinth, which Tiberian had once shown him.

A shriveled, mummified, chalk-white right hand.

Hunger of every kind passed through Shen. Hunger for food, yes, but also for recognition, for respect, for love, for attention, for success, for safety, for power. Greed flowed through him, and bloodlust, and plain old classic lust.

He relished the sensations as, around him, the stone shook. Pebbles lifted into the air, drifting closer to the hand as its hunger warped even gravity.

The Way stirred around him, affected by an artifact of such incredible significance. If he held the hand exposed long enough, it might manifest an Icon.

He wouldn’t need that long.

With shocking speed, eggs tumbled into one another, sticking together, forming a shapeless clump. Soon, living creatures infested by the eggs would come running to donate themselves to the Dreadgod. Nine out of ten victims of these Phoenix fragments became mindless husks controlled by their parasite, and the tenth gained the dubious honor of a Blood Shadow.

The balls of blood and hunger madra began to melt like wax, taking on a more familiar form.

The Bleeding Phoenix congealed in front of him, its eyes blazing scarlet. It was small enough to fit in a barn, for now, but with every second more eggs hurled themselves into its body, adding to its mass.

Shen’s heart pounded. He couldn’t show weakness in front of the greatest predator in this world, but even before it was fully formed, the Phoenix radiated a pressure that gripped his spirit painfully tight.

When it lowered its beak and let out a shrieking cry, it was all he could do not to retreat back through space.

Instead, with deliberately casual movements, he snapped off a fingertip of the mummified hand. The last joint of the pinky.

Then he flicked the treat to the Dreadgod.

A beak snapped, and the Phoenix swallowed the tiny piece of power whole.

Reigan Shen spoke as he tucked the rest of the hand back into the box. “That should be enough for you. Now you know the way home.”

The Abidan container melded shut, cutting off all power from the hand. The Phoenix bobbed its head around him, trying to sense—or perhaps smell—any other trace.

The Emperor of the Rosegold continent very much did not sweat as the Dreadgod’s beak brushed by his mane. He remained icy and cool, both mentally and physically, and he would annihilate anyone who implied otherwise.

He would be able to defend himself from a Phoenix of this level, of course. In a body this small, it posed only a little threat to him.

But it would re-form soon, and if it remembered him in its complete form, his life could be in danger.

Fortunately, the Phoenix’s attention left him. It looked west.

Where it now knew its goal waited. The being that some called the fifth Dreadgod, and others called the father of the Dreadgods. Their progenitor, the original, from which they were all formed. Subject One.

The Bleeding Phoenix spread its wings, and Reigan Shen slipped off into another portal. He breathed a sigh of relief when it worked; the Dreadgod could have stopped him, had it wanted to.

His work here was done, but the next phase of his plan was even more dangerous.

Now, while the Dreadgod cleared his way, he had to follow it without anyone detecting him. Besides the danger, it was the stealth that really stuck in his craw.

Sneaking was for mice.

14

Lindon drove an Empty Palm into the core of the Third Elder. The plump old man doubled over, wheezing, but Lindon hadn’t used the force he’d unleashed on the Patriarch. The Third Elder would recover his madra in minutes.

Lindon leaned over to speak into the man’s ear. “I cannot be surprised. I cannot be ambushed. My eye sees all.”

Though Lindon didn’t summon him, Dross popped out in front of the Third Elder, his purple eye wide open and menacing.

The elder shuddered, and Lindon played along. “Here it is now.”

[I am the Great Eye,] Dross intoned. [My gaze pierces cloud, shadow, earth, and…what else? Metal. Leather. And cloth, it penetrates cloth.]

His gaze drifted down from the Third Elder’s face, and the old Jade blushed and hurriedly clutched his outer robe closer.

The golden sky loomed over them, and the ground shook, so Lindon’s fear shook him to action again. He pulled the elder to his feet with one hand, shoving him toward the buildings of the Wei clan. “You’re on duty,” Lindon ordered. “Search for stragglers. Get them running for Heaven’s Glory by any means necessary.”

With fists pressed together, the Third Elder started to bow to him, but Lindon shouted “Now! Go!”

Their trip to the east was a mad rush, and they weren’t the only ones with the same idea. Streams of people trickled in from all over Sacred Valley, pushing for the exit farthest from the encroaching threat.

But none were as frightened as Lindon. He knew what was out there.

At least he could vaguely sense the Wandering Titan’s location. While his spiritual perception was still restricted, the Titan was a big target. It hadn’t moved all day, feeding on aura and physical materials from the earth.

That pause was just a temporary reprieve that could end at any time. Whenever the Dreadgod changed its mind, or drained that location dry, it would move east once more.

Only a few more of its strides would break through the mountain and set it loose on Sacred Valley.

So Lindon made sure the Wei clan flowed to the east, occasionally stopping to prevent some Iron from robbing a group of Coppers, or a family from dragging a massive bundle of what looked to be all their earthly belongings.

For the moment, the elders followed Lindon out of fear. Fear both of him and of the Dreadgod. But most of the clan had no idea who he was, and he couldn’t keep demonstrating his strength to everyone he passed.

Fear of the Titan would have to be enough.

The Heaven’s Glory artists and their Grand Patriarch were bound in scripted chains, struggling from the back of a wagon that Lindon kept a special eye on. He might need to use them as hostages when he reached their school.

But as the day crept along, the golden sky’s shine fading to a duller hue, they finally came up to the foot of Mount Samara. Its ring hadn’t started to form yet, and Lindon could already tell something had changed in Heaven’s Glory.

The normal path up the mountain, with its wide road crawling upward in a series of switchbacks, was packed with people. That much, Lindon had expected.

To the side, however, the Trial of Glorious Ascension was gone. The bright pink haze that had once covered the long staircase was gone, leaving flights upon flights of bare stone steps. Some Remnants still wandered in confusion around the slopes, and a few of the scripts still flickered fitfully with dream madra, but it was mostly clear.

So the Heaven’s Glory School had deactivated their formation to allow people to reach the top faster. Good for them. Eithan must have really taken over.

Which might explain the other difference he’d noticed: the column of smoke drifting up from the school proper.

Lindon rose on his Thousand-Mile Cloud, glancing over the Wei clan to make sure they would follow his instructions—although there wasn’t much chance of the opposite, at this point. They were stuck in a thick tide of fleeing people, so there would be nothing to do but wait to move forward.

He flew toward Heaven’s Glory, keeping his perception extended and scanning for Eithan. He’d expected the Archlord to have taken over one of the Jade Elders’ houses, but he felt nothing from that direction.

In fact, as he gained altitude, he saw that one of those homes was the source of the smoke he’d noticed earlier.

When he didn’t spot Eithan where he expected, he extended the radius of his search, sweeping the Heaven’s Glory School.

Dross cleared his throat. [Don’t be mad at me. It’s a miracle I can see anything with your senses like this.]

What is it?

[There’s a battle.]

Dross dragged Lindon’s attention to the wild territory behind the Heaven’s Glory School, where once Yerin had run from the school’s pursuers. Those slopes were mostly snow and Remnants, with occasional sparse bushes or trees, but Lindon quickly sensed what Dross was talking about: flares of light and heat in his spiritual perception.

A fight.

Lindon flew over, but only when he came closer did he feel Eithan’s presence. Weak. Flickering. Low on madra. Heavily drained.

Dread made his heart pound, and he reached into his void key. Wavedancer flew sluggishly over to him; the aura was just barely thick enough to support a flying sword, but this one was used to richer environments. The artfully crafted weapon lurched like a graceful fish squirming through mud.

That didn’t stop it working as a sword, though. Lindon clutched the weapon in his left hand as constructs took aim at him.

Heaven’s Glory had protected themselves from the air.

An accelerated missile of Forged force madra shot for him, and if Lindon had been any more than a Jade, he would have just let it hit him.

Instead, he slapped it from the air with Wavedancer’s blade. A gust of the Hollow Domain wiped out a Heaven’s Glory Striker technique, and then he’d located all six flying constructs in the area.

He pointed and wiped them out one at a time with dragon’s breath.

When Lindon hovered over Eithan’s location, he stepped off the Cloud and fell through the trees. A few thin branches snapped beneath him on the way down, but as he landed, a pair of sacred artists aimed weapons at him.

One swung a hammer that gathered earth aura as she swung, and the other was simply planning to club him with a brick of brown Forged madra.

If their sacred arts hadn’t clued him in, their massive badges—almost like breastplates—showed him their identity clearly. These were members of the Kazan clan. Had Ziel brought them here?

He slipped aside from the hammer, letting it crash into the trunk of a tree, and the brick he caught in his Remnant hand.

When he held both Iron sacred artists still, he spoke calmly. “Pardon, but I’m only here to help.”

Eithan, who had been slumped at the base of the tree, sputtered and spat splintered bark out of his mouth. “Is there sap in my hair? You’d tell me if there was sap in my hair, wouldn’t you?”

He looked like he’d just crawled out of a fire.

Half his hair was singed off, his left eye was matted shut with dried blood, and his turquoise robes were burned and shredded. His core was almost empty, and he looked like he had been soaked in blood.

This was the worst Lindon had seen Eithan except immediately after his fight with the Blood Sage, and concern for the man overwhelmed even his worry about the Dreadgod.

Briefly. Until he scanned Eithan and realized he wasn’t wounded at all. He was just tired.

“Not my blood,” said the red-soaked Archlord.

Lindon let out a breath of relief, but responded lightly. “Apologies. I’m afraid your hair is done for.”

Eithan wilted against the tree. His eyes slowly closed.

“Put me out of my misery. Make it quick.”

The Kazan clansmen were murmuring behind Lindon, but their mutters turned to shouts as Heaven’s Glory techniques blasted through the trees.

Though it was a drain on his limited madra, Lindon projected the Hollow Domain around himself and the seven or eight Kazan members in range. There were a dozen nearby, and they began to crowd inside when they saw Heaven’s Glory madra melting at the edge of his blue-white boundary.

“What happened?” Lindon quietly asked Eithan.

“Believe it or not, they took advantage of my compassionate nature. My reserves are finite, especially here.”

“I can’t believe anyone pushed you this far.”

“Lost my Golds at the wrong moment. Hostages are as effective against me as against anyone, but…well, I’ll put it to you this way: they’re running drastically low on manpower.”

Lindon dropped the Hollow Domain, which was tiring to keep up inside the suppression field, just as a trio of Iron Enforcers charged in.

Eithan jerked his head in their general direction without opening his eyes. “If you could clean up here, I’d appreciate it.”

The three Enforcers were covered by three more Strikers, two Rulers, and a Forger. Constructs flanked them all, and they carried steel weapons banded with halfsilver. It was a charge worthy of attacking a Jade, and showed more tactical skill than Lindon had seen from Heaven’s Glory thus far.

[Not bad, not bad,] Dross said. [I’m afraid to say you’ll have to take a hit.]

Ten seconds later, Lindon was pinning the last standing Heaven’s Glory member up against a tree with one hand. “Where are your Jades?”

He released his grip so that the man could answer. Nearby, one of the destroyed constructs finished falling through the air, exploding as it hit the ground.

“Gone, they’re gone, they’re…I don’t know!” The Iron man’s eyes were wild. “They’re dead or crippled. He was going to kill us all!”

“I was not!” Eithan shouted. “I told you that!”

Lindon released the Heaven’s Glory member to stand on his own. “I am Wei Shi Lindon, and I claim Heaven’s Glory School in the absence of its Jades. If you find an elder, bring them to me. Otherwise, you’re to help everyone leave the valley.”

The man glanced down at Lindon’s badge, but Lindon caught his eyes again. “Spread the word.”

The man ran, leaving Lindon to repeat himself to all the other members of Heaven’s Glory on the ground. He’d left them only lightly injured, and as a result he’d taken the cut that Dross had promised. A tiny slice across his left forearm.

It was already healing.

Lindon marched back to Eithan, but he started speaking early. Eithan would be able to hear him. “I can’t imagine that would have been much threat to you.”

“It’s not the first twenty ambushes that get you,” Eithan called.

When Lindon returned to Eithan, the crowd of Kazan members were huddled together, looking to him with awe and fear, as though he might decide to execute them at any second.

Lindon bowed to them. “Gratitude,” he said. “My thanks for protecting my master in my absence.”

At the word “master,” their eyes widened.

“If you don’t mind, you should leave as soon as possible. I can’t be sure that Heaven’s Glory will leave you alone, even now. We don’t have much—”

[Oh no,] Dross whispered.

“What?” Eithan asked. “What is it? I can’t see anything! I hate this place.”

Lindon hopped on his Thousand-Mile Cloud without finishing his sentence, zooming up above the surrounding trees.

He looked over to the west. Something had changed with the Wandering Titan, but he couldn’t identify exactly what.

Then he opened his aura sight.

It was like watching the opposite of an earthquake. Starting from Mount Venture to the west, the ground—which had been steadily shaking all day—stopped moving. Earth aura froze.

The wave of silence reached them, and the rumbling of the ground ceased. Only a few boulders tumbled down the nearby slopes.

There came one, loud crash. Then another. Footsteps.

A dark stone head appeared over the western peak, and the Wandering Titan let out a roar that shook the golden sky.

“Run!” Lindon shouted down. Eithan was already on his feet, shakily ushering the Kazan clansmen forward, but they would only slam into the wall of people trying to choke themselves through the narrow exit from Sacred Valley.

They were beginning to stampede, even trampling each other in their desperation to get away. A massive golden light shone behind Eithan, resolving into his cloudship: The Bounding Gazelle.

It would barely fly in aura this thin, if indeed it would fly at all, but Eithan was clearly willing to try. He ushered the Kazan sacred artists onboard, physically hurling one and carrying two children under his arms before leaping up to the control console.

Lindon began flying away, toward the exit. The Akura cloudships should be gone by now, but he was seeing Fallen Leaf uniforms, and he could feel Orthos around. At least they had made it.

Eithan’s golden cloudship lurched along like a stone skipping across the surface of a lake, barely able to lift up before it had to sit back down, but it was still faster than dragging all the Kazan by hand.

Lindon left them behind, soaring over the line of people screaming and pushing to make it through the Heaven’s Glory exit.

To his relief, he could see a ship on a purple cloud flying off with its deck packed with people. Not all the Akura cloudships had taken off after all. Another, resting on the ground, was steadily filling with people.

But as he looked back west, over Sacred Valley, despair choked him again. There were still uncountably many people left. He couldn’t begin to see the end of the human line stretching off into the distant clan buildings and beyond.

Not everyone would make it.

But his family still could.

The skies were relatively clear, most ordinary citizens of Sacred Valley not having access to a flying vehicle, so Lindon soared easily over to where Orthos and Little Blue waited for him.

Kelsa paced next to the turtle, Jaran crouched on a stool and impatiently juggled his cane, while Seisha adjusted settings on her drudge. The hovering brown fish bristled with sensors and detectors; Lindon’s mother was clearly trying to figure out more information about what was happening.

All four of them stood on Windfall’s blue cloud base, and Lindon immediately recognized why. They had been directed to the right place, but they couldn’t open the door.

Lindon tried to reach out with his madra, but failed. Though he had left the suppression field, his spirit hadn’t fully recovered yet, and his pure madra dissipated only a few feet from his body.

Orthos had been watching Lindon fly up, and at his words, Lindon’s mother and sister looked up.

Lindon landed in front of them, his left hand resting on the door to his fortress. At the touch of his madra, the door slid soundlessly open.

The ramps to the nearby Akura ships were clogged, blocked by crowds of people trying to fight their way on, though the Akura Golds easily prevented any unwanted stowaways. A few of those waiting to board noticed Lindon’s fortress opening, and some groups began to run for his wide blue cloud.

“Where were you?” Lindon’s father demanded.

From her seat atop Orthos’ head, Little Blue whistled concern for the others.

“Get inside,” Lindon said, his voice low. He tried to give them a reassuring glance, but his eyes were locked on the golden horizon to the west. “Eithan will be joining us soon. Yerin got away on her own. Mercy and Ziel, I…I don’t know.”

“How are we going to carry everyone?” Kelsa asked. She had a huge backpack strapped on, but she was shifting from foot to foot, as though she longed to toss it aside and go find some people to save.

That first group of people had almost reached Lindon’s fortress, running desperately as though they thought he might take off at any moment.

“I don’t know,” Lindon said again. “We need more time. Get inside.”

His mother looked uneasily at the people clamoring to reach the fortress. “How much room do we have?”

“Enough for these, at least,” Lindon said, and Kelsa let out a sigh of relief. Had she expected him to turn away people for no reason? “We don’t have to carry them far.”

A crash deafened the world, and screams rose from the nearby crowds. Rocks and ice tumbled down from Samara’s peak. Lindon wondered if Mount Venture was still intact.

With a spiritual effort, Lindon commanded the fortress’ cloud to lower, forming a ramp to allow the fleeing Sacred Valley citizens access. The closest batch was from the Li clan, he noted, with their fancy badges and elaborate jewelry.

Not that clan distinctions mattered now, but that made him hopeful that Mercy was here somewhere.

Orthos led Lindon’s family inside, with Little Blue giving directions. When the first family reached the top of the ramp, Lindon held out a hand to stop them.

They tried to barrel past him, but the gray-haired Iron Enforcer at the front crashed into Lindon’s extended arm as though into a steel bar.

“No fighting while you’re in my home,” Lindon said quietly.

The Ruler behind the Enforcer bobbed her head while holding a green-wrapped infant girl on one hip. “Yes, yes, whatever you say.”

She was echoed by all the fifteen or so members of the Li clan, who all cried either agreement or begged him to hurry.

[Eighteen,] Dross corrected. [You didn’t count the baby ones.]

Lindon moved his arm and stood aside, letting them rush onboard, while he conversed with Dross. How many can we hold?

[Well, the aura is still thin here. It depends on how many belongings they have, and how much space they take up on average…]

More and more people had noticed that his fortress was wide and relatively open, so they had begun rushing for him.

[…at least two hundred, easily. No, a hundred and eighty. Say one seventy-five, to be safe.]

A roar sounded out, causing the Irons and Coppers and Jades to scream and clap hands to their ears. Lindon thought some of them might be deafened.

[I, uh, hate to waste calculations, but I don’t think storage space will be our limiting factor.]

Time. They would have to take off before they were full. He looked at the mass of humanity pouring out of the Heaven’s Glory passageway, knowing there were hundreds of thousands of people still inside.

Was the Titan in there already? Had he crushed the Wei clan to rubble?

“Prepare to leave,” Lindon ordered, and Dross materialized, drifting off into the network of scripts and constructs that formed the organs of the cloud fortress.

Eithan’s hopping golden cloudship came to a rest by Lindon, and a number of shelter-seeking families ran over to him as a ramp extended.

Lindon looked up to Mount Samara, where a white ring was forming. He didn’t want to see the truth on the other side, but he had to know.

He called his Thousand-Mile Cloud again and launched himself into the air as fast as he could.

Mount Samara, seething with people desperately seeking safety, fell away beneath his feet. He shot up and up, past thin clouds, above the circle of light ringing the peak. Up close, Samara’s ring was thicker than he had ever realized.

Finally, Lindon looked down upon Sacred Valley.

Mount Venture was gone.

Reddish rocks were scattered all over the center of the valley, crushing trees and buildings as far away as the Wei and Li territories. The Kazan clan was…buried.

A monster crouched on their former home. The Wandering Titan was hunched over once again, feeding, but this time it wasn’t wrist-deep in the ground.

Mount Venture had been cracked open like a shell, revealing a golden treasure within.

A beacon of yellow light shone in a pillar up to the sky. Even suppressed by Sacred Valley’s formation, it gave off a sense of power that felt completely out of place here.

The source of that light was covered in the Wandering Titan’s hands, and it fed deeply, drawing with hunger madra. As he watched, Lindon was struck with how similar the two felt. It was like the Titan had been reunited with a piece of itself.

But second by second, the light began to flicker. Almost imperceptible at first, but it wouldn’t be too long until the Titan was done feeding.

[It’s not…it’s not getting stronger, is it?] Dross asked nervously. He was still inside the fortress, but he could share Lindon’s thoughts anyway.

Hard to tell. The Dreadgod gave off the impression of overwhelming power, but inside the suppression field, the Titan was certainly weaker than it was outside. Though Lindon thought perhaps it did feel a little stronger than before. Then again, he was having an easier time sensing everything in Sacred Valley. It must be an effect of leaving the formation behind himself, and having his former power slowly restored.

Dross’ mental voice was high-pitched. [Ready, ah, ready to leave!]

Go! Now!

Under Dross’ control, Windfall lifted off even as Lindon streaked down to meet them. One Li family was halfway on, and two members tumbled off the side.

He swooped down and caught them by the backs of their collars, hauling them up to the rest of their family.

He could do nothing for the others.

The ones left behind screamed and begged for him to return, but he had already landed on the house. There was a hatch on the roof, and he used his power as a key to prove his identity and slip inside.

Dross was launching the fortress now, but his madra wouldn’t be enough to fuel it for long, with the aura here as thin as it was. Lindon took over as soon as he entered the control room, letting pure madra flood out to the scripts.

To his surprise, the control room was crowded. Orthos and his family sat off to the side, but so did many of the refugees from the Li, Kazan, and Wei clans, each keeping to their third of the room.

He had expected them to spread out across the fortress. He supposed they were seeking comfort in company.

The cloudship shot further into the air, but he activated another script, showing him Eithan’s cloudship. It was still grounded.

Did Eithan even have the madra to take off?

He was about to go back and help when Eithan’s ramp smoothly folded up, the ship lifting effortlessly from the ground. That was one problem solved.

Now he just had to pretend they weren’t leaving thousands upon thousands of people to die.

The Akura cloudships had stopped taking passengers as well, though some were still empty. They rushed away ahead of him, moving away from the Dreadgod as fast as possible. He didn’t blame them. They had stayed longer than he expected.

He tried to keep his thoughts focused, but somehow he had already activated a viewing construct to show him the scene behind him. The crowd of desperate people dashing down the slopes of Mount Samara was projected into the air. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from it.

Maybe some of them would make it.

“You saved these lives,” Orthos said gravely. “Focus on that.”

Lindon tried.

“Needed more time,” his father said. “With only another week, we could have gotten everyone.”

Lindon had faced enough trouble trying to get people to listen to him even with the imminent threat of a Dreadgod looming over them. Would they have listened to him at all if the danger weren’t at their heels?

Maybe. He could have tried.

[East!] Dross shouted suddenly. [East, east, east!]

The spirit’s emotions were hard to untangle, but they were definitely urgent. Lindon activated the viewing construct directed to the east, but he saw only the Desolate Wilds and the purple Akura cloudships dashing away.

But he thought he felt something. And he saw a speck…

No sooner had he noticed than the speck rushed over their heads. It was a long shaft of Forged crystalline madra the size of a tower, and it sped overhead at impossible speeds, kicking up a snowstorm as it passed by Samara’s peak.

The arrow struck with a deafening explosion, followed shortly by the roar of the Wandering Titan.

Then the golden sky darkened. Not with clouds, but with shadow madra.

With his delicate Sage senses, Lindon felt the fabric of the world ripple. A woman stepped from a tall column of darkness, a woman clad head-to-toe in armor of purple crystal and carrying a shimmering blue bow.

Akura Malice didn’t stand as tall as when she’d faced the Bleeding Phoenix, but she still towered over his airborne cloudship. She nodded once to his fortress—to him—and then rose into the air.

She took aim with her bow again, and Lindon’s heart lifted. They were saved.

But why had she stopped to see him?

A knock came from the door, and the feeling of a familiar presence soothed him. He released a heavy breath.

The hatch in the ceiling opened and Yerin dropped down. She landed easily, stretching her arms as though exhausted. “I’d contend I’ve done my part. How many Monarchs have you recruited today?”

Lindon commanded the cloudship to land.

15

If Lindon had thought the ground was trembling before, it was nothing compared to what the battle between Monarch and Dreadgod did to the earth.

The Desolate Wilds quaked around him, black trees losing leaves by the bushel. The Purelake, the glistening pool of crystalline water that nourished most of the wilds, shook as though in a high storm.

Families rushed off of Lindon’s fortress. They hadn’t wanted to leave so relatively close to Sacred Valley, but there wasn’t much choice.

He was going to fly back.

Ideally, they would take the people of Sacred Valley much further away, but this much of a head start was better than nothing. They needed to go back and give others the same chance.

The factions of the Desolate Wilds might not be welcoming to refugees, so Lindon left each family with a weapon, a handful of Underlord scales, and a wax seal stamped with the Arelius family crest.

That should be enough to get them started here, but if it failed…well, at least fellow sacred artists had more mercy than a Dreadgod.

Worse, The Bounding Gazelle had given up, and Eithan had withdrawn it.

“It’s made for high performance,” he’d said, “so it needs either richer aura or more madra. I’d prefer both.”

There had been discussion of Lindon possibly taking over the faster cloudship and Yerin flying Windfall, but the discussion threatened to eat more time than it saved. Eithan was now asleep in his house on the island, and Lindon had to hope that he would recover enough madra by the time they arrived that he could power The Bounding Gazelle again.

While they flew, they all watched the battle.

Malice’s massive form was visible in the sky, even hundreds of miles away, standing like a violet statue on a platform of air. She hovered just outside the boundary of Sacred Valley’s suppression field, firing arrows into her enemy.

At first, Lindon had wondered why the Monarchs had never taken this opportunity to kill the Dreadgods here before. Just trap them inside the field and then bombard them with attacks from outside.

But each arrow dimmed and shrunk the second it crossed the border into Sacred Valley. The Monarch techniques lost their power in seconds, though they still contained a depth of complexity and reality-warping weight that he couldn’t fully understand.

He knew they were making an impact because the Titan roared in response to each one. As Lindon turned the fortress to drift back to Sacred Valley, he felt the golden power of the Dreadgod flare…and then retreat.

Not far. The Titan was only lumbering back the other way. But as Malice flew around the edges of the circular suppression field, keeping up her barrage of attacks, Lindon’s heart climbed.

She was doing it.

Lindon’s mother wrote furiously on her notepad. “Do you gain in size as you advance? Or can you control your growth?”

“Sacred beasts can get bigger than a pregnant mountain,” Yerin answered quickly. “People don’t, at least not any I’ve clapped eyes on.” She nodded to Malice. “That one’s not much bigger than me. Shorter than you. It’s the armor that grows, it’s like a shell.”

Yerin was standing stiffly, her back straight, deliberately looking in another direction to appear casual but flicking her gaze to Seisha with every word.

Lindon’s mother brightened, her writing picking up speed. “Really. And you’ve met her?”

“Not to polish myself up, but I fought under her banner in the Uncr—uh, a tournament for the whole world.” Yerin’s Broken Crown bloomed over her head, a wide black halo. “Came in first, as it happens. Not that trophies matter.”

Lindon had tried to leave his family behind as they had set down in the Desolate Wilds. He had been thoroughly outvoted.

Seisha made an appropriate sound of awe, and even Jaran grunted approvingly. Kelsa leaned forward. “Pardon if this is too much to ask, but can I see the trophy?”

Lindon thought Yerin was about to start sweating. “No, well, I was just talking out the side of my mouth. Didn’t get a trophy. But I would have, if they…had one.”

Without taking his attention from the controls, or the battle happening in the sky, Lindon gestured to the Broken Crown. “That’s the trophy. It’s a unique treasure that only the top eight of each tournament earn.”

Kelsa reached out her hands as though to touch it, but pulled back before she did. Seisha’s pen moved so that Lindon was sure she was sketching the Crown.

“Were you watching the tournament?” Jaran asked.

While Lindon was trying to think of the best way to dodge the question, Yerin popped in. “He fought himself. Top sixteen. There are recordings of his fights, or you can get a memory from the audience. Now I think of it, Dross could…”

She trailed off and looked at Lindon hopefully.

[I could give them Lindon’s memories, but they might be too…ah, what’s the word…heavy for them. The recordings released by the Ninecloud Court are appropriate for all advancement levels. I could try reproducing them myself, but it might be better to get one from the Court.]

Jaran grunted. “Sixteen. Out of how many?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Lindon said. “Yerin won, and the woman fighting up there is queen over most of the continent. She came here as a personal favor to Yerin.”

Yerin’s cheeks tinged red, but she glanced at Lindon’s parents, clearly eager to see how they would take the news.

Lindon was hoping to keep the topic of conversation away from himself. He couldn’t explain anything he’d done in simple enough terms to get his parents to understand it without looking like he was desperately bragging.

[Maybe I could do a better job than the Court,] Dross mused to no one in particular. [I could add my own special flair to it.]

“You brought her here?” Kelsa asked in awe. She could have watched the battle through the projection construct, but instead she was craning her neck to watch Malice out the windows with her own eyes.

Seisha dipped her head to Yerin. “This one thanks you for going to such lengths for our home.”

Jaran inclined his head too, though he was looking slightly in the wrong direction. “Yes, we are honored to have you go so far for your student.”

The console flared a little too brightly as Lindon’s madra became disordered.

Yerin’s mouth dropped open. “Yeah, student, not…I mean to say, uh, bleed me. Lindon, did you tell them—”

“No!” Lindon steadied his breathing. “I haven’t spoken with them much at all. There’s been no time. There isn’t much time now, in fact. We should be arriving soon.”

The colossal sounds of battle had grown distant, though the occasional flare of madra suggested that Malice was still fighting the Titan on the other side of the mountains.

Jaran frowned, but Kelsa and Seisha had caught the scent of blood.

Orthos chuckled and opened his mouth wide to take a bite out of a nearby chair, but he reluctantly closed his jaws again. “You don’t have a snack, do you?”

Lindon quickly opened his void key, pulled out a bundle of firewood, and tossed it to the turtle, who snapped it out of the air.

Little Blue peeped up in agreement, and Lindon flipped her a scale of pure madra.

“So she’s not your teacher,” Kelsa went on. Her back was to the window now, and she settled into the chair that Orthos had been about to eat.

Lindon’s mother smiled kindly. “Yerin, wasn’t it? Why don’t you come here so I can get a better look at you?”

Yerin breathed like she was facing down an executioner, but turned stiffly on her heel. Her six Goldsigns quivered behind her.

“Well, Lindon.” Jaran’s mood had markedly improved. “You must have grown into yourself since you left. Tall, strong, good shoulders. I bet you have my jawline, too. How’s his chin?”

“We could be in for a rough landing,” Lindon said anxiously. “We’ll have to be ready to move quickly. Now would be a good time to get prepared.”

Dross piped up. [Oh, right, you haven’t seen him! Here, I can show you. Consider this a sample of what I can do with the memories of the tournament.]

A moment later, Jaran’s eyebrows lifted. “Makes sense now. Advancement does the body good.”

“She’s a powerful sacred artist,” Kelsa said. “She doesn’t care about his jawline.”

Seisha shrugged. “I’m sure it didn’t hurt. So, Yerin, you must know Lindon well.”

“Yes.” Yerin’s Goldsigns were trying to tie themselves in knots.

“We haven’t gotten to know the new Lindon much ourselves. I’d be very grateful if you could fill us in on what we missed.”

It was his mother’s way of asking “What do you see in him?” without sounding rude, and Lindon was honestly relieved. Yerin wouldn’t answer that question.

Either she would hear an implied insult to Lindon, in which case she would strike back, or she would be embarrassed by the question and dodge it.

[Oooohhh you should have asked me for a simulation on that one,] Dross said.

What do you mean?

[That’s what Yerin would have done. Before.]

Lindon didn’t figure out what Dross meant before Yerin responded. “Might be you know this already, but he doesn’t give up. If you cut off two legs and an arm, he’d fight you with one hand and his teeth. If there’s a way to win, he’ll hunt it down or he’ll die on the trail.”

Lindon was too stunned to be flattered.

Yerin went on smoothly. “Haven’t spent long in your valley, but everybody I met tripped all over each other to see who could stab me in the back first. Guess you taught him right, because he’d twist himself inside out before he turned on me. If my core popped tomorrow and I was no better than a Copper, he wouldn’t leave me alone until he found a way to put me back together.”

The room was very quiet except for Orthos munching on firewood.

“He could have set himself up like a king in some corner of the world. Could have scooped you three up, set fire to Heaven’s Glory, and left. But he stuck around for people who treated him like their least-favorite whipping boy. Don’t know who he was before, but that’s who he is now.”

Her Goldsigns twisted again, and she coughed. “That’s what I contend, anyway. In my view. Might be I’ve polished him up too much.”

Lindon finally understood what Dross meant. Not long ago, Yerin would have been too embarrassed to say any of that.

But Ruby wouldn’t be.

Red eyes moved to his, and she gave him a shaky smile.

He couldn’t return it. He stared into her, thinking about how she saw him. He wasn’t as great as she described.

But he wanted to be.

She saw through him, and her smile became more genuine.

“Heavens above,” Kelsa muttered. “I should have left too.”

* * *

When they landed and left the cloud fortress, there were even more people flooding out of Sacred Valley. With the Akura cloudships gone, the number of people seeking refuge seemed endless.

Many of them had given up on the cloudships and now ran out into the world themselves, crossing the mountains and foothills east of Mount Samara on foot or in whatever vehicles they had brought with them.

Lindon wished them luck. There was no way he could go after them himself; he was going to have enough trouble with the people waiting for rides.

Hopefully, none of this would end up being necessary. Malice would drive off the Wandering Titan, and there would be no further damage to Sacred Valley or the other mountains.

If the only problem Lindon had to deal with in the aftermath of a Dreadgod attack was locating everyone who ran and bringing them home to rebuild, he would thank the heavens.

As their fortress began to fill up, he received another piece of good news: Mercy flew in unharmed, bobbing on her staff and waving eagerly to him.

When she reached him, she began to speak before she finished drifting to a halt. “So…who called my mother?”

“Don’t know why I needed to,” Yerin said. “I’d take it personal if a Dreadgod stomped around my back yard.”

“At least she came! But don’t be too grateful. She wouldn’t have shown up here if there wasn’t something in it for the family.”

Mercy leaned against the base of their cloud fortress, which she sank into like a giant pillow. As she did, she surreptitiously pushed something into the ground with the heel of her foot.

Without Dross, Lindon might not have noticed. The object she’d buried wasn’t easy to sense; it felt entirely mundane, with only lingering traces of spiritual power, so it was probably some scripted tool.

But around it, the world felt…thin. Like the invisible indentation Lindon had pressed on to create a portal.

“What was—” he began, but Mercy cut him off.

“The Li clan wasn’t as bad as you said they’d be,” she reported. “They wouldn’t listen to me at first, but once I impressed them a little, they did whatever I said.”

Dross materialized onto Lindon’s shoulder, frowning at Mercy’s foot. [You’ll have to do better than that to hide something from me. If you’re hiding something. If you’re not, stop acting like you are.]

Lindon sent his thoughts silently to the spirit. I don’t think we’re the ones she’s hiding from. Stop drawing attention.

Mercy gave him a wide-eyed plea, and Lindon nodded. He understood. Yerin looked between them, glanced at the ground, and then stretched out her arms. “Sounds like we’ve got more people to load. No time to stand around flapping our lips.”

Dross was still staring obviously at the spot under Mercy’s foot. His one eye couldn’t be open any wider, and he was slowly drifting closer to the ground.

“Dross,” Lindon said aloud.

[Yes?]

“We need to get back to work.”

[Okay, yes, of course, let’s go.]

He didn’t hide his staring at all.

With his Remnant arm, Lindon seized the spirit and spun him to face another direction. Dross’ eye swiveled to stay where it was.

You’ve got to stop.

[To stifle my intellectual curiosity would be to deny who I am.]

I suspect we both know what it is.

[That’s why I’m so curious! Are we right? Are you wrong? We must confirm.]

Get back in my head.

In a huff, Dross vanished.

Mercy was acting as casually as she could while kicking dirt over the spot where she’d just been standing. “Looks like you’ve got a full load here. I can stay here, keep the peace.”

“I’d feel steadier if you rode with us,” Yerin said. “If we have to bolt, we want to stay together.”

That brought up something Lindon had wondered about for a while. “Speaking of which, have you seen Ziel?”

Mercy sighed and shook her head. “If anyone’s heard from him, I thought it would be you and Dross. I could stay back and wait for him! It might be…inconvenient…having me aboard. Under these circumstances.”

From the other side of Sacred Valley, a tongue of shadow madra leaped into the air like a burst of flame from a bonfire.

Lindon had wondered why Malice hadn’t taken Mercy back already. Maybe she hadn’t noticed her daughter’s presence in Sacred Valley…or maybe she had been waiting for Mercy to leave on her own.

“We’re more than happy to have you aboard,” Lindon said, hopping onto the cloud himself. “I would feel better if you were with us too.”

Mercy scratched her nose, glanced around as though looking for another opinion, then sighed and joined them.

They lifted off for the second time, Samara’s ring now bright. The golden sky had dulled to bronze, and the Titan’s influence had thinned so that stars even peeked through here and there.

As they drifted higher, past the curving light of Samara’s ring, they caught sight of the Monarch’s fight once again.

Malice stood almost as tall as the Dreadgod now, though the Titan still loomed over her. Its back was to Sacred Valley, and thus to Lindon, and its tail flattened trees as it lashed back and forth.

The Monarch looked like a tamer working with a dangerous creature. She leaned close, provoking the Dreadgod to swipe at her, and then stepped backwards to loose an arrow of Forged blue madra.

Weakened by the field around Sacred Valley, the arrow only splashed against the Wandering Titan’s rocky skin, but it still enraged the Dreadgod.

The creature roared, bringing its hands together. Loose stones rose from the earth for miles, gathering in the air between its palms. Golden light formed a ball around them, until the Titan held a sphere of deadly madra, aura, and actual physical stones in its hands.

Lindon had seen Abyssal Palace priests use a similar technique, though of course never on this scale. And the Titan was still within Sacred Valley’s restrictions. How could it use sacred arts of that level with its advancement suppressed?

The technique blasted out, but Malice simply let it crash onto her breastplate. The amethyst armor stood firm, rocks and chunks of yellow madra spraying out over the landscape for miles behind her.

The Dreadgod gave one more frustrated roar, throwing its head back to scream into the sky…

…then it marched out of Sacred Valley.

Its black, serpentine tail carved a canyon in the soil as it followed Malice, furious. Lindon could feel its power recovering with every breath, and so of course could Malice; she created space by leaping backwards, readying an arrow on her bow.

She needed to keep the Titan on the hook, so she couldn’t move too far away, lest it turn back again. At the same time, she didn’t want to fully engage and risk starting a full-scale fight here.

Malice still needed to tease the enemy away, but as far as Lindon was concerned, she’d won. She had pulled the Dreadgod away from Sacred Valley.

Granted, the Valley wasn’t in pristine shape anymore, but it was mostly intact. He could see Elder Whisper’s tall tower from here, and the purple slopes of Yoma Mountain. They could rebuild.

Yerin gripped Lindon’s forearm. “Lindon.”

He leaned toward her, giving her some of his attention, but didn’t take his eyes from the battle.

“Lindon.”

His bones were starting to hurt under her grip. He looked up to her…and her red eyes were shining. Literally. They lit up like scripts, and he could feel blood aura slowly strengthening all around her.

But not just around her.

Outside the windows, the burnished bronze of the sky began to swirl with another, brighter color. The moon, a dim secondary light to Samara’s ring, slowly melted from a cool and soothing blue to a bright pink-tinged red.

[Uh, Lindon…]

No, Lindon prayed. Please no.

He held Suriel’s marble in a tight fist. Maybe his wishes could reach Suriel, and she could turn back time or rewrite the truth. Anything to undo what he felt now.

One of the refugees in the room began to scream. She wore a stained bandage around one arm, and the blood had begun to writhe under the wrappings.

From beneath the red moon, there came the searing cry of a great phoenix.

16

Northstrider drove his boot down on a skull bigger than he was. With the slightest flex of blood and force aura, the power carried throughout the creature’s body.

Every bone in the dreadbeast shattered at once. Its heart burst.

The twisted, corrupted lizard—the size of a large house—had only been a Lord-level beast. But you never knew what abominations would crawl out of a Dreadgod’s wake. It was always best to wipe pests out when you had the chance.

The important thing was that he stay where he was.

He stood in the center of a wide swath of devastation that the Wandering Titan had cut across the landscape as it marched eastward from Sky’s Edge. It had ruined many of the squat towers that Abyssal Palace had left for it, but the cult wouldn’t mind. The towers were meant to be destroyed.

The towers would collect the Dreadgod’s power and store it in scripts in the foundation, waiting to be harvested by Abyssal Palace members later. It was one of the many ways in which the cultists benefited from the destruction the Dreadgod brought.

At least, they would benefit from it. If Northstrider weren’t standing in their way.

Ordinarily, he wouldn’t be able to block an entire Dreadgod cult like this. Abyssal Palace had enough experts, and enough high-grade weapons made from the Titan’s madra, that they could be a threat even to him.

But the floating pyramid that was their headquarters, rolling on a cloud of hovering boulders, now listed to one side. A jagged hole had been torn into the Palace itself, and their Herald was recovering within.

They might have been able to push Northstrider aside…except they had just spent their resources on another Monarch. Akura Fury had cost the cults more than they ever expected to spend.

They had survived, though the other three fled. Northstrider knew from experience that it was hard to fully destroy such an ancient organization, even if they didn’t have a Monarch backing them. Which they did.

But at the same time, unless one of them was carrying Reigan Shen in their pocket, there was nothing they could do to push past Northstrider.

So he had stayed here for days in a stalemate as they waited for him to leave. That was their miscalculation. He didn’t hold many lands, as the other Monarchs did, so he had few vulnerabilities that could be exploited in his absence.

His research could be completed here almost as well as anywhere.

With a thought and a quick twist of aura, he drew streams of blood from the hundreds of dreadbeast corpses surrounding him. The liquid separated themselves into vials, which returned to his void key. At the same time, their hunger bindings ripped themselves free of flesh and separated into cases.

He had no use for such worthless power personally, but all dreadbeasts experienced changes in the presence of the Dreadgods. He understood the nature of hunger madra better than anyone else alive, but it was still valuable to study its effects on flesh, which could hopefully one day be controlled. Since he would never risk the inside of the labyrinth again, the wild dreadbeasts were the best source of information and materials.

This was just a side project for him, but side projects could sometimes lead to unexpected benefits.

At the same time, he kept his spiritual perception on the Titan. The main reason he had personally intervened with the Dreadgods this time was their strange behavior the past few years, starting with the early awakening of the Phoenix. Now, the Titan had fixated on one particular labyrinth entrance.

Were they learning?

It hardly took any concentration to feel the Titan. It was only a few hundred miles away, and Dreadgods were spiritually…loud.

It was impossible to miss one, but precisely because of that, they tended to deafen you to anything else happening around them.

The Bleeding Phoenix, for instance, had been scattered over miles of wilderness for two years, so it was a constant noise. It had been stirring all day, most likely in response to the proximity of its sibling.

He kept his attention primarily focused on the Titan, sparing only a thought for the Phoenix. Malice was steering her opponent away from the labyrinth entrance without fully engaging it, which was perfect. Northstrider stood in reserve, but he would prefer not to engage the Dreadgods himself. It was best to let them rampage for a while, tire themselves out, and then return to their rest.

His oracle codex shouted into his mind: [Warning! Threat approaching!]

It redirected his attention north, to the Phoenix.

Northstrider clenched his fists tight, and before he realized it, he was drifting upward. Abyssal Palace engaged its propulsion constructs and began to flee, but he had no attention to spare for them.

The Phoenix was moving. Fast.

It was heading for the Titan.

With a tight focus of will, Northstrider pushed through the Way. He was swallowed up in blue flows for a moment, taking him to his destination, but he had them spit him back into reality a few miles from his destination.

He needed to be close, but not too close. The Dreadgods had powerful wills, and he would be vulnerable coming out of the portal.

When he emerged again, he was hovering in the clouds over a mountain whose peak had been broken off long ago. It was covered in streams, one in particular forming a river that stretched down into a valley.

He looked to the east, where he heard a searing cry. The Phoenix swooped in, spraying condensed blood madra over the ground. From this distance, he couldn’t tell if it was striking at a target or just expressing its wrath, but its deadly breath scorched the ground for miles.

If the beam of red light had been any aspect other than blood, it would have left the terrain devastated, but blood madra disproportionately affected flesh. Any animal in the path of that Striker technique was now dead.

And Malice was on the other side of the valley.

His codex sped up his thoughts, so it seemed time slowed down. Malice, with her armor the size of the Titan itself, was on the west side of the suppression field. The Titan had just emerged from the field itself, and it too was distracted by the arrival of its brother.

On the east side, the Phoenix was turning toward the valley. Refugees fled beneath it, but they were so weak as to be invisible to the Dreadgod. That didn’t make them safe—on the contrary, they would be torn apart by the bloodspawn, not to mention the collateral damage from the Phoenix itself—but no one down there could attract the attention of a hungry Dreadgod.

Until his oracle codex drew his attention to his own spiritual perception, and he realized who he was feeling down there.

Then his irritation flared into true anger.

The most valuable young sacred artists on the continent were all down there, clustered together. With Dross, a powerful tool deserving of further study. They had deliberately placed themselves in the path of a Dreadgod.

And Malice had allowed this…idiocy.

Including a pseudo-Herald who had merged with her Blood Shadow. The power of the Phoenix itself.

The Dreadgod’s scarlet eye swiveled to focus on a particular cloudship down there, and Northstrider unleashed his spirit.

Malice was going to owe him for this.

* * *

Ziel and the Kazan clan reached the base of Mount Samara, and the huge river of people pushing to get out.

It had been hard enough to march across the landscape with it constantly shaking under the footsteps of two giants. The most vulnerable members of the clan, and the families with small children—including the Patriarch’s wife and children—had flown off long before, but the Kazan had no abundance of flying mounts or constructs.

Therefore, they had to make their painful way across a ground that tossed like a sea in storm as the Monarch clashed with the Dreadgod. Each arrow that crashed into the Titan’s skin sounded like a collapsing tower, though Ziel recognized that the Monarch’s might was suppressed by the field around Sacred Valley just like everyone else’s.

Every step the clan took was shrouded in fear, because the very earth could betray them. A tree might fall, crushing someone, or a wagon would be swallowed up by a chasm.

Even Ziel cheered her on. In his own way. He nodded approvingly and grunted once or twice, at least.

He would rather lose someone here and there to accidents than everyone to a Dreadgod. At least in this scenario, when he was quick enough, he could save some.

And Akura Malice was pushing the Titan away. In only a few more steps, it would be drawn away from Sacred Valley entirely.

So when he and the Kazan clan did finally reach the mass of humanity pushing to leave through Heaven’s Glory, Ziel’s heart flooded with relief. He made the mistake of thinking, We made it.

Then the crystal song of a giant bird filled the air. Rather than peaceful, it sounded like a war cry, and the sky began to swirl with red.

Ziel had never heard that song before, but it didn’t take a genius to figure out what it was.

He called his hammer from his soulspace. Not that he thought he could fight; he clutched it to stop his hands from trembling.

Around him, Kazan men and women mounted on their craghounds shifted and muttered uneasily. The Patriarch and several elders looked to Ziel. “Pardon, but what was that?”

Ziel’s gaze was nailed to the east.

He remembered the storm rolling in, flashing blue and gold as living lightning slipped in and out like fish in the sea. The majestic roar, as the Weeping Dragon approached. He had watched the horizon then, awed by its majesty.

His mouth was too dry for the first word. He swallowed, cleared his throat, and tried again. “Run,” Ziel whispered.

Around them, some of the other Kazan began to scream. They had traveled overland during a fight between the Wandering Titan and a Monarch; not one of them was free of scratches and bruises, even discounting the greater wounds.

Wherever blood dripped from the ground, separating itself from the body of the host, bloodspawn began to rise.

They were slow here. Weak. The blood aura was thin.

The Patriarch seized Ziel by the front of the outer robe. “What is happening?” he demanded.

“Go to the north,” Ziel said. “Or the south. Anywhere…anywhere else.”

A Dreadgod to the west, and a Dreadgod to the east.

What had he been thinking, staying with these people and taking his chances with the Titan? Then again, how could he have known they were only moving toward the Phoenix?

Effortlessly, he broke the Patriarch’s hold on him and returned to the one remaining flying transport in the clan: his own Thousand-Mile Cloud.

He rose into the air even as the Bleeding Phoenix itself flew past Samara’s ring. It seemed as big as a mountain, and it looked exactly as he’d always heard: smooth as a liquid, pure red, and somehow…revolting. Twisted. Wrong.

The Dreadgod gave another resonant, echoing cry, and spewed red light down on the land outside the valley.

Ziel flew resolutely away.

His hammer weighed down the Thousand-Mile Cloud, so he sucked the weapon back into his soulspace, but without anything to hold onto, his fingers kept shaking. He had to clasp them together.

He paid no attention to the screams from beneath him, because they were drowned out by other screams. Older screams.

The Weeping Dragon had brought with it lesser dragons, spirits of Stormcaller madra, which had been repelled by the Dawnwing sect’s defenses. Until the Stormcallers themselves had torn those defenses down.

Then he’d seen hungry lightning tear men apart.

Ziel intentionally fixed his eyes on the sky so as not to see the bloodspawn, so it was with a strange sense of separation that he realized he was actually staring at the ground.

Bloodspawn, like little parodies of men constructed from blood madra and the will of the Phoenix. They were red puppets, some of them shifting to take on crude shapes of the madra of those they fed on. When they rose from the Kazan clan, they were mostly blocky clay men.

Here, a Kazan woman pushed her copy back and smashed its head open with a club. Some of his followers had resisted the dragons too.

There, a young man was beaten down by the hammer-like fists of a bloodspawn. He was lucky. The dragons had been even more brutal.

Directly beneath Ziel, a bloodspawn’s head opened wide to feast on a fallen man. This was the one common aspect between all the Dreadgods: hunger. Those of them that Forged these spirits did so to feed.

So he had seen this before. Over and over again. As the Sage of Calling Storms bound him in place and propped him up so he could see the rest of the sect being devoured.

At first, he had strained, trembling in helpless fury. Wishing he could tear free, his hammer in hand, and splatter the dragons into a red spray.

Wait.

The dragons were spirits of lightning madra. They had no blood. When they were destroyed, they splattered into blue essence and gold sparks.

So why was he covered in slowly dissolving blood madra?

The fallen man at his feet stirred, but Ziel had already swung into another of the spawn nearby. The feeling of it splattering was viscerally satisfying.

He focused on that with such intensity that he forgot his fear of the Dreadgods. Their situation faded into the back of his mind.

It was all about breaking bloodspawn.

He crushed a few more, but others already rose. If he really wanted to win this game, he would need his Path.

He poured himself into Forging a green rune, bigger than his chest, complex and intricate. He threw it hundreds of yards away, but it would only hover as long as he didn’t quite complete the Forging. So he had to hold the technique as he Forged more and more.

As he did, the Kazan clan gathered around him. They fought the spawn of the Bleeding Phoenix, covering Ziel, apparently realizing that whatever he was doing, it would win them the day.

But the bloodspawn realized something too, pushing against the human barrier around Ziel. One of their necks stretched, carrying its featureless head close to Ziel. A mouth stretched across its blank crimson face, cracking into a maw full of teeth so it could take a bite out of Ziel’s flesh. His body was stronger than the others here, richer in blood aura, so it was the most tempting treat.

Ziel didn’t care.

He was solely focused on breaking as many of these spawn as possible. It was the only thought he still had room for.

The bloodspawn’s jaws snapped down on him, its upper teeth scraping his horns.

Then he triggered his boundary field.

Every one of the bloodspawn exploded.

They sprayed liquid blood madra—and in some cases, actual blood—over everyone around. Ziel stood in the center of seven orbiting green runes, and the circle was perhaps three or four hundred yards wide. He had caught hundreds of spawn.

Or so his spiritual sense told him.

His face was covered in blood.

He wiped his eyes clean with his fingers and glanced around, finding the Kazan clan packing in close around him. A cheer rose from among them as though of its own accord.

The Patriarch slapped Ziel on the back. “Gratitude! But you should warn us next time. We thought you were leaving us.”

The state of unnatural focus passed, but it didn’t leave the fear in its wake. Instead, Ziel felt like himself again.

He sighed.

“What would be the point of that?” Ziel said. “Not like I have anywhere to go.”

That wasn’t true, and he knew it. Akura Malice was here, and she wouldn’t let her daughter face down a Dreadgod without giving her a way out. If he could get to Mercy, he could still escape from this mess.

But that would mean leaving these people behind.

The one good thing about the arrival of the Bleeding Phoenix was that it had scared off the people trying to leave through Heaven’s Glory. The crowd pushing their way up the side of Mount Samara had scattered, fleeing in every other direction.

Ziel pointed. “Hey, look at that. Line’s shorter.”

* * *

Lindon felt his eyes change to blue as pure madra flowed through him.

He grabbed Yerin’s wrist, pulling her off-balance while he dropped low to drive his left palm at her core.

A Forged blue-white imprint of his palm covered her midsection as his Empty Palm landed, driving madra from her core.

But he didn’t know how the Empty Palm would affect a Herald.

Combat report! Lindon called desperately.

[Call me naïve, but I think we should save that for an actual enemy.]

Yerin grunted when the technique landed, but she gave him a reproachful look afterwards. “Still me. Phoenix doesn’t hold my leash.”

“Apologies. I wasn’t certain.”

Yerin waved a hand casually behind her, and a pulse of blood and sword aura tore the half-formed bloodspawn to pieces as it tried to emerge from the girl’s bandage.

The girl shrieked and tore off her wrappings, crawling as far away from them as possible. Lindon admired her appropriate reaction.

“More spawn rising,” Yerin reported. “I’ll take care of them. Just get us away.”

Another cry came from the north, and this time Lindon could see something slowly flapping great wings. Something that covered the northern horizon like a bank of clouds.

Kelsa walked up behind him, her mouth open in horror. “Is that…”

“A second one,” Lindon confirmed. His stomach churned.

“…what about the people who haven’t made it out?”

That was what he wanted to know too.

“We’ve done everything we can,” he said, voice tight. “We just have to hope the Phoenix leaves them alone.”

[And doesn’t follow us,] Dross put in.

Kelsa’s face twisted in pain and concern, but she nodded. As Yerin made her way out the door to deal with bloodspawn, he focused entirely on pouring his spirit into the control console. There was no such thing as running too fast.

While he did, he glanced back at the projection that showed what was behind him. Shadow crawled over Malice, and she started to melt into the ground…only for the Wandering Titan to stomp its foot.

From miles away, Lindon felt her portal break.

The darkness shattered, and Malice stood exactly where she’d started, but she didn’t hesitate. She hurled a glob of sticky shadow madra with one hand, and it exploded into a web. The Strings of Shadow tied the Titan down, while at the same time, heavy darkness rippled through the depths of her violet armor like a wave.

Her full-body Enforcer technique made her sink deeper into the ground, but Lindon could feel the weight as she speared the Titan in the chest with the butt of her bow.

A column of wind blasted over Sacred Valley, tearing up yet more trees. Mount Samara should be far enough away that the Irons and Coppers down there wouldn’t be in too much danger, but Lindon worried for anyone left down in the valley itself.

The Titan staggered back a step, but its tail whipped up and struck Malice in the side. She was knocked off her feet, and Lindon thought she might stumble through a mountain…but, gracefully, she turned that fall into flight.

Wind aura cushioned her before she hit the ground, and in another great hurricane burst, she shot away.

Heading south.

Lindon was certain the Monarch was about to circle around the outside of the suppression field to meet the Phoenix, but he didn’t see it happen. His attention was called away by a bright red light filtering through the windows.

The Phoenix’s head swiveled to look at them.

Lindon was growing used to feeling the willpower of others. He had Consumed thoughts from the Titan itself, had withstood Fury’s test of will, and he’d been sensing the weight of will behind Malice’s attacks.

Only when he felt the Bleeding Phoenix focus on his cloudship did he realize how far he still had to go.

The weight of the Dreadgod’s attention caused the blood aura in the area to flare in power. Lindon reacted immediately, flooding out the Hollow Domain and his own willpower to push against the pressure.

He defended his family and some of the others from Sacred Valley, but he couldn’t cover everyone. He hadn’t been out of Sacred Valley’s suppression field for long, and hadn’t regained his full strength.

One man from the Li clan keeled over, blood running from his eyes. Several others collapsed, their bodies twitching.

Bloodspawn didn’t rise from them…at least not yet.

The cloud fortress had a script specifically to protect it from sudden destruction by Sages and Heralds. It protected them from the worst of the Phoenix’s attention. So this could only get worse.

Lindon could feel the script, all around the ship. It blazed bright red, overloaded by the Phoenix’s power. The protection was only meant to stop glancing blows, and wouldn’t protect from an all-out attack. Or sustained pressure.

Beneath them, the scripts began to crack.

Under the Dreadgod’s stare.

What can we do? Lindon demanded of Dross. He was already going over every weapon and ability he had. Sages were supposed to be able to help against Dreadgods.

[Lindon, I…] Dross was at a loss for words.

Yerin whimpered behind him. He spun to see her curled up in a ball in the corner. Her knees were drawn up, her six Goldsigns covering her in a cage. Her red eyes were filled with absolute terror.

“It wants me back,” she whispered, and Lindon heard Ruby in those words.

A stone sank into Lindon’s gut as he realized it was true. The Phoenix wasn’t focused on the rest of them. It was looking for Yerin.

Lindon focused as he hadn’t since pulling Dross back from Northstrider. He felt space bend and buckle beneath this will, desperately drawing his power together to get them away from here.

The Phoenix’s willpower brushed his aside like a passing ship shoving past a fish.

It let out another cry, and Yerin staggered to her feet. White light gathered around her as she prepared to activate the Moonlight Bridge.

She was running. Trying to draw the Phoenix away.

Lindon lunged for her…but her Divine Treasure faded on its own. It hadn’t recovered yet.

The scripts in the cloudship cracked further.

And suddenly, the pressure on them lifted.

The Dreadgod’s great head snapped up, focusing on a new figure. A tiny dot in the distance, to Lindon’s eyes, shrouded in a spiraling serpent of red light.

Northstrider slammed his fist into the head of the Dreadgod with an explosion of force. Trees far below were stripped of leaves. Even miles away, the broad windows on their cloudship cracked. The sound was deafening.

The Phoenix was hammered down from the sky, almost slamming into the earth before it caught itself on its massive wings and a cushion of wind aura.

Lindon took a deep breath. If it had crashed into the ground, the impact might have destroyed the entire Desolate Wilds.

He sent pure madra flooding into the controls so they drifted away from the fight as the Monarch of the Hungry Deep met the Bleeding Phoenix in battle.

Legions of spirits rose from the Phoenix, tiny versions of itself splitting off from its body. They looked like red raindrops rising upward from its body. Northstrider responded with another punch that launched a serpentine dragon of scarlet madra. The dragon devoured the cloud of phoenixes, roaring as it did.

That was the only exchange slow enough for Lindon to catch.

In the next second, the Dreadgod unleashed lightning, a wall of sword-madra slashes, a smaller cloud of bird-spirits, and a beam of concentrated destructive light from its beak. All of its techniques were tinged blood-red. It moved constantly as it fought, a blur of motion covering half the sky.

Northstrider conjured dragons, he struck with blows that split the clouds, he summoned planes of black force that shielded him, and he moved even faster than the Phoenix. They spiraled around one another so that even Dross couldn’t track them perfectly.

But it was obvious, even to Lindon, that Northstrider was out of his depth.

The dragons he Forged were torn apart by the slightest brush of the Phoenix’s talons. His walls of force—no doubt created by a sacred instrument of some kind—shattered before they could cover him. And the feeling of the Phoenix continued growing by the moment.

Even so, Northstrider wasn’t overwhelmed. The battle was tilted against him, but not so terribly as Lindon had imagined.

He understood for the first time the dilemma the Monarchs faced with the Dreadgods. They could fight on an almost even level, but if the Monarchs pushed too hard, the Dreadgods would awaken and work together. And the Monarchs had people to protect, while the Dreadgods didn’t.

But there was something to that explanation that didn’t quite satisfy Lindon.

The Monarchs were that close in power to the Phoenix; Malice had fought it more or less to a standstill for three days the last time. And even if the Dreadgods joined forces, they were still outnumbered by Monarchs.

There had to be something else. Something…

A feeling of utter cold passed over Windfall like a glacier shooting through the sky. Lindon’s body and spirit shivered together as it chilled him on a more-than-physical level, but it was past them in a second.

The Phoenix’s head came up, and it snapped its beak onto one of Malice’s glistening blue arrows. The missile shattered.

A purple-armored fist followed it an instant later as Malice punched the Dreadgod in the ribs.

This time, the impact did blow out Lindon’s windows.

He was ready for it, pushing out with force and wind aura to blast the glass shards back before they slashed all the Sacred Valley refugees to ribbons. The crowd was screaming, but Lindon couldn’t hear them.

Now darkness was interspersed with red light as the second Monarch joined the battle. If Lindon had thought it was hard to follow before, it was chaos now.

And devastating for the land beneath.

Malice strode through foothills, and they became a plain. The impact from one of Northstrider’s strikes stripped a forest bare. One of the Phoenix’s techniques was deflected, and bloody fire rained down.

There was only one saving grace: the Monarchs were pulling the battle away from Sacred Valley. Every second, they were further north.

Lindon’s heart hammered, and he checked the viewing constructs in the fortress. Some of them had blown out, or the scripts that controlled them had, but some were still intact. An image floated over his console, flickering and indistinct because of the damage.

The eastern slopes of Mount Samara were covered in rubble. And filled with bodies.

As he watched, armies of bloodspawn rose like ants.

He quickly turned the projection to another direction, trying not to vomit all over the control panels. How many people who had left Sacred Valley on foot had survived? Had anyone?

His own spiritual sense told him that the suppression field had stopped the worst of it for the people inside, blunting even the physical force from the blows. Crowds still pushed their way out of Heaven’s Glory…though the human tide slowed with reluctance as they saw the bodies piled on the eastern side.

Then he found the Titan.

It was standing just outside the ruins of Mount Venture, still except for its lashing tail, watching as the northern horizon was lit red by the battle. Lindon’s heart tensed as he waited for it to go join the fight. If it did, would the Monarchs be overwhelmed? Or did they have some kind of plan? Maybe an ambush?

His first breath passed while the Wandering Titan stood still, except for its writhing tail. Then his second breath.

His third breath caught in his throat as the Titan turned. Slow, lumbering, the giant turned back toward Sacred Valley.

The yellow beacon that had once rested inside Mount Venture was still dim and flickering, but the Titan marched over in one stride, ignoring it. The Dreadgod took one purposeful step after another, marching across Sacred Valley.

And leaving it in ruins.

Its footsteps crushed trees like grass. Its tail lashed out behind it, knocking more chunks from the ruined Mount Venture…and as it continued walking, its tail cut into more and more.

Lindon felt like his heart had stopped beating.

From their vantage point, high above Samara’s ring and moving south quickly, the high-quality viewing constructs from the Ninecloud Court picked up the destruction in great detail. Not all of them had been damaged, and this projection was crystal clear.

So Lindon missed nothing as the Dreadgod waded into the Wei clan.

The central avenue, the artery that supplied traffic for all the major businesses in the clan, vanished beneath its colossal foot.

Earth aura flashed out in a golden wave, and the earth rippled like water. Entire housing districts were torn apart by rolling earth, including the Shi family. Somewhere in that chaos of destroyed buildings and uprooted trees rested the remnants of Lindon’s childhood home.

A black tail slashed through the middle of Elder Whisper’s tower, and the top half toppled slowly to shatter on the ground.

If the elder hadn’t escaped when he had the chance, then he was dead now.

The Titan didn’t even notice as it kicked aside the arena where the last Seven-Year Festival had been fought. Where Lindon had met Suriel. Where he had first seen this vision of the Titan wading into Sacred Valley.

The vision he’d failed to stop.

With inexorable steps, the Titan was heading their direction. It seemed to be drawn to Samara’s ring, but not in a particular hurry. To the Dreadgod, it was simply time for a stroll.

Mercy laid a hand on his shoulder. “You should turn that off,” she said quietly.

Only then did Lindon remember that the construct was projecting this image into the air. If he could see it, so could everyone else.

His family, and several dozen other refugees from Sacred Valley, had just seen their home destroyed.

“Apologies,” Lindon whispered.

The view cut off.

But he could still see it. He could feel it, his entire being focused on it.

Tears tracked down his sister’s face as she approached him. “Is there…is there something we can do?”

Lindon barely saw her.

“Maybe we could go back? We can find more room. Even…even if we can save one more person…”

The Titan wasn’t in a hurry, but Sacred Valley wasn’t a long walk for it. If it continued walking in the same direction, it would reach Mount Samara in a matter of minutes.

Lindon stopped the cloud’s propulsion. They could go back. At the very least, they’d be able to pick up a few more people.

His spirit screamed a warning, and he looked up at the windows that were once full of glass. All he could see was a wall of purple crystal.

Mercy threw herself at it, leaping forward. “Stop!” she shouted.

Akura Malice’s fist closed around the cloudship, and they were swallowed in shadow. For a few long heartbeats, Lindon was alone in the darkness.

He couldn’t even feel his own body. All he could feel was the space twisting around him and the sinking numbness of failure.

[It…it wasn’t a failure,] Dross said. [It wasn’t! …Lindon?]

The darkness fell away.

They floated over a dark city. Spires of smooth black stone reached to the violet-tinted sky, and the shadow aura was thick here. Luminous flowers shone white, pink, or blue from carefully cultivated public gardens, and Remnant horses pulled carriages through the sky on tracks of purple flame. All around the city, walls stretched up, black and imposing.

Some of the remaining Irons cried out, groping blindly as their senses weren’t strong enough to penetrate the haze. Lindon had to steer the fortress away from a smaller cloudship before it crashed directly into them.

Far below, a scripted spire stood proudly from an open courtyard. A teleportation anchor.

Even for a Monarch, it would have been hard to send their entire cloudship through space in one trip. Malice had sent them to the one place she could reach easily.

Moongrave. Capital of the Akura clan.

The fight for Sacred Valley was over.

17

The cloudship was anything but quiet as they drifted in the wind over Moongrave.

While Lindon had been focusing on the battle with the Dreadgods, bloodspawn had risen all over the ship. Some of them had been destroyed, but others were still attacking, and it took him and Eithan a moment of concentration to destroy them.

In the meantime, virtually everyone was shouting something.

“What happened?” Lindon’s father demanded. “We’re not moving!”

His mother clung to Kelsa, holding a glowing blue-and-yellow sword in one hand and a matching shield in the other. Products of her Soulsmithing, which she must have been hiding somewhere. She looked to Lindon with terrified eyes. “Where are we?” she asked, and she probably meant to sound demanding, but it came out as a plea.

Kelsa pushed her way free of her mother, dashing aside to the open windows to peer down, getting a look around and shouting descriptions of their surroundings.

Orthos was a burning lump of shell in the corner, and his head snuck out of his shell. He let out a long breath of smoke. “Safe. We are safe.”

Yerin wasn’t shuddering in the corner anymore. She was slumped against the wall, her head hanging. “Useless,” she mumbled.

For Lindon, every second crawled by as though Dross was speeding up his thoughts, but that one word from Yerin speared him through the heart.

He turned around and gathered her up. She let him, all eight arms hanging limply to her sides.

“Lost my spine. Almost buried you all.”

No. She wasn’t the one who had led them all to the edge of their deaths.

“I’m so sorry,” Lindon whispered into her hair. “Yerin, I…I’m just…I’m so sorry.”

She gave a dry laugh. “Sorry for dragging us along?” Yerin tapped the side of her head. “Mostly, there’s only one in here. For a blink there, we had two again. Both of us about to ruin our robes, and curled up like we’re looking to die.”

Lindon squeezed tighter. That wasn’t what had scared him.

She hadn’t frozen up. She’d tried to leave. He had seen the Moonlight Bridge begin to activate.

If she could have, she would have tossed herself to the Bleeding Phoenix.

A hand rested on Lindon’s shoulder, and he turned to see Eithan looking serious. “Ziel isn’t here,” he said in a low voice. “Nor are Jai Long and Jai Chen. They’re resourceful enough that they may survive, but in a battle like that, there are no guarantees.”

Kelsa straightened up. “Jai Long? They left. They’ve been gone for…what, two days?”

Eithan gave her a sympathetic smile, but he didn’t correct himself.

And Lindon knew just as well what Eithan wasn’t saying.

Dross, what happens if the Wandering Titan keeps heading east?

[He might stop at the mountain. If one of them had a huge power source like that, best to guess that they all do. Then maybe he’ll feed on that and go back to sleep!]

And if it doesn’t?

[…there’s no source of aura to interest him for who knows how many thousands of miles east. The Desolate Wilds and Blackflame Empire are too weak. He’ll probably stop to feed on something, but more likely he just keeps wandering until he gets tired.]

And that was assuming the Titan didn’t stop and turn Sacred Valley upside-down looking for whatever prize it wanted. Lindon had been assured several times that ancient security measures had stopped that from happening before, but there was no guarantee it would be the same result this time.

The most likely scenario was that it wandered east, wrecking the Desolate Wilds and the Blackflame Empire. The same way it had destroyed Sacred Valley.

Lindon pulled away from Yerin and removed Suriel’s marble from his pocket. The candle-flame burned as steady and blue as ever, but its calming aura felt like a lie.

The vision of his own future had stopped when he died, so he hadn’t seen what the Dreadgod had done after destroying Sacred Valley. Maybe in this reality, they had averted a worse future. Even if that were true, the fate had come a lot sooner.

And Lindon had failed to stop it.

[Ah, but look at it this way,] Dross said. [Did you fail?]

Dross drew his attention to the dozens of lives still remaining in the cloudship. They were battered and cut and bruised and in terrible shape, but they were alive.

Not to mention the hundreds—maybe thousands; Lindon couldn’t be sure—who had made it out on the Akura ships before. Dross pulled up that memory and shoved it right into his mind’s eye.

The spirit prodded him further. [What did you really set out to do?]

To save Sacred Valley.

That was the answer, and they were the words he’d always used to himself when he thought about his purpose for gaining strength.

But what did that mean, really?

Saving his family? They were safe. Here in Moongrave, with Mercy’s endorsement, they could be as safe as anywhere. Once their cloud fortress was repaired, he could take them with him or even leave them here.

Lindon had always pictured himself saving his home, but deep down, he had wished for something else as well. He’d wanted to stride back into the Wei clan and show them his great power.

He mocked himself for that now. The people of Sacred Valley hadn’t been impressed even when they should have been.

The best he’d accomplished was bullying them into obeying.

As a distant third, he’d wanted to preserve the place he’d grown up. He had been gone from Sacred Valley for a long time now, but it had been his home for longer. He had almost as many fond memories there as painful ones.

Now…it was too late for that. It was gone.

The images of the bodies, spilled all over the foothills of Mount Samara, cut him as though the memory was razor-edged. They had died outside Sacred Valley, just as they would have died if they had stayed home.

But some had made it.

And some were still trying to leave. Still trying to escape.

Even so, Lindon felt the burden on himself lighten. Akura Charity had been a Sage before he was born—before his father was born, probably—and even she couldn’t have taken him across the continent in one trip. There was nothing he could do. The battle was over.

[Ooh, that’s what I said! I said that! Focus on the victory and not, you know, the failure. All that failure.]

Lindon did, and he found the lack of responsibility a welcome relief. He would be wrestling with himself for the rest of his life, he knew, looking to find every little detail he should have done differently to save more lives.

But right now, he couldn’t save more than he already had.

Only then did he notice Mercy, standing against the windows. She held her dragon-headed staff loosely in one hand, and the wind from outside stirred glass shards around her feet and whipped her ponytail into her face.

She had turned around, but otherwise stood exactly where she’d reached when she’d lunged for her mother’s hand. Now she chewed on her lip so strongly that blood welled up.

As Lindon met her eyes, she spoke, as reluctantly as if he’d pulled the words out of her.

“Does anyone want to go back?”

A buzz passed through Lindon’s body. At the same time, he and Dross remembered the item she’d left buried outside of Sacred Valley’s suppression field.

I was right, Lindon thought, and he himself didn’t know if the words were excited or hollow.

[I was way off,] Dross said.

From her void key, Mercy pulled out a stone carved with script. It looked as though she’d etched the scripts herself, and Lindon knew what it was even without inspecting it closely.

The stone itself wouldn’t do anything. Neither did the script, when it was powered. It only linked to a teleportation anchor.

Like the one Mercy had taken from Daji. The one she’d left buried in Sacred Valley when she’d seen her mother show up.

She had known Malice might send her away, and had prepared herself a way back.

That same anchor had allowed the Blood Sage to transport a group of Overlords halfway across the world in one trip. Such small teleportation anchors were disposable—permanent ones were huge, like the tower beneath them that Malice had used to send them here to Moongrave—but this one had been made by Reigan Shen. It would last another trip.

“We’ll need you to carry us there, if you can,” Mercy went on. They all knew it would be difficult for Lindon to move so many people, even if the anchor made it possible. “But…do we…”

She took a deep breath.

“It’s not like there’s much we can do. We can’t bring anyone back.”

That was a safe bet. Now that they were here, Lindon could carve a device with the corresponding script to the anchor beneath them, so they had a route back to Moongrave.

But he wasn’t sure he could make it all the way to Sacred Valley, much less come back. And there was no way he could bring back more people than he started with.

Which meant there would be only one reason to go back.

To stall the Titan.

His mother was breathing heavily, a notepad clutched to her chest. “Going back?” A general stir of terrified confusion passed through the Sacred Valley residents in the room.

“Don’t be stupid,” Jaran said, rapping his cane on the floor.

Kelsa slumped into a chair. She looked exhausted, and tears had run tracks in the ash and dust caking her face, but her voice was firm. “It wouldn’t be fair to you to go back. You owe them nothing. In fact, everyone who escaped owes you all their lives.”

Lindon’s sister turned to him, straightened her back in the chair, and dipped her head. “Gratitude.”

Repeated bows and murmurs of “Gratitude” passed through the room.

They weren’t bowing just to him, but to all the outsiders: Eithan, Mercy, Yerin, and Orthos. But those four looked to Lindon.

This was his home. They were only here because of him. And they would go back if he asked them to.

But what was he going to do? Fight a Dreadgod to buy time in the hopes that a few more people might get away? It might already be too late; the Titan may have crashed through Mount Samara and killed everyone by now.

Lindon could theoretically affect a Dreadgod, but theoretically a child with a sharpened stick could kill a tiger.

He had never stopped rolling Suriel’s marble between his fingers, and now he held it up. All this power, he had gained to protect Sacred Valley.

Now, he didn’t know what to do.

For the second time in a day, he gripped the marble and prayed.

I don’t know what to do. Help me.

* * *

Unknown Location

The Way

[Report complete,] Suriel’s Presence said.

As Suriel drifted along the blue rivers that made up the basis of all existence, she caught up on the diversion that she had allowed to distract her for the last few standard years: the journey of Wei Shi Lindon.

He had grown faster than she had expected. Faster than most models of him had predicted, though at the time, she hadn’t realized how much Ozriel’s meddling had changed things. Or how Makiel’s alterations would speed Cradle’s destiny.

By all odds, Lindon should have been dead by now, but here he was, debating whether to go back and face down a Dreadgod. She looked forward to his choice.

[The battle with the Vroshir might make it difficult to get further news from Cradle,] her Presence reminded her. [Probability of future delay is very high.]

She considered that. As always, her Presence didn’t speak solely in words, but also in thoughts and impressions, meaning conveyed directly into her mind.

It was reminding her that, the next time she got news from Cradle, there was every chance that Lindon would be dead.

Cradle would be protected even in the most extreme circumstances of the war, so she didn’t fear for the world itself too much. The Vroshir would have to extend themselves on several fronts and sacrifice valuable worlds to penetrate Sector Eleven.

They didn’t work that way. They were bandits, after as much bounty as they could with as little risk to themselves as possible.

The one exception was the Mad King, and Suriel went to face him now.

And she didn’t need her Presence to remind her that it might not be Wei Shi Lindon who died first. Despite all odds and projections, it was a possibility that he might outlive her.

Do you have a suggestion? Suriel asked.

Her Presence had its personality tuned down—she liked conversation, and would have enjoyed a more expressive companion, but she found chatty Presences unprofessional. Still, that didn’t mean the construct had nothing to say.

[Beacon located,] the Presence said, transmitting the image of the sealed marble containing Suriel’s power. Lindon was currently rolling it in his hands, trying to make a decision. [Temporal synchronization possible. Communication possible. Expected delay to final destination: point-zero-four-three seconds.]

Suriel had given Lindon the marble so that she could find him again if and when he ascended. Or possibly when he faced the choice of whether or not to ascend. This was too early, and her Presence knew that.

Then again, that was only something she had decided herself. She hadn’t spoken any sort of oath.

And Lindon had manifested an Icon, even brushing against the Way at a rudimentary level. Technically, he could ascend now, far ahead of schedule.

That should be rewarded.

Begin transmission, Suriel commanded.

[Excellent decision,] her Presence said.

Suriel began to wonder if its personality might be set too high after all.

* * *

As Lindon stared into the blue flame of Suriel’s marble, Dross began to panic.

[What is this? What’s happening? Hey, get out of here! Shoo! No, you can’t kick me out! I live h—]

A cool, distant, female voice replaced his. One that Lindon recognized. [Prepare to receive transmission.]

Before Lindon could “prepare” anything, he found himself sitting in a simple, wooden room.

It was primitive, but comfortable. The ceiling, walls, and floor were all polished wood, and each seemed to be made of one piece rather than planks bound together. There were no windows, but a fire burned in a hearth, the smoke carried up the chimney. Even the hearth and the chimney looked like they had been grown out of the same wood that made up the rest of the room.

He sat in a smooth wooden chair, though it was darker than the walls, and faced a similar chair a few feet away from him. That one was empty.

Other than the fireplace, the only features of the room were trophies hanging on the wall. Bunches of herbs, with flowers that radiated life aura. A red potion spinning in a sealed bottle, sitting on a tiny shelf. A dagger with a long handle and tiny, razor-sharp blade was mounted on a ceramic plaque on the wall. That weapon felt heavy to his Sage senses, like the attacks he’d sensed from Malice.

A structure emerged from one wall like moss-colored antlers, though he was certain they had not been taken from any dead animal. They felt alive in their own right, even then. They hung next to a drifting oval of pure strands of light and a few tiny winged spirits in a glass cage.

Lindon took in all the objects with his eyes and perception in one brief moment, but none caught his attention fully.

He was focused on figuring out what this was.

He could still use his spiritual perception, which implied that his spirit was here, and his body felt physically present. He moved with no problems, and the room smelled of woodsmoke and flowers, so his senses were working.

But Dross was gone, and the voice had told him to prepare for transmission. Either he had been transmitted somewhere else, or someone was transmitting a message directly into his mind. Or some other, stranger method that he had no frame of reference to understand.

Still, he felt excitement rather than fear. His clothes had come with him, but not his void keys or his badge. The one object that had followed him was Suriel’s marble, still burning steadily in his hand.

And he was certain he recognized that ghostly voice.

A moment later, he was proven right.

Suriel materialized in the far corner of the room, smiling gently.

She looked different than he remembered her, and he didn’t know if his memory had faded with time or if she had dulled her appearance before. Rather than a deep, muddy green, her hair was now a bright and vivid emerald. Her eyes were purple, but brighter and less human than Mercy’s, and symbols swirled in the iris.

His immediate instinct was to lean closer and try to figure out those runes, but it was a fleeting thought.

She wore seamless white armor, as she had before, which flowed like a liquid rather than having any sort of visible joints. Lines of gray smoke snaked up from her fingertips on one arm, terminating at the back of her skull.

And Suriel herself was flawless, like she had been perfected. She stood out in this wooden room like a shining jewel sitting on a dirty kitchen counter.

He hurriedly stood and bowed, but she strolled around to the second chair, pulling it back and sliding in. She sat comfortably, one leg crossed over the other, and spoke softly.

“Wei Shi Lindon. It’s good to speak with you directly again.”

“The honor and pleasure are mine. I had never thought that I would have the great fortune to meet you again until I left my world behind.”

“I hadn’t expected that either. There are circumstances in the greater realms of existence that have changed much of what we thought would come to pass.” She waved a hand. “You can sit. This space is modeled on a house that I’ve always liked. My old home, back in my world.”

As Lindon sat, Suriel chuckled. “The reality is much cozier than this. I have so many treasures and trophies that it can be difficult for visitors to walk.”

Lindon glanced to the walls. “So, if you don’t mind me asking, are these illusions? Or are they copies? They feel so real.”

If they were copies, perhaps he could take one. Even the crude imitation of something that Suriel would collect might turn his situation entirely around.

“They are real, but they aren’t precisely here. These are just the projections of those treasures I’ve collected that are so significant they intrude even on depictions of the place.”

Lindon leaned forward, looking earnestly into her eyes.

If he paid close enough attention, he was certain he could draw some of those runes. They seemed to shift, as though multiple symbols occupied the same space at the same time.

“Gratitude. I need your help now more than ever. The Wandering Titan has come to Sacred Valley.”

He wasn’t sure if he would have to explain the situation further—honestly, he expected that she was more familiar with Cradle than he was—but she nodded along.

“I know. I’ve been keeping my eye on you.”

That was comforting, on one level. He had always somewhat hoped that Suriel was watching over him from above.

But to be told that in person was unexpectedly embarrassing.

He was suddenly flooded with all the memories she might have seen. Had she seen him fail over and over again, learning Soulsmithing? Several of those constructs had blown up. Had she heard the awkward words he’d stumbled over as he tried to express his feelings to Yerin?

Heavens above, had she been reading his thoughts?

He had to put a stop to that before the shame overcame him, so he bowed his head. “Gratitude. I am…relieved to have such a reliable ally.”

“I would have watched you die,” Suriel said, in the same gentle, kindly tone as before. “I expected I would, more than once. It would sadden me, and I hoped for your success, but I could not guarantee it. As I told you before, we have rules restricting the degree to which we can interfere.”

Lindon squeezed the marble in his hand. “I know,” he said, “but please accept my gratitude regardless. You have helped me…”

He had been about to say “You have helped me more than you know,” but that surely wasn’t true. And was probably insulting to someone who could read thoughts and the future.

“…more than I deserve,” he finished. “But, if you’ll forgive my curiosity, how are you able to contact me now? Is this not interference?”

Her expression grew more serious. “I spoke of dire circumstances before. We are fighting battles outside of your world, battles that shouldn’t affect you…but they might anyway. Cradle may begin experiencing minor corruption. It’s possible that those in your world may begin to encounter spaces or beings for whom the rules of reality no longer consistently apply. Strange apparitions, monsters, locations where nightmares crawl from your mind or the sacred arts no longer function.

“If you see these things, know that you will never be abandoned. My organization considers Cradle one of our core worlds, meaning that we will defend you to our last breath.”

Lindon felt a chill.

If there was something going on outside Cradle that required so much attention from not just Suriel, but the others at her level, then how much danger were they in?

Lindon remembered the projection from Ozriel’s marble, where he had seen the Abidan spread out in white-armored legions, each with abilities beyond the Monarchs. And Suriel had been among the seven—or eight; Lindon didn’t understand exactly where Ozriel fit into the structure—at the forefront of them all.

Then again, if they were dealing with threats on that scope, surely one little Dreadgod would be nothing to her.

“There are very few advantages to such a situation,” Suriel continued. “One is that I have some more leeway in how I am permitted to act. As they say: when your boat already has a hole in the bottom, no one cares if you chip the paint.”

Lindon seized on that. “I know this is shameless for me to ask, when you’ve already done so much, but if you can intervene…please, save Sacred Valley.”

Her smile returned. “I already did.”

“Yes, I’m sorry, I know you’ve descended to save us once already. It’s asking too much for you to—”

She looked nothing like his actual mother, but he felt motherly kindness radiating from her. “You are my solution. Fate has been accelerated so this day arrived sooner than it ever should have. But now it’s here, and you are in position.”

Lindon’s stomach twisted as he realized she was relying on him to go back and face the Dreadgod…because she thought he could do something. Her estimation of him was too high.

“Apologies, but I’m afraid I might be weaker than you think.” He was afraid to look her in the eyes. “I’m not…I don’t mean to argue with you, but I am not ready.”

He would do what he could, would strain himself to his limit, but he understood where his limits lay. He wasn’t powerful enough to save everyone.

“Ready?” She leaned forward and tapped him on the forehead with two fingers.

Suddenly, he was seeing through someone else’s eyes. Crouched, shivering, on the deck of a cloudship as men and women in Akura colors passed out hot food.

The deck wasn’t full, but it was crowded. The people from Sacred Valley had divided themselves—clans and Schools sticking with their own kind—but there were at least a few dozen visible, and he saw a few heading downstairs, suggesting more on a lower deck.

Her fingers released, and the vision faded.

“Lindon, when I said I already saved them, I meant I already did.” She leaned back in her chair, satisfied. “Or should I say, you already did.”

He remembered the sight of the crowds squeezing out of the exit on Mount Samara. “There are so many people still back there.”

“You don’t have to save everyone,” Suriel said. “It’s a lesson you learn and learn. I wasn’t the one who told you to save Sacred Valley. You decided to do that, so you decide when you’ve succeeded.”

She moved until her scripted eyes had his full attention. “And you decide who you’re going to be after that.”

Lindon knew what he was going to do afterwards. He was going to return to his advancement without so much pressure hanging over his head.

A faint smile crossed her lips again, and she gestured as though tapping him on the forehead one more time.

Suddenly, he was hovering over Sacred Valley, a Thousand-Mile Cloud beneath his feet. Yerin and Eithan floated to either side of him, and the Wandering Titan stared them down.

The three of them unloaded their most powerful attacks in coordination, and they struck a heavy blow against the Titan.

Until its tail caught Yerin unexpectedly. Lindon lunged out of position, and the hand of a Dreadgod closed over him.

Lindon died.

Then he was on Windfall, and he decided not to go back. The months sped by as they gathered the remainders of Sacred Valley. There were more survivors than he expected; tens of thousands of them.

They re-settled Sacred Valley one restored building at a time. The suppression field was weakened, and somehow—the vision skipped over this part—he managed to deactivate it completely.

Lindon saw himself, looking virtually the same as he did now, tutoring his three black-haired children in the sacred arts with Yerin at his side. His future self reached out, scanning the children…and checking each of their twin cores.

The futures washed over Lindon, so he only got a glimpse of each.

There were futures where he and Yerin split up and went their own separate ways, futures where he had children, futures where he and Yerin ascended from Cradle in months, even futures where he married Mercy.

And there were futures where he killed the Dreadgods.

He saw himself years in the future, one arm white and one coated in what looked like black scales, his eyes black pools with white circles. He stood over the crumpled body of the Wandering Titan, cycling its power…and condensing the spare earth madra as he vented it, tucking it away for storage.

Northstrider loomed up opposite him, moving for the Titan, and Lindon appeared in his way. The clash of their wills warped space, and the vision changed.

Lindon saw himself with a giant white tiger—the Silent King—splayed open and hanging in the air in front of him. Blood spattered the room, and he sawed away with Wavedancer, carving out a beautiful binding like a smooth pearl.

Outside, the world trembled under the pressure of the three remaining Dreadgods, but he had his prize already. He could do what no one had ever been able to do: forge a weapon with the power of a Dreadgod.

The visions passed, leaving Lindon feeling out of breath. He sunk deeper into his chair, though surely he didn’t have lungs here.

“That…those were…possible futures, right?”

“Strands of Fate. All possible, if some more likely than others. And that list was by no means exhaustive.”

“My children…” It seemed like a silly detail to focus on, but his curiosity pushed him forward. “Did they practice the Heart of Twin Stars?”

“If things play out as they do in that strand, you’ll leave behind a more powerful bloodline legacy than just split cores. Not to mention the gifts they receive from their mother.”

Lindon’s imagination spun ahead of him. How powerful would his children be? He might leave behind an ability that outshone even the Arelius detection web.

He noticed Suriel watching him, running armored fingertips over the smoky lines that drifted across the back of her arm. “You could leave behind a bloodline that has all the advantages you lacked. They would have a much easier start than you did. But how many people, from powerful families with unending resources, have made it as far as you have so quickly?”

The gray ghost of a woman appeared over her shoulder and began to speak, but Suriel stopped it with a gesture. “The legacy you inherit is nothing compared to the legacy you leave behind.”

Suriel waved to her ghost, exchanging words with it that Lindon was not permitted to understand. That left him to his thoughts, chewing over her words.

When their incomprehensible conversation ended, Suriel sighed and turned back to Lindon. “Even here, we don’t have unlimited time. But I hope this has helped you.”

Lindon pressed his fists together and stood so he could bow deeply. “I cannot express my gratitude enough.”

The Abidan continued softly. “I’m sure you remember what I said before. Any sage will tell you that every Path boils down to one: improve yourself. But you’re a Sage yourself now. You should know the rest.”

She stood from her own chair, lifting his face to meet hers. “You improve yourself, but not for yourself alone. For a greater purpose.”

“Apologies,” Lindon said, “but this is my purpose.”

“No, this was your goal. Not your purpose.”

“So then…what is it?”

She rested her hand on his shoulder, and rather than a messenger of the distant heavens, he saw her as a friend lending him encouragement.

“You have the chance to show me that. Wei Shi Lindon…show me the future.”

* * *

[—here! You’re just a guest! You—Lindon! Where did you go? Wait, are you back? Is it really you? Say something that only the original you, and not an exact, perfect copy of yourself, would ever say.]

Lindon didn’t say anything.

With a brief effort of will, he opened a void key. Not his. Sophara’s.

Ekeri’s armored Remnant growled at Lindon as he entered, but he wasn’t here for her. At his intention, natural treasures began to rise from their sealed, scripted chests all around the room.

There were two here that were more powerful than the others: a source of water and fire aura. They were sealed off now, in scripted jars of their own, but he could still feel them.

For this, he didn’t need them. He needed balance. He gathered up some of the weaker treasures, matching them effortlessly to one another and burning them for soulfire. He needed to top himself off for this, and he had used up some of his soulfire. More had leaked away under the influence of Sacred Valley’s suppression field.

When he had replenished himself, he began to arrange stronger treasures in a circle around him.

[Advancing won’t be an advantage inside the suppression field,] Dross pointed out. [We’ll just lose power faster.]

But it will help against the Titan.

[“Help” is such a strong word.]

Advancing to Overlord to fight a Dreadgod was like a child bringing two sharpened sticks to fight a tiger instead of one, but Lindon would take everything he could get.

Someone sidled up beside him, but Lindon had felt him on his way. “You should stand back,” Lindon said. “If I make a mistake, you could be hurt.”

“Don’t make a mistake,” Orthos said before crunching into an empty wooden chest that had recently contained a natural treasure.

Lindon nodded absently. He was already hesitant to waste time advancing when every second counted, but the better prepared he could be, the more people he could save.

When the treasures had been arranged neatly around him, Lindon felt the soulfire in his spirit begin to resonate. The aura that blew in from Moongrave, rich and thick compared to Sacred Valley, shook in harmony with his soul.

And Lindon prepared himself with the words he had figured out days before. The Underlord revelation was about what motivated you to begin, but the Overlord revelation was who you were now.

“I…advance,” Lindon said.

He moved forward, onto the next challenge, no matter what stood in his way.

Even the Wandering Titan itself.

The aura shook around him, the treasures burned to colorless fire, and they swirled through him. Unlike his Underlord revelation, which felt like it had deconstructed and rebuilt him from head to toe, this advancement was a cleansing.

The soulfire passed through him in a hot wind, searing and comforting at once. His channels grew stronger, his cores flared brighter, and the lingering weakness from his time in the suppression field was washed away.

In seconds, Lindon walked away as an Overlord. He could have imagined it, but it seemed that Ekeri’s Remnant nodded to him.

Orthos stayed where he was, watching the other natural treasures. “I would like to use these.”

The turtle would need soulfire too, but Lindon didn’t at the moment. All the other tools he required were in his personal key.

He took the golden ring on its cord off his neck, putting Sophara’s void key around Orthos’ head. Then he rested his hand on the turtle’s shell.

“I’m glad we found you,” Lindon said quietly.

“I was never lost.”

Lindon walked back out of the void key, where of course everyone had felt his advancement. Yerin gave him a lopsided smile and gripped her sword, ready to fight. Mercy nodded, but she looked worried. Eithan stroked his chin thoughtfully.

Lindon held up one hand to Mercy, and she tossed him the scripted stone.

“Hold on a moment,” Eithan said, but he was standing too far away.

Lindon caught the stone and focused his will. He met Yerin’s red eyes. “I’ll see you soon.”

The horrified realization had only just appeared on her face when she lunged for him, but she couldn’t stop him that way. She would have been better off standing in place and pitting her willpower against his.

“Return,” Lindon commanded himself.

In a rush of blue, he vanished.

* * *

With every swing of his spear, Jai Long cursed himself. He was a fool.

They should have left the second they knew a Dreadgod was involved. Why had they ever stayed to take their chances?

Now they were miles outside of Sacred Valley, but the world was still a nightmare battlefield. The forest around them—their leaves only slightly tinged black with the corruption of the Desolate Wilds—had been completely leveled. The battle between the Dreadgod and the giant had devastated the landscape for as far as he could see; footprints left lakes, and he could see straight through a hole in a far-off mountain.

Or he could, if he could spare the attention to look.

Each sweep of his spearhead traced white light behind it, and the Stellar Spear madra came alive with the will of the Remnant who had long ago infested him. The Striker technique became a snake that sought out enemies, drilling through their head or chest.

But there were always more bloodspawn.

Jai Chen directed Fingerling, who breathed his strange pink madra over a bloodspawn that looked like it had been made from scarlet scissors strapped together to walk like a man. Fingerling’s breath didn’t behave like fire, or even fire madra, but like a dense cloud that passed over the jagged spawn and dissolved it.

But as this bloodspawn fell, it stretched out its arms and slashed at the legs of a man who was trying to sprint passed it. The man screamed, but even the new hole in his leg didn’t stop him from continuing to flee, hobbling and leaking a red trail with every step.

And from that trail, another bloodspawn rose.

Jai Long speared it as it formed, but they were surrounded by bodies, and either the Phoenix hadn’t moved far enough away, or its influence lingered. Blood gathered up into these grotesque puppets of men and women.

He tried to use his techniques sparingly, but if he was growing exhausted, his sister could barely breathe.

Around him, he felt only chaos. Pressure from the Dreadgods, malicious hunger from the bloodspawn, and disordered madra of every aspect from the crowds of people fleeing Sacred Valley and spreading into the forest.

Jai Long looked east, and he saw a swath carved through the forest ahead of them. Black spots were dashing across that space, and only by focusing his spiritual perception did he realize those were dreadbeasts.

First a few, but that trickle almost immediately became a torrent. Dreadbeasts were famously enraged by the approach of Dreadgods, and the Desolate Wilds was home to more dreadbeasts than anywhere else he’d ever heard of.

Coldly, Jai Long realized that they were about to die.

He had known they might be killed by the Wandering Titan, but that was like being killed by a thunderbolt or torn apart by an aura-storm. It was a force of nature you could do nothing about, and at least it was over in a moment.

Now, the bloodspawn would wear them down. Even if they escaped, there were dreadbeasts ahead of them and the Wandering Titan behind.

With one surge of soulfire-enhanced madra, Jai Long whipped his spear in a circle. The force of his blow and the power of his serpents of living madra tore open a clear space around him. Bodies and bloodspawn were equally torn apart and shoved back, giving him enough space to work.

He leaped over to a log, dragging it closer. With a few quick stabs, he separated the fallen tree into segments, and dragged them into a circle around the edges of the empty space.

A bloodspawn clambered over the side, and he blocked its Striker technique before returning one of his own.

His core flickered, dim at the center of his spirit, but he focused on his task. Jai Chen had picked up on his project, and was helping him keep the circle clear. That took enough pressure off that he could begin carving symbols into the segments of log.

The work couldn’t have taken more than two or three minutes, but it felt like hours before their crude script—stabbed into pieces of log arranged in a rough circle—activated with a flare of white light.

It would push spiritual powers away, repelling Remnants and bloodspawn. Even dreadbeasts, to a lesser extent.

But it couldn’t stop them. Any script that solid would put too much strain on the material, and the first impact against it would send his logs tumbling.

Upon immediate activation, a bloodspawn with flourishing tree branches for limbs stumbled back, then shuffled around the edges of the script to look for prey elsewhere.

It would help…but it wouldn’t stop everything.

Sure enough, a dense, more advanced bloodspawn shaped like a man with a sword in his hand shied back from the script, but he crawled over the log to get to them. Jai Long faced him with no techniques, but they had to exchange blows several times before he got the better of the spawn, sending a chunk of its madra fizzing away to essence.

Jai Chen had finished another on her side, but even Fingerling was growing tired, drifting lower in the air.

More bloodspawn flowed around them, but some still ignored the repulsion and climbed in.

They would still die now, only slower. This was nothing but a way to stall for a little more time.

But wasn’t that every day?

A bear-like dreadbeast leaped over the back log, and Jai Long braced his spear against the ground. The rotting bear impaled its chest on the length of the spear, but didn’t seem to care, rabidly snarling and swiping at Jai Long.

He left the spear and the bear, turning to stiffen his fingers and Enforce them like a weapon. The Star’s Edge technique sharpened his hand with a point of bright white sword-and-light madra, and he drove his fingers through a bloodspawn’s chest.

While the technique was still going, he spun and slashed open the bear’s throat.

Jai Long was breathing hard, and his mask seemed to be getting in his way. Roughly, he tore off the bandages, baring his hideous fanged smile to the world.

The air wasn’t fresh, it was filled with smoke and dust and the stink of blood and rot, but he gulped down deep breaths anyway.

He seized his spear, kicked the dying bear dreadbeast off the end, and turned his weapon to work on a bloodspawn.

The last of his madra failed him, and soon he was fighting with nothing but the strength of his limbs. Even so, he swore an oath to the heavens.

If nothing else, he would die before his sister did.

* * *

One long second after vanishing from Moongrave, Lindon landed on his hands and knees in half-melted snow, surrounded by debris and wind-torn trees. People screamed around him as they fought featureless humanoids of red madra that rose from mere droplets of blood. To the east, Lindon felt hordes of dreadbeasts filtering out from the Desolate Wilds, driven mad by the presence of a Dreadgod.

As he recovered from the exhaustion of his working, Lindon felt nothing but relief. Mount Samara was still in one place. He’d made it.

The earth shook beneath his hands to a steady rhythm. Footsteps. Lindon heaved a breath and pushed himself to his feet.

He hadn’t come here to rest.

The chaos around him resembled a battlefield. More and more people poured endlessly from the Heaven’s Glory pass, stumbling over bodies, and Lindon couldn’t tell if they had been destroyed by the powerful wind or the falling boulders or if they had simply been trampled alive.

Formerly bound Remnants ran wild, darting through the crowd. Children hunkered together behind a broken and overturned cart. And everywhere, people ran from or struggled with freshly risen bloodspawn.

All the while, the dreadbeasts were on their way.

Do we have enough launchers? Lindon asked Dross.

[We need to hurry.] The earthquakes now couldn’t be compared to the ones from before; with each heavy pound of the Titan’s footsteps on the earth, Lindon was lifted off his feet. […but yeah, we have enough to eliminate a majority. The bloodspawn here are especially weak, thanks to the aura and the general flimsiness of the hosts.]

Lindon’s void key opened, causing several people nearby to scream and flee. Launcher constructs, some complete and some half-formed, flew out on gusts of air. He had stocked up, in case he needed to make another cannon. Wavedancer followed, sluggish in this aura.

Take over.

[Yes, Captain!]

Lindon rose into the air on cushions of wind aura. Though the vital aura here was weak, he still had an easier time controlling it thanks to his Overlord spirit. He wouldn’t be able to freely fly like this, but he could hover in the air, giving Dross a better vantage point. Now they could see far more targets.

Lindon controlled the aura and powered the constructs, but Dross handled targeting. The spirit’s attention split thirty, forty, fifty ways.

[Aaaannnnd done!]

Lindon triggered all the launchers at once.

Striker techniques of every color and description lanced out, tracing a web all over the pandemonium of fleeing people. Bloodspawn splattered, melted, imploded, wilted, dissolved, collapsed, and deflated.

The second, third, fourth, and fifth shots came on the heels of the first. Some of the bindings and unfinished constructs broke after the first shot, some after the second, and a few more on the third.

In only a breath, over a hundred bloodspawn had been eliminated. Not a single bystander was scratched.

Lindon let the expended launchers fall to the ground, hissing essence of every color into the air, and returned the functional constructs to his void key. His eyes were on the sky.

The footsteps were growing heavier.

The entire process had taken only a breath, but it was still time they couldn’t afford to lose. The constructs traded place with his Thousand-Mile Cloud, and he raced into the sky.

* * *

Jai Long had felt Lindon arrive.

Even exhausted and weak as his spirit was, he could sense the arrival of a spirit much stronger than anything in his immediate vicinity.

He didn’t feel any hope. He was too tired for that. Even if Lindon had come to save him specifically, Jai Long couldn’t spare any attention from the battle.

He climbed over dreadbeast corpses, hefting the halves of his broken spear in each hand. His sister screamed nonsense as she stabbed her dagger into a rabbit dreadbeast’s eye, and he hurled his spearhead through a flying bloodspawn that had tried to take advantage of her distraction.

Then the sky lit up.

Pulses of light—Striker techniques—rushed out in every color. Dreadbeasts exploded into corrupted flesh. Bloodspawn were torn to essence.

Where monsters were, light followed.

Jai Long’s weapons fell from numb, tingling fingers. He had seen sights like this before; when an entire sect of sacred artists unleashed a barrage of Striker techniques all at once.

He turned to the source.

Lindon hovered in the air, his back to Jai Long. He was surrounded by a halo of shining constructs, firing in every direction. A rainbow of colors streaked out from him, and just for that moment, he looked like he had sprouted a pair of wings made of light.

For a frozen moment he hung there, blazing like a many-colored phoenix.

Then the Striker techniques stopped. The world settled down.

Compared to the noise of battle before, the silence that settled over them in that moment felt unnatural. Jai Chen hobbled up to stand next to her brother, her mouth hanging open and an expression of awe on her blood-spattered face.

Sound returned with a deep rumble as the earth shook like a drum. A footstep of the Wandering Titan.

Lindon summoned a Thousand-Mile Cloud and flew off.

Sage of Twin Stars, Jai Long thought. He believed it now.

Then he collapsed.

18

Iteration 129: Oasis

Images, impressions, and desperate voices screamed through Suriel’s head. From a hundred Iterations at once, Abidan begged for help.

The Vroshir had held nothing back. In one world, their war machines crashed through deserts, while in another their fleets blackened planets, and all across the cosmos their champions met Abidan guardians blade-to-blade.

They were defending only a pathetic number of worlds, and only the ones held by Judges had any guarantee of victory. Dozens of Iterations called for Suriel to defend them.

As she entered Oasis, she cut off their voices.

This world needed her more than any other.

The fabric of reality itself trembled, every particle quaking in fear. Oasis’ central planet was a blue marble beneath Suriel’s feet, and she could feel the sudden terror rising from the billions of lives down below.

All across the thousands of islands that made up Oasis’ land, those sensitive to power collapsed under the weight of visions, or screamed at the feeling of a predator descended to take them all. She sent out her own influence to calm them, but there was only so much she could do.

She couldn’t hide the power of the Mad King.

Her Presence showed him drifting on the other side of the planet, eyes blazing from beneath the shadow of his bone helmet, his yellowed armor and fur cloak shrouding his figure. He clutched Ozriel’s Scythe in his right hand, and glared in her direction.

But not actually at her.

She floated next to Makiel, in his full battle gear. His seamless white armor covered him up to the neck, and he held the Sword of Makiel in both hands. The massive two-handed blade had once been used to pass capital punishment on the first generation of Abidan, and purple energy passed through its steel in complex veins.

Unlike the other Judges, he hadn’t perfected his physical form. His dark skin was weathered by his mortal life, and his hair had been touched with gray for millennia. His weary face did not turn to her as he spoke. “You could save more lives elsewhere.”

“Not yours.”

She might really be able to save an entire Iteration of her own if she left, but Makiel would be much safer with her around. Perhaps together, they could drive the Mad King away.

Together, they looked into Fate.

The future crackled and twisted, each vision unfolding with slippery uncertainty as the King’s chaotic presence warped Fate itself. But with the stabilizing presence of two Judges, and Makiel’s skill and significance at her side, they could see victory.

With the two of them together, a chance had opened up.

Not of slaying the Mad King, of course. It would take at least one more Judge joining them to make that a possibility, and they couldn’t abandon too many other worlds.

But she could see herself reverting a wave of devastating chaotic fire to nothing, giving Makiel the chance to strike a full-power blow and piercing the Mad King’s armor.

The outcome was by no means certain, but they could do it. If they made the Mad King leave the field, they would free up the Judges. The entire battle, across all of creation, could turn here.

“‘With our swords, we carve our place in destiny,’” Makiel recited.

“Don’t quote yourself. It’s not flattering.”

Blue power vented behind him, taking on the image of sapphire wings. “I first heard that from him.”

From the other side of the planet, Daruman spoke, and they heard him. “If you’re standing against me, you must believe you can win.”

“We stand before you to save the lives of trillions,” Suriel said coldly.

“And I am willing to spill that blood so that the survivors can live free. You have to know that you won’t shake my resolve with a few words.”

Makiel raised his sword, the purple lines shining. “Daruman, King of Madness, the Court of Seven sentences you to die.”

“If you believe you have seen that, then the eye of the Hound has grown truly dim.”

Suriel saw the attack a moment before it happened. A black slash, so vast that the concept of size no longer applied.

With one swing of the Scythe, the Mad King sliced the Iteration in half.

The entire universe split with the blue planet at the center, the two halves drifting apart, the Void stretching between them.

The Mantle of Suriel flared, and she channeled the Way, reversing the damage. Restoring order.

Makiel didn’t wait for her to finish stitching reality together before returning a strike of his own.

The inexorable will of the Hound, focused by his blade, closed on the Mad King to tear him from existence. The Vroshir broke the working, but then Suriel had finished restoring the Iteration. Her Razor bloomed from a two-meter bar of blue steel into a multi-pronged weapon of shining blades, like a razor-sharp tree.

She thrust with the full force of her authority. The Razor was a tool for violently separating the diseased from the healthy, and the Mad King was a blight on reality, a cancer. She cut him free, the space around him glaring bright blue as she cut at the fact of his existence.

His armor anchored him, and he struck back, a wave of darkness and spinning multi-colored chaos.

Makiel had already predicted it and shunted it off to the side.

Thousands of stars vanished. Removed from reality.

Then the fight began in earnest.

Each of them watched the future, anticipating the enemy’s move and countering it. They only took action when they could ensure an advantage or mitigate a disadvantage.

Makiel and the Mad King traded blows that destroyed both of their mortal forms, the force causing deadly earthquakes on the planet below. But Makiel spared no thought for his own defense; Suriel revived him a moment later, and he reincorporated already spearing Daruman with a dozen ghostly projections of Makiel’s Sword.

The Mad King had to revive himself, and the more he was destroyed, the shakier his existence would become. In theory, they could kill him permanently that way.

In practice…

He gripped Suriel in one fist, though she was hundreds of thousands of kilometers away, and her Presence blared a warning as her armor began to buckle.

While she was focused on protecting herself, throwing up protective barriers of pure order, he struck with the combined authority of the Mad King who conquered worlds and the Scythe who destroyed them whole.

Makiel met the blow with the Sword of the First Judge, the weapon that had been the symbol of order since the ancient Abidan had risen from Cradle so long ago.

Reality itself screamed, existence warping all over the world. Humans died en masse down on the central planet simply from the backlash, and the Iteration’s connection to the Way grew thin.

Suriel stretched out her Mantle, her authority as the Phoenix, as the ultimate healer, and dragged the Way back.

The humans blinked back to life, the shredded atmosphere repaired, the laws returning. As order flooded back in, Makiel broke the Mad King’s blow.

But the Vroshir had gained the momentum back.

They clashed again and again, fighting first in the future and then in the present, angling for advantage over the tiny blue gem at the center of this reality. A working of the Mad King’s would cast Makiel through space, but Suriel would break it. Makiel would blast the Mad King out of the world, and Suriel would try to seal the breach and keep him out, but with the Scythe he could cut his way back in.

The longer the battle raged, the less stable the Iteration became.

Stars winked out from the distant stretches of the universe, galaxies collapsing and fading to nothing, crumbling into the Void. Gravity and reality held less sway, dreams became real, people vanished as though they never existed.

Suriel spent more and more of her power on keeping the world intact, but she was straining herself, straining her mantle, straining even the connection between this Iteration and the Way. She had to give ground, preserving and restoring only the most necessary.

But the Mad King had died many times.

All at once, a path shone in Fate, as though their persistence had opened a door. It was one road, shining and bright, leading to the vision they’d seen before.

As one, without discussion, the two Judges took it.

Makiel met a blow head-on that cast him into the Void, removing him from reality for but a moment. That left an opening that the Mad King exploited, and he swept one arm, casting a wave of chaotic many-colored fire that swept all the way across the planet.

Rather than protecting the world with a barrier, as the enemy would no doubt expect, Suriel did as she had seen her future self do.

With all the power of the Razor, the Mantle of Suriel, and her own will, she focused on the wave of chaos-fire. Though sparks of it fell in a deadly meteor rain onto the planet below, she was able to catch the existence of the attack almost in its entirety.

With the last of her energy, she reverted it to nothing.

The Mad King’s will clashed with hers, fighting her authority, and the wave of fire faded in and out of existence for a moment.

As Makiel popped back into reality, physically only a meter away from the King. He swung his massive sword two-handed, the full weight of his will behind it.

They had seen this blow crack his armor, but in the microscopic instant that Makiel used to swing, Suriel saw her vision of the future warp and twist.

[WARNING: Deviation detected], her Presence warned.

The Sword of Makiel landed on the blade of the Scythe. The clash between the two weapons blasted a crater in the central planet of Oasis, and tens of millions died instantly.

Suriel left them to die.

She appeared next to Makiel, adding the defense of her Razor to his Sword. The Scythe still swept down, cracking both their armor.

With Makiel in her arms, Suriel wrenched open the Way.

And fled.

* * *

Lindon rose up on his cloud until he was even with the halo of light around Mount Samara. He was still outside the suppression field, but only by a few feet. Any technique he threw into Sacred Valley would be weakened.

But his heart pounded and the skin all over his body tightened as he looked inside and came face-to-face with the Wandering Titan.

In reality, they were still maybe a mile apart. But the Dreadgod was so huge that Lindon felt like it could lean forward and snap him up in its jaws.

Its eyes were swirling clouds of every shade of yellow, and it scanned Mount Samara up and down, as though looking for something.

Far down below, at its feet, the river of fleeing people on the mountain slopes had scattered like ants. Some of them continued running up the mountain to safety, but others scurried any direction that was away from the Titan’s feet.

Even back into Sacred Valley, which had been…broken. Shattered. Churned beyond recognition, like meat in a grinder.

Only three of the four sacred peaks still stood, and the Titan was eyeing this one. Every second the Dreadgod delayed was more lives spared.

And there was only one person here whose techniques could affect a Dreadgod.

“Dross,” Lindon said aloud, “I would be very grateful if you had a battle plan for me.”

[Battle. A battle plan. I’ve got a wonderful strategic retreat plan.]

Lindon was already mentally exhausted just from bringing himself here, but as he understood it, willpower wasn’t like madra. He didn’t have a finite amount that could run out. As long as he could concentrate, he could keep fighting.

He trembled all over. Not only did he feel like a mouse staring up at a lion, but even his spirit shook before the irresistible pressure of the Dreadgod.

And the Titan was being suppressed while he wasn’t.

Still, he drew up his focus. If the heavens were kind, the Titan would turn away and leave entirely. Maybe Lindon wouldn’t have to do anything at all.

Why hasn’t it left the valley already?

[I’ll show you if you promise to take me far, far away from here.] Despite his words, Dross pulled Lindon’s attention to the north, where—even in the fractured mess that remained of Sacred Valley—Lindon could make out shapes. Footprints.

It had walked north, stopped at Mount Yoma, and then headed east again.

Why?

Now it was examining Mount Samara, and Lindon felt an inhalation filled with hunger madra. The Dreadgod was sniffing for something in the mountain.

That wasn’t an attack, and the Titan was still trapped in the suppression field, but Lindon still hoped the act of breathing in wouldn’t be enough to kill the people at the Dreadgod’s feet.

He had the impression that the Titan had been at this for a while, and Lindon fervently hoped that it would continue for even longer. Maybe the bulk of the people beneath him would be able to flee before the Dreadgod had found whatever it was looking for. He might not have to do anything at all.

Slowly, like an old man reaching for his medication, the Titan reached up toward Lindon.

He panicked and shot backwards, but it was clear that the Titan had no interest in Lindon at all. It was grabbing for the circle of light around the peak.

Now was his chance. The collapse of the ring might send madra raining down on the people below…but more personally, Lindon couldn’t bear the thought of the Dreadgod destroying Samara’s ring.

There was too little of Sacred Valley left.

From watching Malice, he hadn’t been able to tell if techniques were weaker if they originated from outside the script or from inside. He would try the former first.

With both hands in front of him, he opened his spirit wide, channeling Blackflame into dragon’s breath. At the same time, he poured his Overlord soulfire into it, which was now a brighter and more vivid silver than the diffuse, colorless flame of an Underlord. On top of all that, he added his will.

Dragon’s breath was a force of destruction. If he was the Void Sage, he should have the authority for this.

A dark beam, thicker than his two arms, burst out from his palms. The technique reminded him of Yerin’s Final Sword, and it carried weight far beyond the power of its madra.

It passed through the suppression field and…faded.

Instead of a liquid-smooth beam, the technique dispersed into a gaseous spray that resembled natural flame. The red streaks were more prominent than they had been, and the authority he’d managed to scrape up weakened to almost nothing.

Dragon’s breath passed over the Titan’s stone arm and washed over, harmless.

A dark fist closed over Samara’s ring. The light was Forged madra, an ancient construct, and the Dreadgod tore away a chunk as though it were made of rotten wood. Bright white-and-gold essence drifted upwards like sparks of a campfire from the damaged construct.

The rest of the ring hung in the air, but the light over Sacred Valley darkened.

The Dreadgod lifted the Forged madra to its face, examining it, and then Lindon felt hunger grow. The chunk of construct disappeared completely, the motes disappearing into the Titan’s body. The cracks of its shell, and the crags all over its body, shone briefly yellow.

When the Titan returned its attention to Mount Samara, its hunger was like a physical force. It didn’t move immediately, but its tail lashed faster and faster behind it. Lindon knew it was about to move.

And hurling Striker techniques from outside the field had done nothing. He had to plunge inside.

Behind him, space cracked.

Dross gave a squeal, then covered it up with a cough. [I’m not relieved. But we are saved. But it’s fine, I’m not excited. You’re excited.]

Yerin dashed out of a blue-edged crack in space before the portal had finished forming, and she shot through the air to land on his cloud.

She caught the very edge of the Thousand-Mile Cloud, where the madra was thinner. She could catch herself with aura control or by summoning her own cloud, but he caught her arm and pulled her onto his anyway.

She grabbed edges of his outer robe in both fists, but didn’t raise her head to look at him. “I know I’m cutting myself with my own knife saying this, but if you thought you could cross swords with a Dreadgod and leave me behind, you…” Her breath caught as she glanced to the side and looked into the Titan’s face. Her whole body shivered. “…bleed and bury me.”

Lindon spoke quietly. “I don’t know if I can stop even one of its techniques. I couldn’t ask you all to come protect my home when I’m not sure I can keep you safe.”

She looked up at him, and rather than angry, she looked amused. “Didn’t, did you? I’d contend you asked us to stay behind. But we’re not exactly tripping over people who can tickle Dreadgods. My list ends with me and you.”

A voice shouted distantly from beneath them, muffled and unintelligible.

Down on the ground, the spatial crack hadn’t widened into a stable portal. Mercy had stumbled out of it, and she was pulling the last inch of Suu free, when Orthos shoved his way forward. His presence in Lindon’s spirit was brighter than ever, stronger, more vivid. But to the naked eye, he looked no different.

Finally, Eithan strode out of the messy blue light.

He released a heavy breath, as though he’d been holding it, and wiped sweat from his brow as the crack in the world sealed itself behind him.

“I said ‘put me on your list,’” Eithan called up. “You couldn’t hear me, could you?” He sighed and began drifting up to join them.

Lindon and Yerin exchanged glances.

“Can you help?” Lindon asked. “Any of you?” He didn’t raise his voice, though Eithan was still far away. Eithan would hear him.

He had meant that to include Mercy and Orthos as well, but as soon as they arrived, they took off east. In seconds, they were rounding up people, stopping fights, and pulling them out of overturned shelters.

They knew they couldn’t touch a Dreadgod, but were still doing whatever they could to help.

Lindon wished they wouldn’t. Now he had more to worry about.

“You don’t think I’ll be an asset?” Eithan asked as he finally reached their level.

Yerin’s eyebrows lifted. “If I had to pick between you and a rusty spoon, I’d have to think about it first.”

“Infusing techniques with willpower is not the exclusive domain of Sages and Heralds. They’re just better at it.” Eithan planted fists on his hips and glared at the Dreadgod. “I will defy this beast with all the power of a leaf drifting on the wind!”

[Oh, and you’re not going to get in our way by making us cover for you? That’s impressive.]

“I make no such promise,” Eithan said. “But I can’t let you stand up against a Dreadgod without me. It’s a bit earlier than I planned, but who could object to one little life-threatening practice run?”

Yerin squeezed Lindon’s ribs and then slipped away, stepping onto a purple Thousand-Mile Cloud of her own. “Have to say, I’m not looking for death here. If there’s nothing we can do, we’re leaving, even if I have to grab you both by the neck and drag you off.”

The Titan still hadn’t stirred. It remained searching for something. Or waiting.

But as Lindon looked at Yerin and Eithan on either side of him, mist formed in his eyes. They didn’t need to be here. If he had full control over his abilities, he would have sent them back.

At the same time, he was glad they were there.

“Gratitude,” Lindon said.

[Awww, that’s sweet. Very sweet. But I’m going to need you all to focus so that we don’t die. First of all, none of us move until the Titan does, even if you stand still until your fleshy human feet decay.]

“We won’t have to wait quite that long,” Eithan said, spinning his black fabric scissors around his thumb. “The Titan is famous for its…lethargy…but when it is ready to move, it does so quickly.”

[So, objective one: we’re holding it back as long as we can. If we lose and it breaks through the mountain, we leave.]

Lindon wasn’t happy about that, but he knew that if the Titan left the suppression field, their chance was up. If they couldn’t match the Dreadgod inside the valley, they would have no chance outside.

[Objective two: don’t die. Wait, how about we make that objective one?]

Almost casually, the Wandering Titan began drawing its hand back for a swipe. Wind swirled around them, snatching at their clothes and pulling their Clouds.

The fear and pressure returned. Eithan’s smile dropped, and madra flowed through his black scissors. Yerin pulled a sword in each hand, one white and one black, her gleaming red Goldsigns extended.

Lindon focused all his panicked energy and his resolve on the Dreadgod’s hand. Whatever technique it was about to use, he needed to be ready.

But it was no technique. The Titan swiped at Mount Samara like a child knocking over his own sandcastle.

Every fiber of Lindon drew to a point. He pushed past the rules of the world, substituting his own will.

“Stop!” Lindon shouted.

The Titan’s hand slowed, as though it had been caught in an invisible net. Then Lindon felt an outside consciousness pushing against his own; a mind he’d felt before, when he had Consumed some of its thoughts.

But the Wandering Titan had been sleeping then.

This time, it turned its attention to the force restricting its hand in dull annoyance. Lindon’s working tore like spiderwebs.

It was like a cat had clawed the inside of Lindon’s head. His vision blanked out as madra streamed from both Yerin and Eithan.

An instant later, when he could see again, Lindon saw Eithan’s Striker technique—the Hollow King’s Spear—breaking on the boundary of the suppression field. It faded from a clear, defined spear to a diffuse stream of madra, though it still impacted the wrist of the Dreadgod where it landed.

It pushed the Titan’s arm. Slightly. Like a gentle breeze.

Yerin’s gleaming silver-red madra broke as it entered Sacred Valley too, but it rained down on the Titan in a thousand needles. The Dreadgod swatted at its own chest in irritation, then roared.

Lindon felt the sound in his bones.

He cycled madra to his ears to stop from going deaf, but even as the roar drowned out all sound, Dross spoke into their heads.

[As reluctant as I am to encourage this insanity, if we’re going to do this, then it’s time to go inside.]

While they would weaken steadily inside the field, they wouldn’t be in there long enough to reduce to Jades. From within, they would be more effective. At least a little.

Together, they flew toward the Dreadgod.

From that moment, Lindon had no time to think.

A ball of stone and chaos formed in the Titan’s hand, and a blue-white Spear of the Hollow King pierced it through. Now that the Spear didn’t have to pass through the wall of the script-circle, the technique looked like a real spear, in full physical detail. However, it still wasn’t nearly as powerful as an Archlord technique should have been.

At the same time, a wave of yellow earth madra pulsed out from the Titan’s chest, and Lindon met it with a Hollow Domain and the full force of his will.

It still battered him back, smacking him like a fist across the whole body, but it created a weak point in the Dreadgod’s technique.

Yerin rushed through, a shining meteor of silver and red. She focused the Final Sword through her blade.

With Lindon and Eithan taking care of the Titan’s techniques, hers landed. A lance of bright red madra pierced through the Dreadgod.

It streaked behind, stretching for miles.

Dreadgods had blood, Lindon knew. He had dissected enough dreadbeasts. As they were made of flesh, Yerin’s madra should tear it apart.

But that little pinprick didn’t even slow the Wandering Titan down. Its free hand came in as a fist, striking at Yerin.

She leaped off her Cloud, meeting it in midair with both her swords. She had nothing to push on but aura, so the strike should have sent her flying into the horizon.

But Lindon felt power beyond the physical, a weight of conceptual strength like he had once felt from Crusher. For just an instant, the Dreadgod’s fist hit Yerin and stopped.

Together, Lindon and Eithan launched Striker techniques at the same time.

The Spear of the Hollow King and breath of a black dragon struck the Wandering Titan in the eye.

It blinked and flinched back like Lindon might have done at an unexpected flash of light.

Its knuckles, having stopped for an instant on Yerin’s swords, pushed forward again. This time, she hurtled into the side of Mount Samara. The ground exploded into dust and snow, but he could feel her power was barely diminished.

Outside Sacred Valley, a direct hit like that would have killed her.

Lindon had already begun drawing up his will again, preparing to command the Dreadgod to stop. Or at least to try.

[We talked about this!] Dross said desperately.

He brought up Lindon’s own memories. Neither Charity nor Malice had commanded Dreadgods directly. They had worked their Sage powers through their techniques.

Lindon opened his void key.

He wished he had kept Sophara’s void key, since she had a Heaven’s Torch, the ultimate source of fire aura.

But his own fire treasures weren’t too bad either.

Fire aura gushed out, far stronger than any other source of aura in Sacred Valley. As for destruction aura…that was all around them.

In moments, Lindon gathered black-and-red aura into a cloud swirling around him, but he wasn’t forming a Void Dragon’s Dance. He blended the Ruler technique with madra Forged into a dragon’s claw, and fueled it with a focused application of the Burning Cloak.

Crystallized Blackflame madra covered his left hand, trailing black and red energy behind him as he shot toward the Titan.

Eithan was flying just beneath the cloud, Forging madra as he moved into huge stars the size of the Titan’s eyes.

As the Dreadgod squared itself and roared, Lindon felt another source of aura: blood and sword madra gathering at its feet.

Lindon reached out for the Void Icon.

And together, the three of them all triggered their techniques.

A distant bell rang, and blood and flesh flew from the Titan’s calves. Lines of blue-white light speared down from the Hollow Crown, tearing into the spirit that was entwined with its body. And Lindon slammed the Dragon Descends technique into the Dreadgod’s chest.

It detonated in a black explosion, washing over the Titan in a tide of dark fire.

Not black-and-red fire. Pure black flame.

The power of the Void Icon was strong in that technique.

Lindon wanted to keep up the barrage, but he had wrung himself dry in body and mind. They had already unleashed power on a scale that Sacred Valley actively suppressed. If the heavens were kind, they would have at least gained the Titan’s attention.

Dross spoke in a panic. [Oh yay, we did it!]

The Dreadgod’s tail whipped out from the cloud of destructive flame. Yerin rocketed up hundreds of feet to crash into the tail, blocking the strike, but a hand was coming Lindon’s way again.

Without Dross, Lindon wouldn’t have been fast enough to avoid it. The Soul Cloak sprang up around him, and he leaped and twisted in midair. Fingers the width of roads crashed into his Thousand-Mile Cloud, dispersing the construct. Lindon landed on the back of its wrist, clinging to stone-like skin for his life.

At the same time, the Titan opened its mouth and breathed out onto Eithan.

A stream of golden madra covered the Archlord whole, driving him backwards. Lindon didn’t see him land, but the Striker technique in the Dreadgod’s breath tore a chunk from the peak of Mount Samara.

Eithan was gone.

Lindon could feel his spirit, and the amount of pure madra that had gone into defending himself, but Eithan had to be out of the fight.

He couldn’t even spare a thought for concern; the sky was falling.

The world slowed down as Dross accelerated his perception. The ceiling falling on him was the Dreadgod’s tail, plunging onto his head to swat him like a fly.

He dashed out, running across the Titan’s hand for the rapidly narrowing stretch of sky that meant freedom.

[Below!] Dross shouted.

But there was no dodging.

Earth aura reached out from the skin, pulling Lindon down. He stumbled, and it took the whole strength of his Soul Cloak to keep him standing upright.

The tail was coming down.

Lindon opened his void key.

He tumbled inside just as the Titan’s tail and arm crashed together. It was like being in the middle of two islands collapsing, and the wind rushing in blasted everything in his void key to the other side of the room.

The hand of the Dreadgod passed over the doorway…but the willpower accompanying the blow did not.

Lindon felt it like a sudden weight dropping on the void key, and the opening back into the world began to stress and fracture. If he hadn’t focused on it, reinforcing it with its authority, the void space opened by his key would have collapsed. Leaving him stranded.

The view returned in just a moment, giving Lindon clear line of sight as the hand lifted away. His storage space was still floating in midair, so he found himself around the height of the Titan’s shoulder.

The Dreadgod turned, moving away from Mount Samara. Toward Yerin.

Dross, Lindon begged, give me something.

[I gave you all the advice you need: don’t do this. We can get away!]

The Titan raising its foot seemed slow, but only because of Dross’ acceleration.

What about Yerin?

[Well yes, of course, we’re going to save Yerin. I’m not a monster. But then we can leave.]

I don’t want to run, Dross. I want to win.

[Lindon, this…I…] Dross sounded less certain than ever. […I don’t want to do this. It’s too much.]

Please, Lindon said.

[I don’t have anything for you,] Dross said at last, and Lindon’s heart clenched. [No, now, hold on. I don’t have anything for you. Alone.]

Dross sounded like he was taking a deep breath. [Brace yourself.]

His thought carried the impression of great pain, so Lindon prepared himself. I can handle pain.

[Oh no, this is worse than just hurting you. It’s about to hurt me.]

* * *

Ziel’s Thousand-Mile Cloud carried him south, toward the mountain that looked like a broken bottle gushing water. The east exit was far too popular; he’d meet up with the rest again once he left the valley.

Except, considering the fact that they were fighting the Wandering Titan right now, he would probably never see them again because of their sheer stupidity.

The wind from the fight buffeted his cloud, and the aura here was thin anyway, so it was slow going. But every foot of progress was a foot away from the Dreadgod.

He had thought his progress was slow before, so he almost panicked when he stopped entirely. For a moment, he was certain the Dreadgod had caught him in some kind of Ruler technique.

When he realized the whole world had stopped, Dross popped into existence in front of him.

Lindon’s spirit panted, though Ziel was certain he wouldn’t need to breathe, and swiped one of his boneless arms across a forehead that was basically just his upper eyelid.

[Okay, I don’t have much time, so just do what I tell you. Okay? We need your help against the Dreadgod. All you have to do—]

“No,” Ziel said.

[Let me finish! Let me finish. I only need you to make a couple of platforms. Just put them where I tell you, when I tell you.]

“No.”

[Don’t—Look, Dreadgods don’t fight to the death. If the prey takes too much energy to beat, they back off, and everything takes too much energy here. We’re just…pushing it back a little, that’s all. All we’re doing. Not going in for the kill.]

Ziel tried to say no a third time, but he couldn’t stop himself from imagining what it could have been like years ago. To watch the Weeping Dragon turn around and drift away, looking for easier prey.

“…fine,” he said reluctantly.

[That’s a promise! You’ve promised now, you can’t break it! And that’s perfect, because I was lying before, I need you to do more than just make platforms. I need you to make a lot of platforms.]

* * *

Mercy herded her crowd of Irons to the south. She had gathered up over two hundred of them, according to her Moon’s Eye lens, and they were dragging even more wounded on litters.

It had taken her only minutes to draw so many people together. They had been several groups before, she had just flown over and stopped them from panicking so they could band together.

Under her guidance, they gathered as one. Her guidance and Jai Chen’s, since the Jai girl had formed the largest group before Mercy’s arrival, but Jai Chen was growing more and more concerned about her brother.

Mercy was surprised to find them out here; she had expected them to retreat long before this. She wished they had; she hated to see them so exhausted and soaked in blood. Of course, that described everyone out here except her.

They were about to enter a clutch of trees in which her Lens had spotted a pack of dreadbeasts. She could handle them all herself, but she couldn’t watch every single falling tree and flying rock.

“Keep the wounded on the inside,” Mercy called. “If you have a shield and you’re in the outer ring, raise it up. I’ll clear the trees of dreadbeasts, but cover your eyes and close your ears.”

No one responded. They had all frozen in place.

[Mercy!] Dross shouted, appearing suddenly in front of her. [Sorry, that was loud, wasn’t it? Anyway, we need you.]

Mercy tried to twist and see if she could spot Lindon, who must be in trouble if he was sending Dross, but she couldn’t actually move her body. So Dross was projecting himself into her mind.

Her spiritual perception still worked, and she felt Lindon far behind her. It felt like he was a hundred miles away, but she recognized the dampening effect of the suppression field.

“Is Lindon okay? Did something happen?” When she spoke, she felt like she was moving her mouth, but she supposed she probably wasn’t. It was a strange sensation.

[No, but it’s about to,] Dross responded. [We need you. Against the Titan.]

“Got it.” When time unfroze, Mercy would put Jai Chen in charge and fly back into Sacred Valley.

Dross waved his tendrils in the air as though trying to shoo something away. [I don’t…ah, I don’t exactly know how to say this, but you…oh, well, actually I know exactly how to say this. What I need you to do, it’s going to hurt. A lot. Not permanently, I’m sure. Your family can fix you. They can fix you, right?]

“Yes, they can,” Mercy said firmly.

No matter what Dross wanted her to do, it wouldn’t hurt as badly as seeing Pride so badly hurt. She didn’t want to go through that again, not so soon, and not with Lindon and Yerin.

“What do you need from me?”

[Your bloodline,] Dross said.

* * *

“What do you want from me now?” Orthos rumbled.

He didn’t have the non-lethal abilities the others did, so he’d stuck to his strengths: running around and eliminating dreadbeasts, bloodspawn, and piles of debris that blocked the way of the humans fleeing down Mount Samara.

It had been surprisingly fun. And then Dross interrupted him.

[Normally, there’s nothing an Underlord can do to a Dreadgod. But since it’s in Sacred Valley, it’s a little more subject to physical laws—]

“Underlord? Who said I was an Underlord?”

[You…you know Lindon can feel you, right? If Lindon can feel it, I can feel it. He hasn’t been thinking about it, but it’s clear to me that you used the treasures inside Lindon’s void key to advance. That wasn’t supposed to be a surprise, was it?]

If Orthos could move his body, he would have turned away to chew on a nearby rock. Or some nice, soft wood.

[Even the others can sense you,] Dross went on, driving the knife deeper. [You had to know they would all recognize it immediately.]

“There is nothing wrong with a little celebration,” Orthos said with great dignity.

[N-no! No, and in fact, I can make it even better than a surprise! A huge event! You’ll really, ooohhh, you’ll really show them. They’ll say, ‘Underlord Orthos is so great, I can’t believe that we ever cared about him before. I really hate who he used to be. Compared to now, I mean. Just…just hate him.’]

That was possibly the worst sales pitch Orthos had ever heard.

But he was still intrigued.

“I’m listening,” he said.

* * *

Eithan’s entire body was pain.

He lay in a pile of twisted limbs in the rubble that had once been the peak of Mount Samara, silently counting his broken bones. He had blocked the madra with his own, then cushioned the impact of his fall with aura while strengthening his Archlord body with soulfire.

Even so, he hadn’t fully recovered his power since spending so long in Sacred Valley, and here he was back in it again. Not to mention that he had taken a blow from the Titan head-on.

There were parts of the world where “hitting like a Dreadgod” was a common saying. It did not do the experience justice.

He realized immediately when Dross contacted him and accelerated his perception of time. It happened when he was in the middle of tenderly extending one thread of madra to activate his void key, hoping to pull out some more of his medical supplies. He’d drunk more medicine than water, these past few days; clearly he was off his game.

“How many ways have you split yourself, Dross?” Eithan asked, before the spirit had fully manifested to him.

[Six,] Dross panted. [It’s…a lot, but I’m fine. Maybe. I’m probably fine.]

“Well, don’t waste your valuable time on me,” he said. “Just tell me my role.” He admired how sprightly his voice still sounded, despite the state of his ribs. And every other part of his body.

[Perfect! The Titan is going to throw a Striker technique at Lindon, and I need you to stop it from hitting him.]

“Where? I’m not quite as ambulatory as usual.”

[We’ll get you down, don’t worry. Just worry about stopping the technique. Please do worry about that.]

Eithan tried to make a gesture of agreement, but his hand was trapped beneath his body. And it pulsed with pain, except for his fingertips, which were completely numb.

That could be a problem, he thought.

“No problem!” he said.

Dross made a relieved sound and vanished, leaving Eithan alone to think. That was good, because he needed the time.

How was he supposed to block a Dreadgod’s technique in this condition?

* * *

When time froze, the pressure on Yerin didn’t let up. From her perspective, the sky was covered by the Wandering Titan’s foot, and while it hadn’t plunged down on her yet, it couldn’t be far off.

The pressure she felt was from the Titan’s spirit, pressing down on her almost as heavily as if the Dreadgod was already standing on her. She held her two swords above her, crossed white and black, and she had already begun filling them with madra and soulfire.

She didn’t know how many of those stomps she could take, but she wouldn’t be able to escape fast enough with its will weighing her down anyway. So she would weather the first one, then hope somebody else pulled the Titan off her before she was smeared to paste.

Yerin had prepared herself, so when Dross showed up, he was more of a distraction than anything.

“Spit it out,” Yerin growled. She was still under the Dreadgod’s spiritual pressure, and time not passing was only extending that agony.

Dross breathed harshly as he spoke. [Sorry…I’m…doing a lot…right now.]

Even in her situation, Yerin felt concern worry its way into her heart. She couldn’t exactly move her eyes, but she focused on Dross. “You solid, Dross?”

He fixed her with a stare, pulling himself together. [Yeah, no problem, nothing to worry about. Listen, we need something from you, but it’s going to be…it won’t be much fun for you, I’ll say that.]

“You see where I’m standing right now, true? Would you contend I’m on a holiday?”

[We need you to hold the Titan in place so Lindon can hit it. You’ll need to use your sword.]

She shifted her attention to her master’s blade. For the most part, she had avoided using its binding since advancing during the Uncrowned King tournament. “Madra’s not like it used to be. Could use Netherclaw, if that’ll work.”

[It, uh, it won’t.]

A queasy sense of nausea passed through her. “Sword will make it through, though, right?”

Dross hesitated.

“Dross?”

[I think this is one of those times where I’m supposed to lie, but I don’t have a whole lot of time. You’ll have to overload the sword. No way around it, unless you’re ready to advance to Archlord. That would solve a lot of my problems today, actually.]

Even if she were, she couldn’t do it here in Sacred Valley, and Dross knew that.

“Winter Sage. She can fix it, though, true?”

Dross bobbed upward in the air as he brightened. [Could be! That’s certainly a real possibility!]

No sense hesitating. She had agreed to risk her life here, for people that Lindon didn’t even really know. She’d be cracked in the head if she wasn’t willing to risk one weapon.

“Got it. Grab my eye when you want me.”

[I’ll have to signal the others, but you…just do it when the foot comes down, all right?]

“Not likely to forget that one.”

[You won’t have to remember it for long, because I can’t hold this anymore. You ready?]

She tried to nod. Dross must have gotten the picture, because the world came roaring back to normal speed.

The Titan’s foot came down.

19

Lindon didn’t hear what Dross said to the other five. He just felt the spirit splitting his attention so many different ways, and time stood still while Dross delivered his instructions.

When he finished, everything happened at once.

The Titan’s foot came down. Yerin’s madra flared beneath it, so powerful that it felt like she was pouring her entire spirit into one attack. But it wasn’t an attack; white mist and points of ice-cold light burst into being around her, consuming the Titan up to the knee.

Its foot landed, but was frozen in place. Lindon was astonished at the power output of the weapon, but it was overshadowed by worry for Yerin.

Not that he had time to dwell on it. There was too much else going on.

Green rings had bloomed one after the other, stretching off to the south. Ziel flew through the air like an arrow, each ring of script hurling him into the next. Lindon wondered why Ziel hadn’t used that technique to escape, but his question was answered by a quick scan of his spirit.

He was straining his channels and running out of madra. He couldn’t keep this up for long.

As he flew in, another spiritual presence caught Lindon’s attention. Mercy dashed in, covered in her Akura bloodline armor, and she wasn’t flying. She was running.

She was already the size of a tall building, and she carried something tucked under her right arm.

No, Lindon realized what the object was as soon as he noticed it.

It was Orthos, all curled up in his shell.

Orthos, whose body was slowly filling with soulfire.

When the Titan found its leg stuck by Yerin’s technique, it threw a punch at Mercy. A golden nimbus covered its fist: the original version of the Enforcer technique the Abyssal Palace cultists had used.

The wind from the punch was like the breath of a hurricane.

Mercy slipped under the punch. Her armor was still growing, and Lindon knew from his experience with Harmony—and his own research—how much of a burden the armor put on the spirit. The larger it was, the harder it was to control. But she moved with liquid grace as she ducked the punch.

Then she took a lightning-quick tail to the breastplate.

It cracked, and Lindon fully expected the armor to shatter. Instead, despite what must have been horrific spiritual pain, she braced her feet and stood her ground.

As she did, Mercy lobbed Orthos through the Dreadgod’s legs.

And the turtle began to grow.

Soulfire burned away by the second as it expanded Orthos’ body. He landed with legs the width of tree trunks, but they grew to cover houses in a moment. Soon, he was half the height of the Titan.

The Dreadgod turned over its shoulder, madra building between its jaws.

[That’s your cue!] Dross shouted.

On his Thousand-Mile Cloud, Lindon shot forward.

No matter how much madra he poured into the cloud, it would be a few seconds before he reached the Titan. It would have shoved Mercy back and released its technique on Orthos by then. Dross had called him in too late.

Green light flared behind Lindon.

He couldn’t spare the attention to turn and watch, but he wished he could. His spiritual senses treated him to the feeling of Eithan flying through the air like a thrown spear.

He was kept aloft by his own aura control, so Ziel’s circle only added acceleration. As he flew closer, Lindon heard a voice, which started soft and steadily grew louder as its source approached.

“Jump!” Eithan called as he flew past Lindon’s face.

Mercy endured another heavy blow, falling to one knee under the pressure. The Titan unleashed a stream of powerful earth madra with its breath. Orthos shoved himself into position, and—though he took a glancing blow on his shell that left cracks and a lancing pain that Lindon could feel through their bond—he and Mercy managed to wrestle the Dreadgod around to face Lindon.

It didn’t cut off its Striker technique. As it braced itself on its tail, it refocused on the next target it saw: Eithan, whose madra was blazing like a beacon.

Lindon expected Eithan to take the hit on his Hollow Armor, but Lindon had been given his instructions. He jumped.

Eithan reversed direction in a burst of force aura, shoving himself down and to one side. The Titan’s Striker technique streaked past in a thundering stream of bright golden light.

The river of madra passed over both Eithan and Lindon’s heads.

It tapered out almost immediately as the Titan returned its attention to Mercy and Orthos, grabbing one in each hand.

Lindon dragged his Thousand-Mile Cloud down to him, and once again it caught him.

He saw what Eithan had done. If the Titan had noticed Lindon, that blast would have been on target, and it might have even moved its head to follow Lindon as he fell. Instead, Eithan had drawn its attention upward.

By falling suddenly, Lindon had ducked it.

Orthos roared, and now that he was empty of soulfire, he was truly gigantic. While not a match for the Dreadgod, he was at least the size of a large dog compared to the Titan.

But he was still just an Underlord.

No matter how weak the Wandering Titan had become, and no matter the equalizing effect of the suppression field, Orthos was no match for a Dreadgod under any conditions. His shell splintered as the Dreadgod’s grip tightened, and Orthos would be torn apart in moments.

Lindon tried to send reassurance through their bond. Orthos didn’t need to hold on for long.

Lindon was coming.

He landed a moment later on the back of the Titan’s neck.

And with all his will, he began to Consume.

Lindon had fed on the thoughts and memories of the Wandering Titan before, so he knew what to expect this time. Even so, he was almost overwhelmed on every front.

The madra threatened to break his arm, and to be too much for his Heart of Twin Stars to process. The memories and impressions flooded Dross, poised to drown Lindon’s identity. And the willpower, titanic and voracious, crashed into Lindon’s like an avalanche.

Lindon was tossed in a whirlpool of the Wandering Titan’s emotions, but they weren’t the timeless fury that he had expected.

He felt frustration.

Irritation.

Dissatisfaction.

Exhaustion.

He had come here to satisfy its eternal hunger. He’d followed the scent of the one thing that could end its suffering, only to find that it wasn’t here. The trail was cold. And now he was being kept awake by some annoying, buzzing flies when all he wanted to do was eat and then sleep.

No, he wasn’t. The Titan was.

It was hard to tell the difference.

He broke contact with a gasp, his head pounding. The Titan rumbled beneath him, and this was as far as Dross had guided Lindon.

It’s working too hard, Lindon reported to Dross. I want to…it wants to leave. We can drive it out.

The Dreadgod tossed Mercy down, and her armor shattered. Essence covered the valley in a luminous violet cloud.

It dragged a struggling Orthos in its left hand, like a forgotten toy.

Slowly, the Titan turned back to Mount Samara again, and this time Lindon knew why.

It wasn’t focused on cracking open the mountain and getting to the treasure inside, though Lindon was certain there was another one in there. It didn’t even care to eradicate the people trying to escape.

It just wanted out of the suppression field. And this mountain was in its way.

First, it had thought this mountain might be its ancient home, but a long inspection had determined that not to be the case. It simply felt wrong.

This was not home. Not quite.

The Titan lifted the giant Orthos, and Lindon’s stomach twisted as he realized what it was about to do. It was about to hurl Orthos at the mountain.

[Deeper!] Dross shouted. [Dig deeper!]

This was the one chance Dross had seen of them driving off the Dreadgod.

The Titan abandoned targets that cost it too much energy. And Lindon could take that energy away directly, but he could only hold so much. His arm had limits, and so did he.

Though he hadn’t rested enough, he returned his right hand to the stony skin and once again used Consume.

As the Titan’s power crashed over him again, Lindon knew immediately that they weren’t going to make it.

This amount of energy loss was nothing to the Titan. It was vaguely aware that there was some kind of flea draining its spirit, but it couldn’t be bothered to deal with him yet. Lindon could drain its power all day, and maybe then tire the Titan enough to make it a little sleepy. But before that happened, it would have long since swatted Lindon away.

And that was the Titan already weakened by the suppression field.

Dross groaned. [I was really hoping this would work. It’s been in Sacred Valley a long time. There were good odds.]

Orthos was raised high over the Titan’s head, ready to throw.

What do we do? Lindon begged.

Time slowed one more time. Distantly, Lindon was surprised that Dross still had enough power left to do this, but he didn’t have time to worry.

[Hey, Lindon. You wouldn’t…you wouldn’t throw me away, would you?]

Dross sounded nervous all of a sudden, and Lindon’s heart dropped as he wondered what the spirit was about to propose. Am I not going to like this?

[I just, well, I’m not exactly proud of this, but I’ve always been afraid of being thrown away. Please, just keep me around.]

Lindon couldn’t understand why Dross was wasting madra for this conversation. I’m not throwing you away, now please help!

Dross let out a relieved breath. [Okay good, I just needed to hear it.]

Then dream aura flooded out of him. In a tide so expansive that Lindon wondered where it had all come from. How had Lindon not sensed vital aura this strong in Sacred Valley?

But he had sensed it, he realized. This was the power he’d drained from the Titan’s thoughts. Lindon had left sorting those to Dross.

Now, the aura flowed out, but not in a disorganized mess. It was being woven into a technique. A technique Lindon recognized.

The Fox Dream.

Dross blazed with madra, so much that even Lindon was surprised. The Titan paused, Orthos still struggling overhead, and Lindon added his contribution. Soulfire merged into the technique, and Lindon joined his will to Dross’.

Because of that link, he saw the vision Dross sent to the Titan.

It was nothing complicated. The Dreadgod saw eight figures hovering over Mount Samara, all Monarchs. It felt their power.

And one more detail: the turtle in its hands had vanished.

The Titan felt no fear, only irritation and disappointment. It had thought it was about to find its ancient home, only to find a patch of nothing. Well-defended nothing, too. And there was nothing it hated more than wasting its effort.

With a slow, ponderous motion, the Titan turned.

And walked back the way it came.

It lowered its arms, absently dropping the giant Orthos to the ground. Orthos hit and roared again, which Lindon worried would break the illusion of the Fox Dream, but the Dreadgod kept walking unaffected. From the pain through their bond, Lindon knew the turtle was still alive.

And each earth-shaking footstep grew more and more distant.

Lindon fell back on his Thousand-Mile Cloud, sagging in relief.

“Dross…thank you. You saved us.”

When no one responded, Lindon stretched his perception into his own spirit.

“Dross?”

20

Iteration 001: Sanctum

In the center of an isolation chamber buried deep beneath the sprawling megacity of Sanctum, Suriel slowly restored Makiel.

His body drifted in the center of the empty gold-walled room, runes all around glowing blue to enhance the effect of the Way. His mind was awake and active, but he gazed into the future. Trying to find a way to preserve Fate.

She could have had him back on his feet in an instant, but his existence had been severely damaged. His power would suffer unless she healed him slowly and carefully.

In the meantime, she was given little choice but to contemplate the situation among the worlds.

A blooming map of existence spread out in front of her at her will, a twisting nest of blue light with bright lights hanging off it like berries on a bush. The branches were the Way, the spots of light the Iterations.

All of them should be bright blue with a core of white, but too many of them were gray. Far, far too many.

As she watched, one of the lights from the cluster labeled ‘Sector 12’ turned black and withered away. Iteration 129: Oasis.

The Mad King and his Scythe had finished their reaping.

Suriel continued focusing on Makiel’s restoration. There was one more thing she could do for the good of all existence, but first she had to wait.

Finally, she felt the touch of Telariel, the Spider.

He rarely left Sanctum, but now even he was on the battlefield, retreating temporarily from a victory to connect her to all the other Judges. She caught brief glimpses of the remaining four, each engaged in battle, as Telariel wove his strands of authority to link them across time and space.

When all the Judges could hear her, Suriel spoke.

“Makiel is in recovery. We faced the Mad King and were defeated.”

She felt the reactions of the various Judges as though they were her own. Gadrael, the Titan, was astonished that his sponsor could have failed. Razael, the Wolf, wanted to test her own sword against the Vroshir. Zerachiel, the Fox, immediately ran to an Iteration farther away from the Mad King.

“By Makiel’s authorization and my own, I send the following command. All Judges, do not engage the Mad King. Abandon any world you cannot hold, and fortify those you can. The Vroshir will finish their raid, and many will die, but soon enough they will leave. We will retreat, and endure, and rebuild.”

The Spider and the Fox immediately sent their agreement. They prioritized their own lives and those of the Abidan above all else.

The Titan was next. Any world he was in would be well-fortified indeed, and he would follow any instruction of Makiel’s.

The Ghost sent no reply, but Suriel took that as agreement. The Wolf was the last to agree, frustrated that she couldn’t vent her frustrations on the enemy, but she satisfied herself with the knowledge that they would strike back someday.

The Hound and the Phoenix already agreed, so the Court of Seven was in accord. Their forces would pull back and let the Vroshir rampage until the pressures of chaos forced them to retreat back to their worlds.

Abidan would spread out more slowly this time, recovering surviving worlds and rebuilding others from fragments. From ten thousand worlds before Ozriel’s departure, they would be reduced to…a hundred, perhaps.

Even her Presence couldn’t speculate on the total number of lives that would be lost. At least those taken by the Vroshir would survive, but the Mad King and his allies would capture only those who could benefit them in some way.

Most would perish. And some of the worlds they lost would be vital ones.

She returned her attention to the map of the Way hovering in front of her. Sector 12 was entirely gray now, and other Sectors were darkening around it. Abidan had pulled back, leaving that region almost entirely undefended. One Sector in particular was surrounded, left entirely to the mercy of the Vroshir.

Sector 11.

With a heavy heart, Suriel reached out to the first world in the Sector: Iteration 110, Cradle.

Before the world was entirely closed off to the rest of the Way, she found a tiny piece of herself manifested in reality. She resonated with it, sending a message through the blue candle-flame inside.

It had to be simple. More simple impressions than words.

I’m sorry, Suriel sent. Hold on.

She spared an instant of grief for the world. The Mad King, who had once been the hero Daruman, knew the significance of Cradle. He knew it was the birthplace of the original Abidan, and—perhaps more importantly to him—Ozriel’s home.

Now, it was at his mercy.

* * *

Eithan gritted his teeth. “Cut it off.”

Yerin grabbed his hand too tightly. “Are you sure?”

“Do it!”

With the chime of a tiny bell, Yerin carefully used the Endless Sword. And Eithan’s glorious hair fell to the floor.

He gave a cry of pain, and Yerin patted him on the shoulder. “You looked like a yellow dog that climbed out of the fireplace. Your hair was suffering, and we eased it on its way.”

“A mirror,” Eithan croaked. “Bring me a mirror.”

He could see himself through his bloodline power, now that they were hovering in the cloud fortress outside of Sacred Valley, but there was still no substitute to using your own eyes.

Yerin handed him his pocket mirror, holding it up for him so he didn’t have to move his bandaged hands. She had left only two or three inches of hair. Barely enough to style.

He looked…well, he still looked great. A change in style could be refreshing sometimes.

But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t mourn the loss.

“Thank you. I just needed to see the damage for myself.”

She patted him again, and he could see her struggling not to make some comment about having real injuries to see to.

Eithan himself had a brace on his neck and all four limbs, as well as scripted bandages around his entire midsection and no less than three medicinal pills in his system. If not for the scripts, he would feel like beetles were eating him from the inside out at the moment, but at least he would be healed in a few days.

But he wasn’t the only one who needed attention.

Mercy and Ziel were both asleep, recovering from spiritual wounds. Little Blue had seen to them both, and Mercy would wake soon. She had strained her bloodline far beyond its limits, and would have suffered worse if she hadn’t left the battle once her armor broke.

Her mother would be able to restore such an injury, no doubt, but then they would all be in the unenviable position of explaining to Malice why they let a Monarch’s Overlady daughter face down a Dreadgod. If she recovered on her own, Malice need not be bothered.

Ziel had also pushed himself too far, but fortunately not beyond the restorative benefits of the Pure Storm Baptism. Eithan had performed the next stage—with his arms stiff as boards—and now Ziel slept with sparks of lightning madra playing through his spirit and over his body.

Orthos was perhaps in the worst shape, and his size couldn’t be reversed until he woke up and was provided with more soulfire. He hovered over a hill outside like a mid-sized Dreadgod himself, drifting on green cushions of life aura guided by a script. Everyone had donated life-aspected natural treasures to the effort, and now his flesh was knitting itself together at visible speed.

Even Yerin had not walked away unscathed, though she’d recovered before everyone but Lindon. Veins of bright red madra covered her body, replacing broken flesh, including a chunk of her hip. If she had to fight now, she could.

Instead of mocking Eithan, Yerin stood and looked to the door. “Scream if you need more coddling. I’m going after him.”

“You don’t think he needs some time alone right now?”

“Been more than a minute since he’s been alone at all.”

Physically, Lindon was fine. He was suffering some aftereffects from having Consumed too much of the Titan, but nothing he wouldn’t wrestle through.

Loss was harder to handle.

“Beings such as Dross don’t really die,” Eithan said. “…except under truly extraordinary circumstances.”

They could, however, change so drastically from damage like this that they came back with entirely different personalities. Which would not reassure Yerin, so Eithan didn’t say anything.

It wasn’t a guarantee, anyway. Perhaps Dross would recover and be perfectly healthy.

Eithan hoped so. He still had high hopes for Dross.

Yerin glanced at him as though she heard his unspoken thoughts. “Doesn’t mean he has an easy road to walk right now, does it? I’d contend he shouldn’t be finding his way on his own.”

“Nor will he have to,” Eithan agreed, “but sometimes you need time to yourself first.”

Her expression shifted subtly as she wrestled with herself, and Eithan could read the pain on her face. She knew he was right. She’d pushed through loss enough times herself.

While she was working to her own conclusion. Eithan left his bed. He didn’t have much control over his body, so he looked something like a turtle righting itself after landing on its shell.

When he finally stood stiffly on two thoroughly bandaged legs, he congratulated himself on the victory.

“Doesn’t count as alone if you pop out of the bushes,” she pointed out.

“I can lurk without popping out. Besides, I’m not going to Lindon.”

Yerin radiated such obvious skepticism that he thought he could see it in the vital aura.

“Lindon isn’t the only person in the world. I do sneak up on others occasionally.”

She gave his legs a pointed look. “You won’t be sneaking up on a deaf brick.”

“Ah, but you underestimate my legendary grace and agility.” Eithan hobbled across the ground, his every step clattering on the floor until it sounded like the return of the Wandering Titan.

He paused at the door. He had used up his soulfire to heal himself and perform the Baptism on Ziel.

“Would you mind helping me with the door, please?”

Without a word, Yerin pushed it open.

* * *

Somehow, Jai Chen found herself leading a procession of several hundred sacred artists. Most were much older, and none had any idea who she was.

She led by virtue of being the strongest sacred artist present, and because Mercy had told everyone to listen to her. They had been about two hundred strong then, but the last time Jai Chen extended her detection web, she’d counted almost twice that.

Mercy had also left her with a medicinal pill for her brother, and now it slowly revolved in his spirit, but he still hadn’t woken up.

Jai Chen hauled Jai Long behind herself on a stretcher that lay on a hovering construct. She’d been lucky to find that platform; at first, she had been dragging him over the uneven terrain, which couldn’t have been good for his recovery.

The further they pushed into the black trees, the more dreadbeasts they’d encountered. Most wouldn’t bother a group of their size, but some seemed to have no sense of self-preservation at all.

Fingerling flew around her, staying alert for more, even though he was at least as exhausted as she was. He sagged in midair, and his eyes regularly fluttered closed, but he kept shaking himself awake.

Now that the Dreadgod was gone, Jai Chen could turn back west again, but she didn’t want to go back to Sacred Valley in that condition. Nor did anyone else who followed her, it seemed.

They had a plan for the Wilds, so she was clinging to it like a life raft.

But the plan let her down at the first step.

She called out a warning as she felt more sacred artists approaching, but when they emerged, she was the one to panic.

The forty or fifty sacred artists coming out of the trees wore blue, carried spears, and their hair was stiff and shiny as metal. The Jai clan.

Jai Chen and her brother had wondered about this. With the clan being pushed out of the Blackflame Empire proper, it was possible that they would look for places to settle on the border of the Empire. Places that weren’t really under Imperial supervision at all. Like the Desolate Wilds.

A woman with glistening black hair stepped up, her spearhead shining like a white star. “I am Jai Hara, of the Jai clan. Name yourselves.”

There was deathly silence from the Sacred Valley side as everyone waited for Jai Chen to speak. Even Fingerling turned to her.

She shoved the panic down into her stomach. These people wouldn’t know who she was. They couldn’t recognize her; she wasn’t wearing anything that marked her as having once been part of their clan, and she didn’t have their Goldsign. Or any Goldsign at all, as she was still Jade.

They couldn’t know, but she still trembled at the thought that they would figure it out.

“We came from the west,” Jai Chen called, and she didn’t like how her voice shook. “We’re fleeing the Dreadgod. We just want a place to stay for a while. I…we have friends in the Sandvipers. Or the Purelakes. Are they still here?”

Jai Hara’s face was as stiff as her hair. “We have barely enough for ourselves, but if you will tell us which experts you represent, we will know where to send our apologies.”

Jai Chen’s sense of danger spiked. They wanted to know if she was backed by anyone to know if she could be pushed around or not. If she said they were here on their own, they might even attack.

At first, she thought to say the Arelius family, since she could prove that relatively easily. But that would only ensure they attacked; it had been the Arelius family that had pushed the Jai clan out of the Empire.

Next, she considered the Akura clan, but she really had no idea who they were. Important, she gathered, but what if they were even worse enemies to the Jai clan?

Other than an outright, outrageous lie, she only had one idea left.

“We were sent here by the Sage of Twin Stars,” Jai Chen said.

There were enough gasps and mutters from the dozens of sacred artists behind Jai Hara that she knew she’d said the right thing.

“A Sage?” Jai Hara repeated in astonishment. “So you’re the…honorable Twin Star sect?”

“Yes,” Jai Chen said immediately. “That’s us.”

She had spent enough years in the Desolate Wilds to know that Sages were only legends here, but they were legends widely told. She herself didn’t understand how Lindon could possibly be a Sage—he had felt like an Underlord to her, and he hadn’t acted with the aloof air of an expert she had always imagined from Sages—but as long as he could technically claim the title, she could use it.

Jai Hara had started conferring with someone behind her, so Jai Chen kept talking. “The Sage himself is close by. He was fighting the Dreadgod, but the valley to the west was destroyed. So we needed to find shelter for ourselves. Before the Sage comes to get us.”

She was explaining too much, so she clapped her mouth shut before she dug herself a hole she couldn’t dig out of.

Jai Chen really wished her brother was awake.

Jai Hara straightened herself up. “We have, of course, heard tales of the Twin Star Sage’s heroism.”

No, they hadn’t. Jai Chen would have been shocked if Hara had heard the name before now.

But this was the kind of harmless lie that might soothe the ego of an expert and prevent enmity. Jai Chen understood.

“It is no surprise to us that the honorable Sage has come to defend us from the Dreadgod,” Jai Hara continued, “but who is that?”

She pointed behind Jai Chen’s shoulder.

With a jolt, Jai Chen realized that she hadn’t paid attention to her spiritual sense. She was exhausted, but that was no excuse for a lack of vigilance.

Eithan Arelius drifted up, looking like he’d floated straight out of a healer’s tent. He was sprawled belly-down on a white Thousand-Mile Cloud, wrapped entirely in bandages. His limbs all looked completely stiff, and his hair had been cut short and swept back.

He reached into a hole in the air, from which he pulled a long gray length of cloth. “I am here as another representative of the Twin Star sect. Let our banner stream behind us!”

Eithan let the cloth catch the wind, where it billowed out to display an unbroken stretch of gray. The banner was blank.

Jai Chen didn’t want to say anything, but Eithan saw the look on her face and sighed. “You didn’t give me time to get it sewn yet, but imagine how amazed you would have been if I did have a banner ready. Pretend that’s what happened.”

A cry had gone up from those of the Jai clan who had extended their spiritual senses. “Underlord!”

Ten or fifteen went down to their knees immediately.

But not most of them.

Eithan responded to their calls with a cheery smile. “Close enough!”

“They’re going to recognize you,” Jai Chen said, her voice low.

Most of the Jai remained standing, and they were not happy. Jai Hara herself spat at the foot of Eithan’s cloud. “We know who you are. There’s only one Arelius Underlord.”

“That is not actually correct, but I do not represent my family. They make their own decisions.” Some of the standing Jai clan glanced to one another.

“I embrace my true identity,” Eithan continued. “Personal acolyte to the Sage of Twin Stars himself, and one of the founding members of the Twin Star sect.”

He strained himself to hold the banner higher, despite the thick wrapping around his hands.

There was some fierce debate among the dozens of Jai artists in the back, but after a moment of struggle, Jai Hara begrudgingly lowered her head. “We don’t have food to share, but you can rest behind our lines until the Sage comes.”

As their crowd from Sacred Valley was ushered into the Wilds, Jai Chen whispered to Eithan. “Thank you. We just need a place to recover for a while, and then we won’t impose on your hospitality anymore.”

Eithan was lying face-down, his banner missing. Either the effort of holding it up had exhausted him, or he hadn’t wanted to stay in such a strange position for any longer.

Now, however, the Archlord spoke straight into his cushion of dense cloud madra. “Impose? No, I simply ask that you give me a few days to prepare better accommodations than this. I couldn’t let our new sect die out in the cold.”

Jai Chen didn’t know how to respond. On the one hand, having a sect backing them would solve most of their problems. She yearned to stop running and hiding, to settle down somewhere.

On the other hand, there was no Twin Star sect.

“I’m sorry, Archlord, but the sect…I was just—”

“Making it up? Every organization in history has been made up by someone.”

“We don’t have—”

“A headquarters? There has been quite a bit of real estate around here leveled in a recent disaster. You may have heard about it.”

“My brother—”

“I’m not just looking for your brother.” His head lolled to one side, and he looked at her with a single blue eye. “From you, Jai Chen, with no pressure from me, I would like to know: if we could provide you with a home, would you want one?”

She hesitated.

“No commitment,” he assured her, “and pending your brother’s approval. You could both walk away if and when you wanted.”

“Yes,” she admitted. “But it’s hard for me to believe it isn’t a trap.”

She flinched as she said it. He was an Archlord, and she was doubting his given word.

He let out a breath of relief. “Fantastic! It actually isn’t a trap this time; I just need someone who knows real sacred arts to sort through all these Irons to find some who might actually be worth teaching. It so happens that I have recently come into possession of a plot of flying farmland with plenty of sacred herbs and spirit-fruits to support the development of a small sect. So I appreciate you founding one.”

Eithan dipped his head in what was probably supposed to be a bow. It was really just him pushing his face deeper into the cloud.

Despite her misgivings, Jai Chen giggled.

* * *

Northstrider crossed his legs and closed his eyes in midair, catching his breath and slowly recovering his spirit.

The clouds below him were torn apart, the landscape devastated for miles. An abandoned fortress had been reduced to rubble, there was now a bay where once had been uninterrupted coastline, and one small mountain had been leveled while another one had burst into its place.

“I’ll have to have my maps re-drawn,” Malice said with a sigh.

She drifted up next to him out of a cloud of violet essence. Her dissolving armor lit up the sky, but it was nothing compared to the red light that retreated north.

The Bleeding Phoenix, flying into the Trackless Sea.

Not fleeing.

[Behavioral deviation detected in the Bleeding Phoenix,] his oracle reported. [It acts according to unknown purpose.]

Northstrider didn’t need the reminder. They both knew they hadn’t driven it off; it was flying somewhere with intention.

“Do you think it’s feeding to regain its power?” Malice asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Oooh, I know how much you love that.” She was smirking, he was sure, but she had always valued useless conversation. He continued cycling, seeing to his spirit, categorizing how much strength the battle with the Phoenix had cost him and how long it would take to recover.

“He did this,” Malice said at last.

“Yes.”

It would be no mystery among the Monarchs who was responsible for the strange actions of the Phoenix. Only one among them even claimed to have any influence over the Dreadgods.

“He has gone too far,” she said, and now he could feel her cold anger bleeding out into the world around her. “He’s toying with forces that could be the ruin of all of us. What could he possibly expect to gain from this?”

Northstrider opened his eyes. “I will know soon.”

* * *

Wearing more veils than he ever had in his life, Reigan Shen shoved his way through collapsed houses and upturned trees. He was still in his human body, and he was both sweating and breathing heavily.

He felt as weak as an Iron. It was like wearing a suit so tight that it had burrowed into his skin.

Even so, he wasn’t doing the work himself. He may be a sacred beast, but he wasn’t an animal.

Jade-level constructs pushed beams aside, dispersed soil, and lifted boulders so he could pass. More scoured the area, clearing the entrance.

It had taken him hours to reach this point, and finally the starting point was within reach. The last chunk of masonry rolled away, revealing a towering stone door. It was carved with the image of a gaunt, sunken human with many grasping hands, its eyes hollow and mouth open unnaturally wide.

This was Subject One, at least as he had appeared long ago. A Dreadgod, though few knew that. The man who had become warped by hunger aura. The origin of their bloodline.

Shen’s willpower was veiled, but still powerful. He commanded the door to open, and it obeyed.

With great ceremony and a hissing release of power, the Nethergate swung open.

Inside, a wood-paneled hallway was lit with flickering scripts. Finally, Reigan Shen had gained the wish he’d dreamed of ever since Tiberian’s death: entrance to the western labyrinth.

Only the shallowest layer, to be certain. The bulk of the work was still left to be done, and the depths of the labyrinth would surely be locked down tight. Fortunately, he had the key.

Reigan Shen strode into the tunnel, on his way to retrieve his new weapon.

Epilogue

With his Remnant arm in a scripted sling, Lindon faced the Ancestor’s Tomb. It had come through the Wandering Titan’s attack more or less intact.

Part of its roof had caved in, one pillar was cracked, and it was covered with debris like a small town had dumped its garbage all over it.

But Heaven’s Glory must have done their job well when they rebuilt it, because the Tomb still stood.

There were no security measures left around it, all of them having been destroyed either by the trembling earth or roaring winds, so he walked through the front doors of the Tomb easily.

Once he stood inside the open temple-like room, he faced down the sealed door at the other end. A mural of the four Dreadgods covered the entrance.

Lindon had learned many things from the Wandering Titan’s memories. Too many things, he would say; it was impossible to process all the impressions, instincts, and thoughts. Dross had been going through them, but even for him, it was difficult to separate what had come from the Titan and what from Lindon’s own mind.

Still, a few themes were clear. One was that the Titan had detected its goal here. The one meal it needed. The source of hunger madra.

When it had arrived and felt nothing more of the sort, the Dreadgod had assumed it wasn’t here. Like a dog chasing after a stick, only to never find it.

But Lindon had more than a few reasons to suspect the Dreadgod’s prize was still here. Just locked away. Buried.

Besides, Lindon’s arm had been strained and cracked by absorbing so much of the Titan’s power. He needed more weapons of hunger madra if he wanted to rebuild it. And improve it. Scavenging from dreadbeasts wouldn’t hold him forever.

He had to pick his way across a field of debris as he crossed the room; evidently some people had used the Tomb as shelter during the Dreadgod’s attack. As it had been before, the inside of the Ancestor’s Tomb was just a wide-open space lined with pillars.

At the end of the room stood an ornate door, sealed shut. The entrance was undamaged by the previous collapse of the building, which didn’t surprise him. If it was part of the labyrinth below, it had to be made of stronger stuff.

Lindon had been reaching out for the door already, silence filling his mind where Dross’ chatter belonged, but he stopped as he noticed something.

The door had no mechanism to open it and no clear script-circle, which meant he would have to use his authority to open it, but that wasn’t what had seized his attention. It was a trace of someone else’s authority over to the side of the hall, a little to the side of the door.

An indentation in space. Like an invisible bump.

Lindon’s alarm went up immediately. Someone had torn space here, and if it wasn’t him…

He should call for help in case there was something deadly on the other side. Dross could have done that.

The spirit wasn’t gone. Not quite. He drifted in Lindon’s soul, right around the base of his skull as usual, but Lindon didn’t see details. His eye, his boneless arms. Instead, Dross felt like a loose cloud of dream madra. Like a two-dimensional copy of his former self.

Eithan insisted that it was possible to bring Dross back, but Lindon understood the nature of spirits. If Dross returned, there was no guarantee that he’d be himself anymore.

Lindon shook himself free. Dross wasn’t here, but some of his passive enhancements to Lindon’s mind remained.

He focused on the bump in space. It didn’t feel like a tunnel to him, or a trap. It felt like a sealed void key more than a tunnel somewhere else in the world.

Though he supposed there could be anything inside the void key.

He stretched out a tongue of Blackflame, infusing it with his authority and using it to slice through space. It was much easier than when he had tried the same thing with only his will; when he commanded the world to “Open,” he cut through the barrier separating the spaces almost without resistance.

As soon as a doorway in midair unfurled, opening onto a huge room cluttered with various objects, he noticed two things more than any others: the art and the swords.

This room actually had walls, and on those walls hung brightly colored tapestries, long black-and-white landscapes painted on scrolls, framed portraits, even decorative lights and constructs of slithering color that were clearly designed only for decoration.

Between the paintings were swords. Some were elaborate and ancient, shining with power, while others were dull, pitted, or rusty. Some were just hilts, their madra blades having faded away to essence, and still others had Forged blades that were perfectly preserved.

A scripted cauldron sat cold in the corner, next to buckets, boxes, bags, and bundles of herbs, spirit-fruits, pills, and elixirs. Next to it was a rack of sacred artist’s robes, all black, many of them nicked and cut.

Lindon’s stomach twisted.

He noticed the second rack, filled with more black robes, all of them shredded as though by errant sword-slices.

And the rack of cycling swords next to them, all radiating sharp aura.

This had to be the Sword Sage’s private storage space. It was the only thing that made sense.

But that was impossible.

“It can’t be his,” Lindon said aloud. “It’s too old. The world would have healed up the entrance by now, and I would never have found it.”

When no one responded, Lindon turned slightly over his shoulder.

“I’m talking to you.”

An onyx statue of a curled-up panther sat next to the entrance, where there had been nothing a moment before. To be fair, the illusion was convincing, even to Lindon. But he had senses the inhabitants of Sacred Valley couldn’t fool.

That, and Lindon had felt the Path of the White Fox following him before he opened the portal.

The onyx panther uncurled itself, its tail spreading out into five copies. The tails flexed out as the cat stretched, opening its jaws wide in a yawn, and as it did so it grew taller. Its snout extended, and its smooth surface melted to gray and then to a coat of white fur.

“You have traveled far down your Path, child,” Elder Whisper murmured.

“So have you, I see. And you have kept that to yourself.”

He did not hide the tone of accusation in his voice.

Elder Whisper prowled around Lindon. “I did not deceive anyone. At first, we taught our descendants to focus on one technique at a time as an adaptation to the suppression field. But memory fades so quickly, and time is the greatest liar of all.”

“If you had the power to open this space, you could have helped us fight the Dreadgod.”

“To face one of the four beasts with illusions is to face down a lion with a spider’s web.”

Elder Whisper kept an illusion of himself standing still and talking as his real form crept out beneath a cloak of invisibility.

Lindon traced the invisible one with his eyes. “That’s how we beat it.”

“When you lose what you fought to defend, and your opponent leaves you alive out of mercy, is that victory?” Elder Whisper sighed and let his illusions drop. “Perhaps it is. In any case, any victory against one of them is temporary. That is why I preserved this place.”

Lindon swept his gaze over the isolated space. “Why didn’t you take what you needed and leave it closed?”

“While I can visit Heaven’s Glory unseen whenever I wish, it would be quite another matter if I were to drag a trunk behind me in my teeth. And the ability to open these spaces is quite separate from the power to create one of my own. In that, you have me outmatched.

“Sages avoid these lands. The last one to visit, the man who left this space, was asking forbidden questions. Which is the best way to find forbidden answers.”

A purple-and-white flame kindled over a cylinder tucked away in the corner.

It was about as high and broad as Lindon’s waist, and made of dull bronze metal. Scripts wrapped around the cylinder, and it took Lindon a moment to analyze them.

When he activated the scripts in the correct sequence, the cylinder fell away, revealing a tall rectangular box beneath. This one, he had to cut through with Blackflame.

Finally, a cube about the size of his head rested in the third layer. It throbbed and pulsed, and Lindon recognized the taste of the madra inside.

As he recognized the symbol on the top: the moon crest of the Arelius clan.

“The Sage brought this to our lands,” Elder Whisper continued, “a tool granted to him by a Monarch. A key to the prison at the depths of the labyrinth. But he was not capable of delving deeply enough.”

Lindon’s will was enough to open the box. It wasn’t made to keep people out so much as to keep something in.

If it was what Lindon suspected, he needed to be fast.

The box opened to reveal a shriveled, mummified, chalk-white left hand.

Appetites Lindon had absorbed from the Wandering Titan burned to life, and he longed to consume the hand whole, to tear it apart with his teeth and let it satisfy his stomach and his soul.

He slammed the box shut again. “We can’t open this,” Lindon said firmly. “It will drag the Titan straight back.”

Elder Whisper sat on his haunches, tails waving smoothly behind him. “Wei Shi Lindon. Would you like to know how to kill the Dreadgods?”

THE END

Cradle: Volume Nine

Bloodline

Bloopers

Lindon braced himself. Here they were, ready to return to Sacred Valley. The time had come.

Nothing between him and his family except a Dreadgod.

[Could be worse!] Dross pointed out. [There could be two Dreadgods.]

Eithan leaned over to whisper in Lindon’s ear. “That, children, is what we call foreshadowing.”

* * *

Lindon felt Eithan’s presence before the door to the second floor swung open, and Yerin was already yelling. “Not a candle’s chance in a rainstorm.”

Eithan folded his arms and looked at her curiously. “I’ve always wondered. How many of those do you have?”

“Not a pig’s chance in a butcher shop,” Yerin said. “Not a star’s chance in daylight. Not a sheep’s chance in a tiger den. Not a snowflake’s chance in summer. Not a Copper’s chance.”

“A Copper’s chance in what?” Lindon asked.

“Copper doesn’t have much of a chance anywhere.”

Eithan stroked his chin. “Do you make these up on the spot, or do you have an extraordinary memory for folksy idioms?”

“Sometimes I remember, sometimes I make ‘em up.” She shrugged. “Can’t say it makes an inch of difference either way.”

Lindon was impressed. “If you’re making those up that quickly, I think you might be some kind of genius.”

She snorted. “Not a snowball’s chance in Hell.”

* * *

Eithan and Lindon stood over the grimy pit, looking down into the hole where a Heaven’s Glory building had collapsed. “If you already know what’s down there, I would appreciate it if you would tell me,” Lindon said.

Eithan grimaced. “Lots of grimy blankets, some destroyed tools, and a shallow sewer of human waste.” He knelt and brushed his hand over an indentation in the rubble. “A halfling lay here.” He moved to another dent next to the first. “And the other.”

“What’s a halfling?” Lindon asked.

“Hush, I’m dodging copyright.” Eithan closed his eyes, tracing a trail. “They crawled…their hands were bound!”

“I’m certain you’re making this up.”

“Their bonds were cut!”

Lindon decided to ignore him.

* * *

Ziel stared down the Kazan Patriarch. “There’s a big monster coming. It’s called a Dreadgod. Come with us if you want to live.”

“Okay, let’s go,” the Patriarch said.

They high-fived.

* * *

Orthos exchanged glances with Little Blue before he looked back to Yerin. “He does not feel like he’s in danger.”

Yerin’s heart eased a little. “What does he feel like?”

Orthos gave her an odd look. “Like all humans. Soft but bony. I don’t see why you’d need to ask me that, though.”

Yerin’s face heated. “Wait, no, I meant—”

“What a question to ask an old, lonely turtle. You would know the answer better than I would anyway, I imagine.”

“I yield. White flag. Please stop.”

Little Blue’s laughter echoed like bells.

* * *

For the second time in a day, Lindon gripped the marble and prayed.

I don’t know what to do. Help me.

The marble buzzed for a second, then stopped. Then buzzed again. On the third buzz, it was interrupted by a woman’s voice.

“New marble, who’s this?”

“This is, uh, Wei Shi Lindon? From Cradle?”

“Oh yeah, Lindon! Hold on one second, let me put you in here. Cradle…Kid…I…Saved…okay, I’ve got you in. Now let’s make this quick, I’m roaming.”

* * *

“State your desires,” Northstrider said.

Yerin spoke immediately. “Infinite wishes.”

The gathered Monarchs looked to one another.

Northstrider grunted. “Obviously we can’t—”

“I wish to win the next tournament.”

“That violates the entire spirit of the competition.”

“Immortality.”

“You don’t need any more increases to your lifespan.”

“The ability to grant my own wishes.”

“That’s advancement, and it’s what we’re offering you.” Northstrider’s eyes narrowed. “Where are you getting these ideas?”

Yerin pulled out a scroll, which unfurled all the way to the ground. “Lindon wrote it. I remember ‘em all, but he thought you might want to read them. Next, I’m supposed to ask for ‘points.’”

Northstrider incinerated the list.

About the Author

Will Wight lives in Florida, among the citrus fruits and slithering sea creatures. He’s the author of the Amazon best-selling Traveler’s Gate Trilogy, The Elder Empire (which cleverly offers twice the fun and twice the work), and his series of mythical martial arts magic: Cradle.

He graduated from the University of Central Florida in 2013, earning a Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing and a flute of dragon’s bone. He is also, apparently, invisible to cameras.

He also claims that WillWight.com is the best source for book updates, new stories, fresh coriander, and miracle cures for all your aches and pains!

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Also by Will Wight

Cradle

Unsouled

Soulsmith

Blackflame

Skysworn

Ghostwater

Underlord

Uncrowned

Wintersteel

Bloodline

Cradle: Foundation

Cradle: Path of Gold

Cradle: Rise of Lords

The Traveler’s Gate Trilogy

House of Blades

The Crimson Vault

City of Light

The Traveler’s Gate Chronicles

The Traveler’s Gate Trilogy (Collected Edition)

The Elder Empire

Of Sea & Shadow

Of Dawn & Darkness

Of Kings & Killers

Of Shadow & Sea

Of Darkness & Dawn

Of Killers & Kings

For the most up-to-date bibliography, please visit WillWight.com