Uncrowned (Cradle Book 7)

by Will Wight

  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.

  Chapter 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 bloodli
ne 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.