Gokren yelled something to him, but he was beyond hearing.
With no technique, no art, he jammed the Ancestor's Spear into the lines of the Remnant's rib cage.
This power was nothing like what he'd stolen in battle. It flowed into him, still and obedient, a gentle rain instead of a vicious flood. His core drank it up greedily until it strained against its limits, pushing to expand and contain this feast.
Jai Long dropped to the ground, cycling desperately. If it weren’t for his long hours of cycling every day, he didn’t think he would have made it. His soul moved without his conscious will to guide it, looping in precise patterns as it had done millions of times before.
Every Path had cycling techniques for different purposes: cycling to absorb and process aura from the atmosphere, cycling to use a technique, cycling to restore lost madra, and cycling to refine and control the power you already had. It was that fourth pattern he used now, revolving his madra along with his breath. Faster and more urgently than he ever had before.
The stolen light burned him and tore at him, even as the power from the Remnant threatened to drown him.
He knew nothing but guiding that river, losing himself entirely in the rhythm of the madra spinning within him, processing as much of the power as he could.
He swallowed everything he was able, making it a part of him, stretching his core to its breaking point, but it was like trying to drink a lake one cup at a time. There was more here than he could have handled in a week, and it threatened to tear his soul apart.
He shouted again, thrusting his spearhead into the sky.
A Star Lance thicker than his head rushed out of him, sending a beacon of white light into the clouds.
The extra madra in his veins dimmed slowly down. When his wounds finally stopped shining, the pain shrunk to manageable levels, and his breath grew too ragged to continue cycling, he let the technique and his weapon drop. He sagged, face-down, into the wet grass.
At some point, the sun had fallen to the horizon. Golden light died as twilight approached.
With a twitch of his head, he could see Gokren standing to his right, arms folded. The Truegold was bloody, missing one spear and leaning all his weight on his left leg, but he didn’t look worried. He stood within arm’s length of Jai Long, apparently unconcerned about the dangers of standing next to a Highgold blasting uncontrolled madra in every direction. The certainty of an expert.
Jai Long struggled on the ground, reaching for his spear. His madra was completely fresh and full, but his channels had been seared, and he felt as though one more technique would be one too many. But he'd learned years ago that he couldn't assume anyone else would protect him, not even Chief Gokren. If someone else decided to attack, he had to muster up a defense from somewhere.
Gokren clapped him on the back of the head, though the wrappings around Jai Long’s hair cushioned the impact. “They’re dead. Not the bats—my hunters wrangled them up. All seven of them, and only two of mine. Not bad for a night of work.”
He spoke lightly, but there was a steely resolve when he said ‘two of mine.’ He may have been prepared to lose his followers, but he wasn’t happy about it.
Before Jai Long could muster up the strength for a single word, Gokren pulled out his one remaining short spear and tapped the Ancestor’s Spear lying on the grass.
“That would work for me, wouldn't it? If I could find some Sandvipers who weren't worth as much as their madra.” He bent down, running a finger along the body of the weapon. “It's white, but it isn't Stellar Spear madra, is it...no, it's something else.”
Jai Long struggled over to the spear, grabbing it with weak hands and cradling it to his chest. Gokren straightened up and folded his arms again. “Don't go shy on me now, boy. I could take that from you if you were at full strength, and you're not. You think I’m going to turn on you now, after I pulled arms on the Jai clan for you?”
Jai Long felt guilty for a moment, but he didn’t loosen his grip on the spear. He’d seen people do worse things out of greed.
Gokren shook his head, but turned away and raised his weapon in one fist. “A good hunt!” he roared.
The other Sandvipers cheered. They had gathered without Jai Long noticing, staring at the white spear. It was unlimited power, in their eyes. They could gain weeks of power in minutes.
It was all there for the stealing.
They circled him in a wall of fur-clad bodies, crowding him. He hugged the spear tighter, but despite the fresh madra filling his core and eager to be used, he didn’t think he could fight if the heavens descended and ordered him to. His body and spirit felt like twisted-out rags.
Gokren saw him and let out a heavy breath. With one motion, he seized the Ancestor’s Spear and wrenched it away.
Jai Long sagged, weak and helpless. This was how it ended. He’d finally begun his revenge against the clan that had rejected him, and now…
Gokren picked up the case, slid the spear inside, buckled it closed, and tossed it to the ground in front of Jai Long.
“Get some sleep,” the sect chief said. “We’ve got a long journey ahead.”
Chapter 5
Lindon hit the rough board that served as the dummy's right arm, then its torso, then the head. The circle was unpowered, the target lifeless. If he fueled the training course, it would knock him over instantly, so he practiced on the dead version first. Once he got the routine down, he could try the real course.
The targets flickered with color when he struck them, as his madra passed through the correct spot. They would have stayed lit had the main circle been powered.
He stepped back, rubbing his knuckles. They didn't hurt, but they would have before his Iron body. It was a strange sensation, knowing that his hands should be scraped raw by the rough wood.
From further away, he examined the dummy again, as though watching it could help him somehow.
He just needed to be faster.
Each dummy had a different pattern of strikes and blocks, but he'd gone through all eighteen already, committing them to memory. His mind could keep up, and his body should be fast enough. But he still couldn't quite do it. Only an hour ago, he'd powered the circle again, and the dummy had still knocked him on his face.
The sun had long set, the barn lit by a single flickering candle that was starting to burn down. He could have used a scripted light, but it would have lasted for less time than a candle before needing to be powered again, and he wanted to conserve his madra.
It left the dummies bathed in shadow, lending them a sinister aspect. Only the brief flicker of a scripted light at each of his strikes dispelled the darkness.
Lindon moved forward, running through the three strikes again. He sped up this time, pushing his Iron body to the limit, and missed the third hit. The first two sent light rippling through their tiny runes, and the third remained dark.
He forced himself to slow down, breathe deep, and keep the power cycling steadily through his madra channels.
Cool air rushed in, and a door shut.
Yerin walked inside, only the silver blade over her shoulder and the red belt around her middle standing out against the shadows. “Training hard, or you have a grudge against wood people?”
Lindon hurriedly straightened himself, squaring his shoulders and smoothing his clothes. She'd seen him in worse states, but he didn't want to look like he’d exhausted himself against a bunch of wooden statues.
“Only working out a few things,” he said, leaning closer to one of the dummies as though trying to figure out its script.
She eyed him for a moment and then walked inside the circle, plopping down onto the ground. She leaned up against a dummy's support pole and sighed. “I'm the last one to tell you to stop working. Heaven's truth, I just got done with three hours of meditation cycling and two hours of technique practice. But even my master would say you need an easy day every once in a while.”