“Sacred artists have an endless appetite,” Orthos grumbled, scooping up a mouthful of rocks nearby and crunching them like candy. “A vein of vital aura piling up in the ground is a treasure trove for earth artists. They will stop at nothing to harvest it for their own advancement. A single candle-flame might be enough for you to cycle, but for a true expert, such a weak source is useless. They might as well try eating air.”
Orthos lumbered up the path, his emotions growing distant as he drifted into a memory. “Advancement is an endless hunt for greater and greater sources of power. You start by feeding on the aura in candles and campfires, but sooner than you think, you’ll be hunting for dragon hearts and sunreaver stones and sacred flames. Always climbing…”
Back in Sacred Valley, the Wei clan had cycled aura at dawn, when the light from Samara’s ring and sunlight had intermingled, and when dreams still lingered in their minds. Lindon had never thought of aura as something that could be taken away; light and dreams were not stationary objects that could build up vital aura over time.
The explanation made sense. The Transcendent Ruins had drawn in vital aura from miles around, leaving the surroundings dim and washed-out in his Copper sight. Lindon had thought of that process as something like taking in a breath: the Ruins may have inhaled, but that didn’t mean there was any less air outside. Now, he imagined it more like draining a bucket and waiting for rain to fill it back up.
“We cycle aura to trap a portion in our souls, adding to our power,” Orthos continued, returning to the present. “It changes the nature of our madra, and over time, it teaches your core to generate madra of that aspect.”
That much, Lindon understood. “Is there such thing as pure vital aura? With no aspect?”
Orthos rumbled deep in his throat. “There are more aspects of aura than sparks in a wildfire, but they always take some form. Always. Asking for pure aura is like asking for dry water.”
“And Ruler techniques?”
“Madra controls aura, and aura controls nature. Water artists can walk on the ocean, call rain, and so on. Earth artists open doors in stone. Force artists can make a feather hit with the power of a collapsing boulder.”
Lindon thought he understood. The Path of the White Fox could craft an illusion out of madra, but its Ruler technique affected the mind and eyes directly so that the target believed they saw something.
But he was still testing his Blackflame core, running his awareness over it like a child unwilling to release a new toy.
“What use is there for fire aura? Surely you can set things on fire with madra, rather than bothering with a Ruler technique.”
Orthos was quiet for a full minute, chewing on the occasional stone. Lindon was considering how best to apologize when the turtle finally spoke.
“For some Paths, this is true. For ours…” One red-and-black eye swiveled to meet Lindon’s gaze. “Imagine you have finished a battle. Your breath has driven your enemies before you, and now their corpses lie smoldering on the field. Smoke and flames rise in testament to your power, and courage has left your foes. They flee. You know you cannot catch them all.”
A dark, twisted root stuck out from the wall. Suddenly Orthos snapped at it, tearing a length of wood the size of Lindon’s arm out of the stone.
He spat it onto the floor, where it burst into smoky, black-streaked flames.
“They trip over the burning bodies of their comrades as they run,” Orthos said, “but there is no flight from your fury.”
He turned to glare at the floor.
And in a great explosion of heat, the root burst into flames. Lindon had to take a step back; the fire reached the ceiling and filled the tunnel for an instant. It was the healthy orange of a natural flame, not the dark stain of Blackflame, though it was spotted with the odd blotch of black or red.
The fire roared for a second, lapping up the walls as though looking for something else to consume, and then died in an instant.
Of the arm-length root, there was nothing left but ash.
“We called it the Void Dragon’s Dance,” Orthos said, crushing the ash beneath his paw. “In one moment, the flames devour everything on the battlefield, leaving only smoke and dust.”
“As long as there’s enough fire around to begin with.” Lindon pointed out the distinction automatically, his mind distant. Half of him was overcome with awe at the raw power Orthos described, and couldn’t help imagining turning that frightening weapon against Jai Long.
The other half was quiet and subdued, afraid of the deadly possibility locked in his own core.
“Hm. And as long as you have enough time,” Orthos added. “Taking control of aura takes time and concentration. You can toss Striker techniques out with every breath, but a widespread Ruler technique takes time to build.”
The tunnel had ended, opening onto a chamber with a yellow skeleton curled at the center. Unlike the bones in the city outside, this set was complete: a long serpent’s body with four clawed limbs and one reptilian head filled with fangs. A delicate matrix of bones draped over the ribs must once have supported wings.
This dragon’s skeleton also wasn’t large enough to house a building. It was twice the length of Orthos’ body, at most.
But it flickered with black fire. The flames crawled along each bone like worms, occasionally sending up a dull red spark that gave off just enough light to see. Lindon’s Jade sense told him the room was filled with power, so he cracked his Copper sight.
He shut the sight again immediately. The dark radiance of destruction and the fiery aura of heat crowded out everything else, so he couldn’t even see the power of earth in the rocks beneath. This was a wellspring of Blackflame energy.
“Sit,” Orthos commanded, and Lindon scrambled to the ground without hesitation. “Cycle as the Underlord has taught you, but this time, reach to the vital aura around you. You have my power; Blackflame aura will come as you call, and will merge easily with your core.” Orthos turned to go, snapping up another rock and swallowing it whole. “Cycle for three days, and then the next stage of your training will begin.”
“Thank you for the instruction. Please, stay with me just a moment, until I get the—”
His contracted partner had already left. Lindon could feel the turtle’s soul moving swiftly down the corridor.
At least he had packed food. But where, in these dark, broiling tunnels, was he supposed to find water?
***
Jai Long waited at the end of a dead-end street in Serpent’s Grave, Shiryu Mountain looming over him like a titanic gravestone. The shop to his left belonged to the fourteenth-ranked tailor in the city, while to his right, a family ran the ninth-ranked restaurant.