by Will Wight
The cliff shone with white light like a dawning star, invisible gouges appeared in the dirt from the force of his sword aura, and his spiritual sense trembled with the power of his seven spears. Jai Daishou used this technique to level fortress walls, not to kill individual enemies.
This was the culmination of all the individual spear arts passed down among the Jai for generations. Jai Daishou called it the Fall of Seven Stars.
He thrust his spear forward, unleashing a stream of deadly white madra and six Forged missiles that screamed as they blasted through the air. The pale, deadly lights washed over the cliffside like a shining wave, the air between each light churning with sword aura that chewed up pebbles and spat dust.
Utter devastation scoured the cliff, shredding the boundary flags and dispersing the formation, churning the fallen bodies of the two elders into bloody mist. The technique plowed through stone and soil, and when the cloud of dust cleared, the entire half of the outcropping where Eithan once stood was completely gone. A chunk had been gouged out of the mountain, and a chunk of night sky replaced what had been rock a moment before.
Jai Daishou took a deep breath of satisfaction and let his madra begin to cycle. He had strained his spirit too much for this, but at least—
His spirit shouted at him, and he spun, leaping in the air and readying the Ancestor’s Spear in both hands.
With his broom, Eithan had swept a Truegold’s ankles out from under him. While the old man was still in the air, the broom’s handle crashed down on his back.
There was a crack as the man’s spine snapped.
The wooden broom stayed intact.
Eithan hadn’t escaped the Fall of Seven Stars unscathed: blood trickled down into one eye, which was stuck closed, there was a bloody slash across his left shoulder, and his fine blue robe was half-shredded. But he had escaped, and that was frightening enough.
Jai Daishou shouted to draw Eithan’s attention, and to give his three remaining elders time to run. He whipped Stellar Spear madra in a line—the Star Lance was the simplest Striker technique possible, but also the fastest. No matter how quickly Eithan could move, he couldn’t dodge this. It was practically instantaneous.
A technique of this degree couldn’t kill an Underlord, but it could pin him down, keep him from chasing the remaining Truegolds and butchering them one by one.
Eithan raised his hand like a man blocking out the light of the sun.
And when the Stellar Spear madra came within a foot of his hand, the madra dispersed. It dissolved. It vanished, as though the Underlord were simply wiping out his technique.
Jai Daishou landed, his metal hair flogging his back like chains, and began channeling Flowing Starlight. He needed to devote everything he had to speed if he wanted to keep up.
Though if he couldn’t figure out Eithan’s Path, speed might not matter. The man could eat his techniques.
Eithan blurred and moved again, but with the Flowing Starlight running through him, Jai Daishou tracked his movements. He kicked madra behind him and launched, intercepting Eithan’s broom with his spear before the man could crush a fourth elder’s ribs.
They strained against each other for an instant that lasted three full breaths, the world around them crawling. Even the fastest Truegold elder seemed as though he was moving through water as he dashed madly away, the white lines of Flowing Starlight sliding over his limbs.
Jai Daishou had the full force of his body and his Enforcer technique pushing Eithan’s broomstick back, but the blond Underlord pushed against him just as heavily.
Eithan’s jaw was set, his one open eye blazing with fury, sweat trickling down his jaw. He trembled with the effort.
But Jai Daishou was using a legendary weapon forged by his ancestor. Eithan was using a broom.
He may have imbued it with soulfire, but every significant artifact had that treatment. The Ancestor’s Spear would have been tempered in soulfire many times.
Despite the difference in their weapons, Eithan was still holding him off.
His body is younger, but my spirit is stronger. He channeled a Forger technique, and a fan of needles longer than his forearm condensed over his head. One by one, they launched themselves at Eithan to break the deadlock.
A pulse of madra flooded out of the Arelius Patriarch’s entire body. Jai Daishou felt nothing on his skin, but his Forged needles melted like ice in the summer sun.
Finally, he got a good sense of Eithan’s power.
Jai Daishou shoved, pushing his opponent away, and spoke in confusion. “Pure madra? Who uses pure madra?”
“It has…its uses,” Eithan panted, leaning heavily on his broom and flashing a smile.
Now Jai Daishou had to make it out alive. He’d read a dozen theories about the mysterious Eithan Arelius’ Path, and all of them were wrong. Bringing this information back to the clan was the only way to bring the Arelius family down.
Worse, none of the Truegolds would have heard him. They were too far away.
Even so, despite what his perception told him, he still wondered if it was some kind of trick, maybe a Soulsmith’s device hidden on Eithan’s body. Eithan had Enforced an ordinary broom—even one washed in soulfire—to survive contact with the spear of an ancient Jai Matriarch. He had suspected madra of earth or force, to be so effective at hardening a weapon.
To do that with pure madra…it would be the least efficient technique possible. He must be gushing madra into that broom just to keep it from exploding.
All his senses told him Eithan was ordinary, if any Underlord could be considered ordinary. He was ranked eleventh, putting him near the bottom of all the active Lords in the Empire.
His only two extraordinary aspects were his senses—as expected of an Arelius—and, apparently, the depth of his madra.
That shouldn’t be enough.
Sudden fear tickled his spine and trembled in his gut. Fear that he hadn’t faced since he transcended Gold: fear of an unknown opponent. Fear for his own survival.
He stiffened his spine and burned that fear for anger.
He was the Patriarch of the ancient Jai clan. He would bow to no man. Not even in his own mind.
Even if it crippled him, he had to win tonight. Jai Daishou unleashed his full power, his core blazing, his Flowing Starlight technique shining in blinding lines on his skin. Even Eithan seemed to crawl now, and the young man’s blue eye widened in surprise.
Like every aspect, pure madra had its strengths and weaknesses. It was second to none for attacking and defending the spirit, but it had no ability to interact with the physical world.
Eithan had no power over the forces of nature. So he was helpless before the techniques of a Ruler.
There were no Ruler techniques on the Path of the Stellar Spear, but the decades Jai Daishou had spent perfecting his own sacred arts were not wasted. Stellar Spear madra was a blend of the sword and light aspects, so he focused on his spear, staring into the white-and-silver aura braided along its edge.
He seized that silver power, spreading the aura into a blade the width of an axe. He activated the aura, and it shone silver.
Like this, he could slice through a tree with no more effort than cutting tofu. And there was nothing Eithan could do about it: he had no authority over sword madra, and no way to stop a blade.
The Jai Patriarch had burned through too much of his madra too quickly, but this would end it. He thrust his spear with all his strength, though the aura-empowered blade would slice through Eithan’s body even if a child pushed it.
Eithan dropped the broom, which fell so slowly it seemed to hang in the air, and reached into the pocket of his outer robe.
Jai Daishou watched everything as though it played out for him at half speed: the silver blade of aura sliced through strands of yellow hair, piercing the silk threads of Eithan’s robe. The Arelius Underlord was leaning back, away from the strike, but not fast enough.
His hand emerged from the pocket. The silver blade drew blood from
Eithan’s cheek, spilling red droplets that drifted lazily up.
Eithan sliced open the back of his hand as he slid it in front of his face, holding what he’d drawn from his pocket as though it were a talisman that could ward off the spear’s approach.
As Eithan held it into the path of the silver blade, Jai Daishou saw what it was: a pair of black scissors.
Ordinary scissors with long blades, of the sort a tailor might use to cut fabric. He sensed nothing unusual about them whatsoever—they weren’t even made of goldsteel. Just, as far as he could tell, iron.
He had to assume they had been washed in soulfire, which would make them stronger and allow them to conduct madra and aura more efficiently, but there was only so much an Underlord’s blessing could do to mundane materials.
The aura crashed into the scissors and, instead of slicing them in half, split like a wave running against the rocks.
Jai Daishou was so committed to his attack that he could only watch in horror as the blade of silver light split around the scissors, dispersing, spraying immaterial aura light to either side of Eithan’s face. A few more blond hairs fell to the ground, but no more blood spilled.
The spearhead reached the black blade, and Eithan gripped his scissors in both hands, shoving Jai Daishou’s full-power strike to one side.
As the Jai Patriarch staggered, the Arelius bent over, breathing heavily, scooping up his broom. “Close one,” he said, between ragged breaths.
He straightened with a tailor’s scissors in one hand and a janitor’s broom in the other, standing over the lord of a warrior clan whose spear had failed.
Jai Daishou wondered when someone would wake him from this nightmare. Even using soulfire, it was impossible to Enforce ordinary iron to that degree using pure madra. Impossible. It would empty Jai Daishou’s core three times over.
“Tell me how,” he demanded, looking up at his rival.
Then black scissors met his throat, and the pain blasted away his Enforcer technique. Time staggered back into focus.
Eithan considered a moment. “I’ll tell your Remnant,” he said.
***
Lindon found Eithan sprawled out on his back at the edge of a cliff. Yellow hair fanned out behind him, his blue robe looked like he’d fed it to a gang of dogs, and he was bleeding from half a dozen wounds that Lindon could see. Just out of reach of his outstretched hands lay a broom and a pair of scissors.
“Are you hurt?” Lindon asked, sliding his pack down to pull out the bandages. It almost slipped out of his grip—one of the straps had been burned halfway through by a tongue of Blackflame.
Eithan cracked one eye, though he might have tried to open both; one was gummed shut by a mass of blood. “I am taking a break and enjoying the brisk night air. You look like you were beaten with clubs while climbing through an erupting volcano.”
Orthos was still picking his way through the debris between the two cliffs, his frustration echoing through the contract, but neither he nor Eithan seemed to expect another attack.
Lindon extended his perception and felt a handful of very alarming spirits on the slopes above him. “They aren’t going to attack us, are they?” he asked.
Eithan barked out a laugh, then winced. “Oh, that’s…that’s tender. No, after the show I gave them, they wouldn’t come near me if I had a spear through my chest and was begging for death. Couldn’t say if any Skysworn were watching us, but I suspect my ranking among Underlords is about to be adjusted.”
A feather’s weight lifted from Lindon’s head, and the Sylvan Riverseed hopped to his shoulder, sliding down his arm, ocean-blue hair drifting behind her. She jumped off his hand, landing on Eithan’s chest.
The Underlord raised an eyebrow. “Why, hello there.”
She walked up to kneel on his forehead, looking down curiously. Then she rubbed his head with one hand, whistling like a flute in a way that Lindon suspected was meant to be comforting.
“Your power can’t help me,” Eithan said, flinching as he sat up. The Riverseed scurried up to sit on top of his head, still making a sympathetic face. “Madra doesn’t get any more pure or gentle than mine.” He looked to Lindon as though something had just occurred to him. “Speaking of which, I see you’re making good use of my cycling technique. Reliable, isn’t it? No fun to practice, but there are always tradeoffs.”
“Yes,” Lindon agreed immediately, “I couldn’t be more grateful. Without…” The implications of Eithan’s statement caught up to him a second later. “…ah, pardon, but when you say ‘your’ cycling technique…”
“I mean mine,” Eithan said cheerily. “The one I’m using right now. It was in the family library, but everybody else can supplement their cores by cycling aura. Focusing on capacity is inefficient, unless—as you’ve experienced—you can’t add to your power with vital aura. Pure madra Paths aren’t as rare as everyone seems to think they are.”
“You…” Lindon began to express suspicion, but there was a more polite way to confirm. He extended his perception, scanning Eithan’s spirit. This time, the fog that usually covered Eithan’s core was lifted.
And he felt a pool of pure blue-white power, just like his own.
“I didn’t pick you up because of your impeccable fashion sense,” Eithan said, touching two fingers to the corner of his blood-stuck eye. “Hm. I think this is swelling. Anyway, a pure core is one of two ways in which we are similar, so I thought I might be able to provide you with some unique guidance. And that you might help me as well, in the long run.”
Lindon was sure he was supposed to ask, but he played his role anyway. “What’s the second way?”
“You left it back in the Trials after you advanced to Gold,” Eithan said. “It happens. Advancement can play havoc with the memory, especially when the process is traumatic. It should be lying in the dirt, but it followed you. Now it’s in your right pocket.”
Lindon reached into his pocket, knowing what he would find, and withdrew Suriel’s marble. The ball of pure glass sat on his palm, its sapphire flame steady, casting blue light over him.
“Do you know what this is?” Lindon asked, and he wasn’t sure if he was afraid or excited.
“I wasn’t sure at first,” Eithan said, reaching into his own pocket. “Not everything that blocks my senses is from the heavens.” He pulled out his own glass marble the size of a thumbnail. “And yours looks somewhat different from mine.”
Inside the hollow shell was a ball of perfectly round darkness. It looked endlessly deep, like a bottomless hole suspended in glass.
Eithan held it up to one eye, inspecting it. “Maybe they’re like coins,” he mused. “This could be the celestial equivalent of tossing a scale to a servant.”
Lindon had so many questions that they all tried to exit his mouth at once. They came out together, so they sounded like, “Bluh.”
Eithan nodded as though that was exactly the question he’d expected. “Yes. Precisely. Well, let’s trade stories while we’re not surrounded by hostile strangers.” He slipped his black marble into his pocket and pulled something else out: a gold plate slightly bigger than his palm, set with white, dark blue, and a black crescent in the center.
“This is the authority of the Arelius clan’s Patriarch,” he said, tossing it to Lindon. “You’ll need that to run a quick errand for me.”
Lindon cradled the ornate emblem in both hands. “It would be an honor,” he said, still trying to catch up to the rest of the conversation.
“Above us, you’ll find the homes of the Jai family. One of the homes has a decorative tower on the grounds, a tree with pink leaves, and the statue of a crane and a dragon locked in combat. Break into that house and search for a girl named Jai Chen.”
“Should I bring her back here?”
Eithan’s grin widened. “That’s Jai Long’s sister, held captive by the Underlord to ensure his cooperation. In all the confusion, I’m afraid she’s been left alone.”
“Really,” Lindon said, and Blackflam
e surged in him.
Eithan snapped and pointed to him. “That! When you are stopped by Jai clan members, show them the emblem, look them straight in the eyes, and do that. If they don’t listen to you then, I’ll come kill them.”
“I’m…sorry, look them in the eye and do what?” Lindon asked. He’d done nothing but cycle.
“You don’t need a Remnant to have a Goldsign,” Eithan said, then lifted the Sylvan Riverseed on his palm. She hopped back over to Lindon, who settled her on his shoulder. “Now, go. Go!”
When Orthos felt that Lindon had changed direction, his spirit surged with irritation, and he reluctantly turned to follow.
***
Jai Chen was trapped in a room nicer than any she’d seen since she was a child. The Patriarch had locked her here, but he hadn’t bothered to tie her—there was no need. She lay in bed as though a great weight pressed down on her limbs, focusing the full force of her spirit just to breathe. As always.
She’d considered killing herself. Jai Daishou had to be using her against her brother, or she wouldn’t be here, and killing herself would burn one of the cards in his hand.
But it wouldn’t change anything. Jai Daishou was an Underlord; he would get what he wanted with or without a hostage.
Instead, she focused on cycling. Some of the medical experts who had examined her over the years had suggested that she might eventually regain partial function in her spirit if she diligently exercised, so she spent most of her day attempting to cycle. It was like jogging on broken legs, but she persevered, shoving madra through shattered channels.
If the cracked madra paths were the only problems, she would have been thankful. But her power squirmed away from her direction, fighting every cycling technique, slithering against her will. The same power that brought her brother’s techniques to life polluted her spirit, keeping her core out of her control.
She tried anyway.
A wave of heat washed against her face, and her eyes snapped open in time to catch the door to her room dissolving.
Jai Chen pulled sheets up to her chin as though they could protect her from enemies, rooting under her pillow with a half-asleep hand. She only found the knife when she cut her finger on its edge.