Lindon shouted, spraying Blackflame madra in his direction. It didn’t even come close to reaching—he hadn’t taken the time to concentrate the technique and keep it under control. But Gokren, who had just lost a hand to Lindon’s deadly Path, flinched. His spear wavered.
And Orthos activated his Ruler technique.
Five roses of fire bloomed out of nowhere, centered on each of the remaining Sandvipers. The golden-orange flames flared, spotted with inky black and bloody red, devouring five bodies in an instant.
Not one of them managed to scream as the Void Dragon’s Dance consumed them.
The fight was over almost too quickly.
Five minutes later, Lindon still didn’t believe his own memories. First, the madra had obeyed him more easily than it ever had before. Then, his technique had worked on someone at the peak of Gold. Based on everything Lindon knew, the force of Gokren’s madra alone should have been enough to block anything a Jade could do.
Orthos dragged his massive body over to Lindon, chewing on a mouthful of bones as he went. “You’re not a Jade,” he announced. “I gave you more of my power than a Jade could handle.”
Lindon looked at the turtle, then down at his jade badge, then scanned his own spirit. “I’m stronger, certainly, but I don’t feel so different. Nothing like when I advanced to Iron or Jade.” The stone wheel at the center of his Blackflame core might have spun a little faster, and his spirit cycled with the force of a raging river instead of a trickling stream.
But Iron had come with a new body, and Jade with a new soul. Compared to those changes, this felt too simple. Maybe if he had adopted a Remnant, instead of taking in power through a contract, he would have seen a real difference.
Orthos gingerly stretched out a leg, wincing at the pain. “Humans make every stage into a legend. A Lowgold is just a Jade with teeth. The only difference between Jade and Gold is a mountain of power.” He gave Lindon a look that radiated smug pride. “Now you see the real glory of Blackflame.”
Lindon was still dazed, but he couldn’t argue with reality. Sandviper Gokren’s legs—the largest remaining parts of him—lay a few dozen yards away. His skull was sliding down Orthos’ gullet.
Lindon was Lowgold now. A real Gold.
This was the power of Gold.
But Orthos’ soul still pained him—if his condition went untended, he would lose himself again. That was a problem Lindon thought he could solve.
He placed the Riverseed on Orthos’ head and, after a moment of panic, the spirit placed both hands on the turtle’s skin. Blue light flowed into a Blackflame spirit, smoothing and calming as it went.
Orthos shouted like a man doused in icy water. The Riverseed gave a terrified peep, scuttling back up Lindon’s arm. She stumbled at his shoulder, her skin pale, and collapsed on his head to curl up in his hair. “Forgiveness,” Lindon said, bobbing a bow. “I didn’t think to warn you.”
“The insect stung me!” Orthos said, gnashing his jaws. The Sylvan trembled against Lindon’s scalp. He swept his perception through her and confirmed what he’d suspected: the tiny spirit was exhausted.
Orthos’ madra already flowed more smoothly, even weak as it was, and his madra channels didn’t pain him as badly as before. It looked as though it had calmed his soul without diluting his madra, and allowed his channels to repair themselves.
The damage would have returned in days, if he hadn’t shared his power with Lindon. Combined with their contract, the Sylvan’s attention might be able to—over time—make some real improvement in the turtle’s soul.
“You should feel a little better at least,” Lindon said, knowing he did.
“I have survived three hundred winters and the fall of the Blackflames,” Orthos grumbled. “I would have survived this.”
On his behalf, Lindon patted the Sylvan on the head with one finger.
Lindon extended his perception, and it unspooled much more easily than before, his perception floating over the mountain. He caught a trail of sensations that felt like Yerin, as though her voice still echoed behind her, but not her.
“While you were out there…”
Orthos finished the thought. “I felt her in battle on the main peak. Not now, but her spirit is likely weak.” Laughter rumbled out of his chest like aftershocks. “There is another familiar soul in that direction as well.”
Lindon let his perception float, and he sensed exactly what the turtle meant: Eithan was no longer bothering to veil his power, and the full force of an Underlord shone like a signal-fire only a short distance away.
As Orthos insisted he could walk, Lindon slid his pack on and headed in that direction. Where Eithan was, and where they’d last seen Yerin.
The Sylvan Riverseed rode on his head.
Chapter 20
Jai Daishou was living a nightmare.
He and his Truegold elders launched their Striker attacks together, streams of white light that should have pierced the enemy from seven different angles.
Then, to his eyes and senses both, Eithan vanished.
One moment he was standing there on the other side of a distorted aura barrier, holding a broom in his hands, and the next…
…the next an elder’s skull was crushed like an eggshell outside the boundary formation. His body toppled as Eithan stood over him, broom bloodstained. Jai Daishou reacted before any of the elders could, blasting a Star Lance in Eithan’s direction, but he slipped back into the formation like a fish into water.
That was impossible. The boundary stopped everything physical from passing. Pushing through it like that was like pushing through a burning wall. Even if his body was so monstrously strong that he could do it, the formation should have crumbled. Only madra could pass.
Eithan’s upper body popped out of a different side of the bubble, seizing another elder and dragging him back inside. There came a crunch and a scream, and a spray of blood was stopped by the aura.
Only one possibility made sense: he could be covering his body in a shell of madra to pass through the formation. But it would be easier to Forge a human-sized ball and roll through: the amount of power it would take to slip in and out while covering every inch of his body would beggar even an Underlord. Jai Daishou himself might have been able to do it once, if he could control his madra precisely enough, but he wouldn’t be fit to fight on the other end.
Either this was a trick, or an illusion, or Eithan had madra reserves that the Jai Patriarch could only describe as monstrous. Maybe he had stolen a ward key, somehow.
Jai Daishou ordered his remaining four men back, adjusting his tactics. If Eithan was using speed and mobility against them, he could compete with raw power.
He had no use for this mountainside anyway.
His spear thrummed with power, a fan of Forged spears hovering in the air above him. Each weapon held the full power of his madra and blazed with sword aura; they would hit like bombs, and even if they missed by three feet, the aura alone could peel meat from bone.