Now he either had to give up his prizes or he had to take them from Yerin. It was as though he’d lost already.
“Begin,” Northstrider said, and vanished.
Chapter 19
Yerin closed the distance fast.
It was only thanks to Dross' enhancement of his reactions that Lindon managed to pull the shield from his soulspace and block the swing of Yerin's blade.
It felt like getting hit by a cloudship at full speed. The blow launched him backward over the warped obsidian surface of the stage, pain stabbing through his left arm as he fought to right himself in the air.
The Soul Cloak rippled into existence, surrounding him with a smooth blue-white corona. His newly enhanced Bloodforged Iron body drew madra to heal his left arm, which—he only now realized—had broken.
The strength and control the Soul Cloak gave him allowed him to land, skidding on the surface, shield raised.
Yerin was already bringing her white sword down on him. Her eyes were fixed and determined, her hair blowing behind her, her black robes rippling with the force of her spirit.
The Sage's blade crashed down on his shield, blasting air away from him in a ring. The Soul Cloak trembled; thanks to its strength, his arm didn't break again, but the Enforcer technique was reaching its limit. Even the shield's material was strained, its outer layer beginning to stress and deform.
Lindon's legs buckled, and he fell to his knees.
He'd known she was strong. Her Steelborn Iron body had started to show its real potential once she'd advanced to Underlord, and he'd seen how she had handled her opponents up to this point.
But he'd never felt how strong she was.
[What are you doing?] Dross asked. [Fight back!]
Lindon had been sure he could. In the top eight, he could fight. Once they had both obtained their goals.
Now, fighting back meant pitting his ambition against hers. He would be cutting down her chance of living up to her master.
And, though they were protected by a Monarch, though he had prepared himself for it, though there would be no lasting damage...he still didn't want to hurt Yerin.
Six sword-arms emerged from Yerin's back, and suddenly the air had claws. The Endless Sword technique tore at him, and though he pushed back with the power of his soulfire, Yerin was far better at controlling sword-aura. Slices appeared on his skin, cutting through his sacred artist's robes.
His Iron body repaired the cuts almost as they were made, but blood still streamed from him in ribbons, and he was losing madra.
Yerin lifted her blade, and it ignited silver in a complex dance of both madra and aura. The Flowing Sword, her weapon Enforcement technique.
She set her jaw and her dark eyes met his. There was a strange depth to them, as though she were pleading with him.
“You're holding more than this,” she said. “Pull it all out! Let me see it!”
Lindon didn't know how to respond, but she wasn't waiting on him. The shining sword came in high, and he blocked with his flying sword, but the force knocked him back. The second strike came low, while he was still trying to recover his stance, and the Soul Cloak let him slip aside before he lost a leg.
An aura blade from the Endless Sword kicked his shield to one side, and the point of her sword came straight for his throat.
He poured soulfire into the Soul Cloak.
Immediately, the nimbus around him raged like whitewater. He moved without thought, slipping her stab, ducking the follow-up attack from her sword-arms, anticipating and blocking her counter-strokes with his shield and Wavedancer.
Wind whipped around them as they traded dozens of blows in a breath, Yerin looking for an opening, Lindon closing off every angle. He ran, and she followed, and they clashed again, sending peals of thunder throughout the arena.
It couldn't last.
He was running low on soulfire, letting it flow into the Soul Cloak. His pure madra was being drained by the Cloak and by his Iron body, which had to constantly heal him. Her every blow cost him another chunk of power just to endure, and if he blocked or dodged any attack less than perfectly, he would be chopped in half.
The Flowing Sword technique on her sword grew stronger and stronger with every exchange, shining more brightly silver as it wrapped more strands of madra and sword-aura around itself. Soon it would slice straight through his shield.
And Yerin's spirit was growing more and more chaotic.
She was angry.
“Fight me!” she shouted.
It was all Lindon could to do hold on. He jabbed his shield at her in a half-hearted swipe, but she brushed it aside with a look of disgust.
Before he could fully recover, she kicked him in the chest.
He managed to get his shield between them, but the impact still sent him flying backward. Once again, he had to scramble to land on his feet, shield forward. He was out of breath, straining to keep his madra under control.
[...I'm not some sort of human behavior expert, but I think she wants you to fight her,] Dross said.
Lindon couldn't muster up the energy for a response. He resented Northstrider, who had put him in this situation. Why did he have to fight Yerin at all? They had almost been selected as Uncrowned together.
Yerin hadn't followed him. Face twisted in anger, she drew her weapon back with both hands.
Here it came. The technique they had developed together and named together. Their adaptation of the Sword Sage’s strike, which they had designed to be her decisive ending strike.
The Final Sword.
To his Copper sight, she was a metallic sun. Sword-aura gathered in a storm around her, whipping her hair and robes. The Enforcer technique on her sword expanded until she held a silver torch, and she glared at him as she braced her stance.
Lindon released the soulfire of the Soul Cloak, sending it into the shield instead. The protective Forger binding in the weapon activated, creating a transparent barrier between them. Fueled by his pure madra and his soulfire, it might be able to take the Final Sword...but the shield would break, and he wouldn't be able to recover quickly. Yerin still had her Blood Shadow, too.
He had already lost.
Yerin would be mad at him for a while, but this wasn't his fault.
Instead of driving her blade forward and sending the Final Sword flashing at him, Yerin leaped. She carried her heavenly silver blade with both hands, raising it overhead to smash it down on him.
He kept his eyes open, bracing himself for the brief flash of pain before defeat.
“DROSS!” Yerin roared.
Time came to a halt.
Information requested: how to drag Lindon out of self-pity.
Beginning report...
Yerin hangs in the air above Lindon, expression furious, Final Sword cocked behind her head. She’s beginning to Forge its power into the shape of a massive blade, and her six sword-arms are poised like stingers.
Lindon sees himself, crouched there, hiding behind his layered stone-colored turtle shell. A blue-and-green scripted sword hovers nearby, ready to dart in and protect him. A transparent dome covers him, but it looks fragile. He doesn't see determination in his own eyes, he sees...doubt. Hesitation.
Weakness.
How do I fix a broken Lindon? I think mine needs replaced.
“Fighting her will hurt us both, Dross,” Lindon says. He cannot speak in his own voice, but Dross understands him. “It will be better if she wins.”
Yes, is this the Soulsmith? Can you transplant a Remnant spine into my sacred artist?
“I'm not going to hurt her. It isn't worth it.”
You're hurting her now!
Lindon hesitates, bringing his attention back to Yerin's expression. Anger was her response to pain.
“I’m giving her what she wants.”
She wants you to listen to her, Dross says. His mental voice is quiet.