by Will Wight
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.