by Will Wight
The Arelius gave a sigh of relief. “At last, I don't have an audience.”
Longhook hurled his Striker technique: the Meteor Breath. A comet of earth and force madra flew out from his fist, a rolling yellow ball of pure power. His Blood Shadow echoed him with a red copy of the same technique.
In the brief instant before the madra hit him, Eithan leaned forward on the balls of his feet, his left hand coming up to the side. Madra flooded out of him, bending the air so it looked like he was covered in a transparent bubble.
It wouldn't work. He couldn't stop Longhook's technique with a shield of pure madra. He wasn't strong enough; Longhook's power would crumple his defense like a hammer hitting rotten wood.
The Meteor Breath hit the edge of Eithan's shield...and was caught like a leaf in a whirlpool.
The madra was spinning. Eithan seized the Meteor Breath with his madra, whirling it around and around his body like he stood in the eye of a hurricane.
Then he released his grip, sending the Meteor Breath hurtling back at Longhook.
Longhook met his own technique with an overhand strike fueled by the Mountain's Fist, punching the ball of yellow madra. It exploded against his fist; he felt like he had struck a plate of lead, and shards of his own broken madra pelted his face and arms like debris.
When his sight cleared, the Blood Shadow's copied technique was hurtling at him too.
This one hurt worse, breaking the skin on his knuckles and sending blood spraying into the air. Its power sank into his arm, striking his bones like a gong. Blood madra affected living bodies directly, so the Blood Shadow's copy of the Meteor Breath caused him much more pain than his own had.
His breathing turned ragged, but he tapped the last of his soulfire, pouring it into his Enforcer technique. The strength of soulfire soaked into him, empowering his limb and his weapon.
Eithan was Forging stars of pure madra in the air. They sparkled in the flash of lightning like birds of glass, but Longhook swung his hook through them, crushing the Forger technique before it was born.
Arelius batted the hook away with his umbrella, but the Blood Shadow had reached him from behind. Its arm morphed into a hook, and it was filled with its own version of the Mountain's Fist. It slammed its hand into Eithan's back.
The Blood Shadow's hand shattered like a hammer made of ice striking rock. The Shadow screamed, its agony flowing into Longhook's soul. Eithan stood untouched.
This time, Longhook could feel what Eithan had done. He’d projected a layer of pure madra armor, dense enough to stand against the Blood Shadow. It would do him no good against a sword, but against any spiritual attack, it would be a solid defense.
But Longhook could hardly bring himself to believe it. Eithan would need to flood such a technique with madra. It was one of the biggest wastes of power he could imagine; no one would be able to maintain a defense like that for longer than a few seconds.
When that armor fell, Longhook would have his last chance.
His Blood Shadow was weak, falling apart. It would help him no further in this battle. He had one wisp of soulfire remaining, to empower one last attack. The cloudship—now a few hundred yards behind and above them—was starting to move. And Eithan stood in the rain, umbrella in one hand and a grin on his face.
Longhook reached deep into himself, seizing the Blood Shadow with his will. It struggled, sensing what was coming.
He had sworn he would never do this. It would set his growth back by years, especially after the damage the Shadow had sustained. It might never recover to its current level.
But he needed an edge.
Flexing his spirit, Longhook devoured his Blood Shadow. The red spirit let out a silent scream that cut into Longhook’s soul, and from its position behind Eithan, it began to dissolve into sparkling particles of red essence. As though caught in a swift breeze, the blood essence gusted toward Longhook.
The power flooded into him, supplementing his madra, knitting his wounded body back together. Blood madra stitched the muscle and bone in his broken arm, accelerating his healing. He stood tall, full of power, eyes flashing red.
There was a gap in his spirit where once his Blood Shadow had rested, but for now, he was fueled by its power. His core was stained red, and it burned hot.
Eithan watched, an infuriating smile still on his face. Longhook had been prepared for his interference, but he hadn’t moved an inch.
That would be his last mistake.
Longhook lifted one foot, gathering up a Ruler technique and cycling it down. He stomped onto the ground, splashing mud onto his ankle and delivering the pulse of madra into the ground.
Golden earth aura flared beneath him, responding to his call.
Fingers of stone rose from the earth, each the size of a man’s torso. They closed around Eithan, grasping at him. He twisted to avoid each one, leaping and turning as new pillars of rock broke the mud and tried to grab him around the waist.
Longhook felt the armor around Eithan fade away as the Arelius shifted his focus.
Now, the Redmoon Underlord seized his chance. Holding his two palms a few inches apart, he crafted one final Meteor Breath. It gathered, a chunk of yellow earth madra tinted with the red of blood, and he poured the last wisp of his soulfire into it. The colorless flame soaked in, empowering it, and the technique became brighter and more solid, almost as dense as a Forger technique but raging with power.
The rest of his madra, and the residue of his broken Blood Shadow, all of it went into this technique. The ball of power shone red and gold, brightening the shadows of the stormy night. It radiated such force that the mud and rain flew away from him. A Lowgold might have been struck dead with the spiritual pressure alone.
Eithan jumped, avoiding Longhook’s ongoing Ruler technique. The pillar of stone brushed the edge of his robe, but failed to find purchase, and now the Arelius was in midair.
With the last remaining vestige of his spiritual strength, Longhook launched the Meteor Breath.
It streaked through the night, trailing red-and-gold light, bright as dawn. It moved like a bolt of lightning, the force of its passage tearing a line in the ground beneath.
With the technique only inches away, Eithan extended a hand.
Longhook saw what happened as clearly as a painting. Pale gray soulfire swirled in Eithan’s palm for an instant, vanishing as it soaked into a technique. Pure madra gathered, condensed and empowered by soulfire so that it shone blue-white. It drew to a point in front of Eithan’s hand, then fired out in a finger-thick line.
The bar of pure madra pierced his Meteor Breath, punching through without resistance.
Longhook’s technique burst like a bubble, exploding in a devastating wave of force that knocked Eithan off-balance and tore a crater in the earth. But it hadn’t hit. Eithan spun once in the air, but landed on his feet, umbrella braced on his shoulder.
At first, Longhook thought the shooting pain in his spirit was a side effect of exhaustion. It was only by chance that he glanced down to see the line of pure madra spearing him straight through the center.
It did nothing to his body, but his core shattered. A cold pain started sharp and only got worse, spreading through his spirit. His Ruler technique faltered and failed, stone fingers crumbling to the ground.
He tried to cycle his madra, but nothing happened. He might as well have tried to catch a handful of air.
Eithan's umbrella caught him beneath the chin, and his vision faded.
A moment later, he was lying on his back in the mud, staring into the rain. Eithan Arelius looked down on him, umbrella unfolded and held over his shoulder.
Power erupted from Eithan, rising like a pillar into the sky. He was gathering up a technique of such magnitude that it could shake the ground for miles around, though outwardly he was doing nothing but standing still. How could one man have so much madra?
Longhook turned his good eye to Arelius. “My fate...does not...end here...”
Eithan's smile soft
ened. “Everything ends.”
The power rising from him tapered off, leaving a mass of pure madra hovering in the sky far over Eithan's head. He looked down on Longhook and pointed.
The pure madra in the sky, vast as one of the stormclouds, gathered together into a single point. It was so dense it looked blue-white instead of colorless, like a newborn star.
Longhook stared into it for a moment, enjoying its beauty. Then he closed his eye.
Like a heavenly sword of judgment, the madra stabbed down into him, obliterating his spirit. And he knew no more.
~~~
Highgold-level dragons were just big lizards. In the days she and Mercy spent running from dragons through the woods, Yerin never saw them breathe fire or use any flame arts at all. She only saw them use three weapons: their claws, their fangs, and their tails.
“What is burning them up?” Yerin said for the thousandth time, as they crammed themselves into a tiny gully and drew a scripted blanket over themselves. The script only dispersed spiritual senses, so it worked on top of the veils in their spirits to keep them hidden.
The blanket was starting to tear around the runes; the script had put too much of a burden on it. It would last a few more hours, if they were lucky, before the force of the activated script tore the fabric apart.
One of the dragons, a gold-scaled lizard the size of a horse stopped nearby. Its head was barely visible in the crack of open air they could see. These weak dragons didn't look anything like the huge sky-crawling serpents her master had mentioned, but she supposed they changed as they advanced even more than sacred artists did.
It sniffed, eyes flaring with light. It started snuffling around the forest floor like a hunting dog, looking for them.
Some sacred beasts were no smarter than normal animals, but dragons were different. This one would be able to speak and use the arts of any Highgold sacred artist. But it was hard to remember that as it snarled and hunted by scent.
Yerin braced herself, reaching for her sword. It almost took her by surprise when she realized she wanted the dragon to find them.
If it did, there would be no more hiding. No more running.
They weren't running from this thing anyway. They were running from its big sister; the Lord-stage dragon they'd felt coming after them.
The barrier of cloud had faded days ago, and they had tried to make their way closer to the beach. But every time they did, dragons tracked them down in the time it took to boil a pot of tea.
Yerin was about ready to throw the dice and dash for victory. She wasn't built for hiding and creeping.
Her Blood Shadow agreed.
While she was holding herself back, her Shadow slipped out of her back. It actually looked like a red-tinted shadow this time, sliding along the ground and closer to the dragon. If the sacred beast didn't notice, it was going to spring out of the ground and get the first strike.
Yerin grabbed it.
A chill of terror passed through her as she caught it. Not because it had almost alerted the dragon; a large part of her welcomed that. It had almost escaped on its own.
When else would it decide to do that? When she was with friends? When she was asleep?
She hauled back on it with one hand and the full force of her will. Just touching it made her feel degraded, like she'd lost somehow, but she dragged it back.
When she wrestled it back into her spirit, it boiled around outside her core, lashing at her from the inside.
She sat there panting as the dragon moved a little farther away. That had been too close. Too close to her losing control.
It tempered her will to steel: she needed to be stronger. Stronger without this thing.
From beneath the scripted blanket, Mercy looked at her with concern. “Are you feeling alright?” she whispered.
Yerin threw the blanket off and stretched all four arms. It felt good to stand up again.
The gold dragon stared at her.
She took a deep breath, feeling madra cycling freely within her spirit. Veils were a necessary sacred art, but they felt like tying yourself in a sack.
Yerin hopped out of the tiny hole in the ground where they'd hidden. Mercy stared up at her from inside, eyes wide.
Still stretching her arms, Yerin used one of her Goldsigns to beckon the dragon. “All right, you ready?”
The dragon glanced from side to side, ready for a trap. But after a moment, heat flared in its eyes again, and it roared.
Yerin put a hand on her master's sword and concentrated on the aura.
She needed power that didn't lean on the Blood Shadow. Power that was hers alone. And she'd always learned better when she was pushed to the brink of a cliff.
The dragon rushed at her, sword-aura gathering around its claws as it swept them in a powerful strike.
The sound of a bell echoed through the air as she activated the Endless Sword.
The sword-aura around his claws exploded, causing shallow white slashes to appear on his scales all over his body. His strike wasn't slowed at all, and Yerin threw up her Goldsigns to block.
When the claws met the steel of her Forged madra limbs, the impact pushed her back. She let it happen, falling back several steps.
Then she tried again, focusing this time.
Her technique should look like the wind: it should surround her, unseen except for its effect. It should be like she was defended by a thousand invisible swords.
As she triggered the Endless Sword again, it looked more like a thousand invisible swords flailing wildly.
Its tail slammed into her, though she got her sword in the way just in time. It knocked her backwards, and she had to use her Goldsigns to brace herself before she hit a tree spine-first. The silver madra limbs stuck in the trunk like axe-blades, catching her just short of slamming into the wood.
Mercy emerged from beneath her, using her staff to lever herself out of the hole. She'd tied her hair back into a tail again, and her purple eyes were fixed on the dragon. “I'm sorry, she's training. I'm Mercy! You are...”
The dragon drew in a breath.
Black madra stretched away from Mercy and stuck onto the limbs of the tree just above Yerin's head. She pulled herself away just in time, as a spray of fiery golden madra incinerated the grass, leaves, and scripted blanket she'd left behind.
Yerin glanced up at Mercy as the Akura girl dangled from a limb. “You want this to go faster, then you could help. Hit it with your stick.”
Mercy sighed, giving the dragon a sad glance, before she gripped her staff in both hands. “It's not a stick.”
The dragon was gathering itself to leap into the tree, but Mercy's weapon came to life in her hands. It looked like a bundle of flexible black tendons worked into the shape of a staff, except for the violet-eyed dragon’s head on its end.
That snarling head slid from the end of the staff down to the center. The staff itself bent like a wooden limb under pressure until it was shaped like a crescent, and a single black string slid from one end to the other.
A bow. It was a bow, almost as tall as Mercy was.
Mercy drew the string back, Forging a jet-black arrow as she did so. The point emerged between her weapon’s jaws.
“This is Eclipse, the Ancient Bow of the Soulseeker.” She loosed, and the arrow stuck in the dragon's palm. “It was my mother's weapon from Lowgold to Archlord. Made from the Remnant of a shadow dragon who became a Sage.” Another arrow took the dragon in the other hand, but it had already burned the first one free. “With this bow, my mother sealed the living volcano of Shara Kahn.” Two more arrows, and this time dark madra spread like a web from the point of impact. It started crawling over the dragon like living ropes.
“She destroyed the Sunlight Rebellion with this bow, and bound together the thirteen islands into one.” The dragon went crazy, tearing and clawing at itself like it was trapped in a net. But as Mercy continued firing arrows, the web kept drawing tighter.
“I know it's just a bow, but I call her Suu.�
� Mercy patted the bow on its dragon's head. “Good girl, Suu.”
The bow hissed.
Yerin hopped down, inspecting the dragon. It still struggled, but it was wrapped in a dark cocoon and didn't look like it was going to escape anytime soon.
This way, at least they didn't have to deal with its Remnant.
“What about yours?” Mercy asked politely, dispersing her madra and dropping to the ground. She missed her landing and fell in a heap but didn't seem to care. “Did you get that sword from your master?”
Yerin ran her fingers down the hilt. “...yeah.”
“So what's its story?”
“I don't know.”
The Sage had never referred to his weapon by name. She didn't even know if it had one. He had made her use it to chop firewood by hand when he was trying to build up her muscles. He used it because he was too lazy to hunt down an axe.
Instead of talking about that, Yerin asked Mercy another question as they walked away from the cocooned dragon. “How about your Path? Aspects of shadow and force, if I'm not wrong.”
She'd felt Mercy cycling over the last few weeks, so she was pretty certain about that.
“Oh, this is just a restriction technique.”
Yerin glanced back. “I can see that. I've got eyes. You don't want me poking my head into your Path secrets, say so.”
Mercy gave her a surprised look. “I don't keep secrets. Bad for your heart.” She held out one hand, and a Forged book of shining violet madra popped into her hand.
The cover was entirely covered by the most intricate script-circle Yerin had ever seen. She suspected she could keep staring at it forever and finding new secrets, and the scripts seemed to turn like wheels within wheels. It was a disturbing sight.
And that didn't even count the way it felt in her perception. It gave off a menacing pressure, like the shadow of a shark circling beneath the waves.
“The Book of Eternal Night,” Mercy announced, holding her book up proudly. “I'm on the Path of Seven Pages. And the first page, the Lowgold page...”
She opened the cover, revealing the first page. It looked more like a thumb-thick tablet than a piece of paper. Yerin wondered if it contained a binding.