Even back into Sacred Valley, which had been…broken. Shattered. Churned beyond recognition, like meat in a grinder.
Only three of the four sacred peaks still stood, and the Titan was eyeing this one. Every second the Dreadgod delayed was more lives spared.
And there was only one person here whose techniques could affect a Dreadgod.
“Dross,” Lindon said aloud, “I would be very grateful if you had a battle plan for me.”
[Battle. A battle plan. I’ve got a wonderful strategic retreat plan.]
Lindon was already mentally exhausted just from bringing himself here, but as he understood it, willpower wasn’t like madra. He didn’t have a finite amount that could run out. As long as he could concentrate, he could keep fighting.
He trembled all over. Not only did he feel like a mouse staring up at a lion, but even his spirit shook before the irresistible pressure of the Dreadgod.
And the Titan was being suppressed while he wasn’t.
Still, he drew up his focus. If the heavens were kind, the Titan would turn away and leave entirely. Maybe Lindon wouldn’t have to do anything at all.
Why hasn’t it left the valley already?
[I’ll show you if you promise to take me far, far away from here.] Despite his words, Dross pulled Lindon’s attention to the north, where—even in the fractured mess that remained of Sacred Valley—Lindon could make out shapes. Footprints.
It had walked north, stopped at Mount Yoma, and then headed east again.
Why?
Now it was examining Mount Samara, and Lindon felt an inhalation filled with hunger madra. The Dreadgod was sniffing for something in the mountain.
That wasn’t an attack, and the Titan was still trapped in the suppression field, but Lindon still hoped the act of breathing in wouldn’t be enough to kill the people at the Dreadgod’s feet.
He had the impression that the Titan had been at this for a while, and Lindon fervently hoped that it would continue for even longer. Maybe the bulk of the people beneath him would be able to flee before the Dreadgod had found whatever it was looking for. He might not have to do anything at all.
Slowly, like an old man reaching for his medication, the Titan reached up toward Lindon.
He panicked and shot backwards, but it was clear that the Titan had no interest in Lindon at all. It was grabbing for the circle of light around the peak.
Now was his chance. The collapse of the ring might send madra raining down on the people below…but more personally, Lindon couldn’t bear the thought of the Dreadgod destroying Samara’s ring.
There was too little of Sacred Valley left.
From watching Malice, he hadn’t been able to tell if techniques were weaker if they originated from outside the script or from inside. He would try the former first.
With both hands in front of him, he opened his spirit wide, channeling Blackflame into dragon’s breath. At the same time, he poured his Overlord soulfire into it, which was now a brighter and more vivid silver than the diffuse, colorless flame of an Underlord. On top of all that, he added his will.
Dragon’s breath was a force of destruction. If he was the Void Sage, he should have the authority for this.
A dark beam, thicker than his two arms, burst out from his palms. The technique reminded him of Yerin’s Final Sword, and it carried weight far beyond the power of its madra.
It passed through the suppression field and…faded.
Instead of a liquid-smooth beam, the technique dispersed into a gaseous spray that resembled natural flame. The red streaks were more prominent than they had been, and the authority he’d managed to scrape up weakened to almost nothing.
Dragon’s breath passed over the Titan’s stone arm and washed over, harmless.
A dark fist closed over Samara’s ring. The light was Forged madra, an ancient construct, and the Dreadgod tore away a chunk as though it were made of rotten wood. Bright white-and-gold essence drifted upwards like sparks of a campfire from the damaged construct.
The rest of the ring hung in the air, but the light over Sacred Valley darkened.
The Dreadgod lifted the Forged madra to its face, examining it, and then Lindon felt hunger grow. The chunk of construct disappeared completely, the motes disappearing into the Titan’s body. The cracks of its shell, and the crags all over its body, shone briefly yellow.
When the Titan returned its attention to Mount Samara, its hunger was like a physical force. It didn’t move immediately, but its tail lashed faster and faster behind it. Lindon knew it was about to move.
And hurling Striker techniques from outside the field had done nothing. He had to plunge inside.
Behind him, space cracked.
Dross gave a squeal, then covered it up with a cough. [I’m not relieved. But we are saved. But it’s fine, I’m not excited. You’re excited.]
Yerin dashed out of a blue-edged crack in space before the portal had finished forming, and she shot through the air to land on his cloud.
She caught the very edge of the Thousand-Mile Cloud, where the madra was thinner. She could catch herself with aura control or by summoning her own cloud, but he caught her arm and pulled her onto his anyway.
She grabbed edges of his outer robe in both fists, but didn’t raise her head to look at him. “I know I’m cutting myself with my own knife saying this, but if you thought you could cross swords with a Dreadgod and leave me behind, you…” Her breath caught as she glanced to the side and looked into the Titan’s face. Her whole body shivered. “…bleed and bury me.”
Lindon spoke quietly. “I don’t know if I can stop even one of its techniques. I couldn’t ask you all to come protect my home when I’m not sure I can keep you safe.”
She looked up at him, and rather than angry, she looked amused. “Didn’t, did you? I’d contend you asked us to stay behind. But we’re not exactly tripping over people who can tickle Dreadgods. My list ends with me and you.”
A voice shouted distantly from beneath them, muffled and unintelligible.
Down on the ground, the spatial crack hadn’t widened into a stable portal. Mercy had stumbled out of it, and she was pulling the last inch of Suu free, when Orthos shoved his way forward. His presence in Lindon’s spirit was brighter than ever, stronger, more vivid. But to the naked eye, he looked no different.
Finally, Eithan strode out of the messy blue light.
He released a heavy breath, as though he’d been holding it, and wiped sweat from his brow as the crack in the world sealed itself behind him.
“I said ‘put me on your list,’” Eithan called up. “You couldn’t hear me, could you?” He sighed and began drifting up to join them.
Lindon and Yerin exchanged glances.
“Can you help?” Lindon asked. “Any of you?” He didn’t raise his voice, though Eithan was still far away. Eithan would hear him.
He had meant that to include Mercy and Orthos as well, but as soon as they arrived, they took off east. In seconds, they were rounding up people, stopping fights, and pulling them out of overturned shelters.
They knew they couldn’t touch a Dreadgod, but were still doing whatever they could to help.
Lindon wished they wouldn’t. Now he had more to worry about.
“You don’t think I’ll be an asset?” Eithan asked as he finally reached their level.
Yerin’s eyebrows lifted. “If I had to pick between you and a rusty spoon, I’d have to think about it first.”
“Infusing techniques with willpower is not the exclusive domain of Sages and Heralds. They’re just better at it.” Eithan planted fists on his hips and glared at the Dreadgod. “I will defy this beast with all the power of a leaf drifting on the wind!”
[Oh, and you’re not going to get in our way by making us cover for you? That’s impressive.]
“I make no such promise,” Eithan said. “But I can’t let you stand up against a Dreadgod without me. It’s a bit earlier than I planned, but who could object to one little life-threatening practice run?”