A cold smile spread on Wei Shi Lindon’s face. “You do remember. I’m glad. I remember you.”
Li Markuth fully unleashed his power.
There were living storms bound in his wings. The song stored in his heart grew so loud it would shatter minds. Even his own madra would solidify the air, and many of the Golds here would die from his spiritual pressure alone. With his physical power unveiled, the world warped around his body.
Everyone in the arena would die, which was why he hadn’t revealed himself before. He had expected to use this power to challenge the Monarchs.
“No further,” Lindon commanded.
The power emanating from Markuth vanished a few feet from him. As though swallowed into a hole.
“Evacuate the arena,” the Wei Grand Elder called.
Most everyone had left already, fleeing the second that Lindon’s palm strike had landed on Markuth’s back. If not before.
Now, even the Li Elders behind Markuth scurried away. In seconds, the arena was empty except for the two of them.
And some kind of local wildlife. A fox with five tails slunk around the inside of the walls, watching from behind a veil of light.
Lindon jerked his head to the stage. “We have an arena. Why don’t we use it?”
“This is not a game!” Markuth swept his blade through the air between them. It cut through space in an instant, but Lindon leaned back and let the blade swipe past his nose.
“Why don’t we make it one? A blocked hit can be one point. A direct hit, five points. The game ends when one of us reaches fifty points or crosses the boundary of the arena.”
Markuth pitted his will against the working holding back his power. He shoved outward, pushing to expand the bubble around him. The void retreated, but it was harder than he’d expected. Through gritted teeth, he said, “I am not here for your amusement.”
Suddenly Lindon’s right hand punched through Markuth’s defenses again and seized him by the collar.
The wild power shredded the man’s arm…or so it should have, but instead it just shredded the bandages and revealed dim white flesh.
Li Markuth felt the unrestrained hunger emanating from that flesh and his breath stopped.
Of course. The Abidan had raised up someone to protect this place in case Markuth, or someone like him, returned. This was the guardian of the Dreadgods.
While Li Markuth was still speechless, Lindon lifted him up and hurled him back onto the stage.
Markuth caught himself in midair and spun in place, where he saw Lindon already striding toward him.
“You don’t want to play?” Lindon said. “Then stop playing around.”
Li Markuth agreed. It was far past time to start taking this seriously.
He unbound his sword, and the world screamed around it. His attack was a violent vibration, a slash that crashed down from the heavens on Lindon’s head.
That slash had unraveled fortresses in the past, but an upsurge of storm madra from Lindon sent a column of energy blasting up against it. Their combined attack was launched into the sky, where it vanished into the darkness overhead.
Lindon had summoned a weapon from his soulspace. A flying sword. It shone with blue-gold lightning, and four lesser copies spread out to either side. Nine swords hung in formation behind Lindon, and sapphire lightning flashed between them in the vague shape of a serpentine dragon.
Markuth ground his teeth. This was exactly what he had been afraid of when he’d realized Lindon’s role of guarding the Dreadgod labyrinth.
There were only two types of weapons to be found on Cradle that could rival his sword: tools left behind by the Abidan and those made from the Dreadgods.
Markuth wove his blade into a complex symbol that lingered in the air, protecting him. Those swords were going to blast into him at any second.
But Lindon held them back. He was waiting for more.
Very well, then.
Markuth empowered the storms in his wings, and a thunderstorm poured out from behind him. Its clouds were absolute black and its lightning stark white, as though all color had been leeched away.
He’d created this weapon himself, to be compatible with storm madra and to allow him to compete in Vroshir combat. It was more like a sentient parasite than an attack, and it rushed eagerly at Lindon to devour him.
But his Weeping Dragon swords would defend him well against this, so Markuth unleashed the song chained in his heart as well. It echoed out with the sound of a siren’s notes, forming invisible razors that pressed in on Lindon.
That one was difficult to detect with the sacred arts at all, and was an even stranger kind of attack than the clouds. Someone who had never left Cradle likely wouldn’t be able to interact with it at all.
In case that wasn’t enough, Markuth kept going. He unloaded his entire arsenal.
A complex Ruler technique, fueled with soulfire and wisdom from beyond the world, that increased air pressure to crush Lindon and drive him deep into the earth. A Striker technique that formed razor-sharp emerald cyclones to tear apart his spirit. A Forger technique in the shape of the fist of an ancient warrior made from dark green wind madra.
While they were unleashed one at a time, Markuth had honed these techniques for centuries. His timing was more than perfect. They were executed flawlessly and precisely, with no gaps between them. They landed simultaneously, crashing into Lindon together.
These were the attacks he would use against Silverlords. Even one-star Titans would be troubled defending against this, unless they understood the techniques and prepared accordingly.
Markuth felt a spike of blinding power from Lindon’s side, but his techniques landed.
Then there was only silence. And Lindon, standing exactly where he had been.
His power burned against the spiritual sense to the point that Markuth had to turn his off. When the smoke from the arena blew away, Markuth saw why with his own eyes.
Lindon was covered in armor.
Blue mail made of sapphire scales from the Weeping Dragon wrapped his body, but there was no helmet. A black shield—a replica of the Wandering Titan’s shell—orbited him. It felt solid as a mountain range, even as it drifted through the air. Behind him, liquid blood boiled out to resemble a cloak, rippling in a nonexistent breeze. And above his head was a burning white halo: the crown of the Silent King.
Markuth didn’t sense the core bindings of the Dreadgods in any of these sacred instruments except the formation of the flying sword, but nonetheless the truth was clear.
He had killed the Dreadgods and made armor from them.
All of Iteration 110 shook when these treasures were revealed, and Li Markuth finally realized how outclassed he really was.
“Was Suriel the one that granted you these powers?” Li Markuth asked. He still worked for a way out.
“Suriel and Ozriel,” Lindon said.
Inwardly, Markuth cursed the Mad King. If he’d known two Judges had arranged for the protection of Cradle, he would have just fled.
“I’ll come along quietly.” Markuth lowered his sword. “Haven may not be secure now, but I’ll cooperate. I have information the Abidan will want.”
“Apologies, but I don’t have the authority to arrest you, and I don’t know enough about your powers to hold you. However, this land is my responsibility. You’ve threatened the lives of everyone here, and I personally watched you kill dozens of people. Including me. And my mother.”
Markuth didn’t like the direction this was taking. He tried to speak, but Lindon continued talking over him.
“I’ll give you more of a chance than you gave her.”
Desperately, Markuth tried a surprise attack.
The cloak of the Bleeding Phoenix stretched out and swallowed his sword.
“Don’t worry,” Lindon went on. “Your power won’t go to waste.”
The fingers of his right hand twitched in a disturbing manner, as though each finger were possessed by a different spirit. Its hunger felt like a salivating beast with its fangs at Markuth’s throat.