Reigan tucked himself away into one of his mobile palaces, enjoying the taste of air contained within. He sealed the entrance with a transparent spatial barrier, preventing the wind from rushing out into space, and he watched the devastating explosions as his techniques landed.
He sagged into a seat, feeling the unfamiliar exhaustion, but at least he hadn’t held back. This was the sort of barrage he would use to take down a Dreadgod or depopulate half a continent.
If this didn’t work, nothing would.
Dross screamed in Lindon’s mind. [It’s worse! AAAAAAHHHH it’s so bad!]
Lindon’s perception of the world was effectively halted, though that wasn’t much of a comfort when a massive Monarch thunderbolt was a few hundred yards from crashing down on him. He should survive that, with the help of his arm and his Hollow Domain. The arm, at least, was eager to try.
But there was another technique behind that, one that would disassemble the very substance of his body. And if he resisted that, there was a broad technique that felt—in Dross’ words—like a plague made of wildfire.
The other two Monarchs hadn’t even joined the attack. They had used techniques to surround Sacred Valley, to contain the destruction and to slow Lindon from leaving.
Not that he could. Shen’s techniques landing would threaten the lives of the people living down below.
He hadn’t wanted to fight here at all, but the labyrinth’s defenses were all that allowed him to survive three Monarchs at once. But even those defenses had limits. He’d ordered the population below to take shelter and activated protections against spiritual pressure, but he was putting the ancient scripts to the test.
Don’t panic, Lindon sent to Dross. You know what we have to do.
[It’s too late, I’m panicking! They were supposed to back off!]
Dross and Lindon had both expected the Monarchs to back up and stall for time once their initial attack failed. They would be waiting for the Weeping Dragon to finish Lindon, after all. That assumption was what Lindon had been counting on; his only objective was to buy enough time for his friends to advance.
It was always a possibility that one of the Monarchs would get frustrated and unload everything they had, but not one that Lindon or Dross could control.
[The echo isn’t finished!] Dross said desperately. [We have to use the evacuation plan.]
The ‘evacuation plan’ was using the labyrinth to transfer everyone away and letting Reigan Shen blow Sacred Valley to ashes. The labyrinth would survive, and they could rebuild afterwards.
That would be a huge expenditure of energy, and those attacks landing could blight the earth for hundreds of miles. Not to mention that the Weeping Dragon was still heading this direction, and Lindon wanted the labyrinth in fighting shape. He intended to fight the Dreadgod over the Trackless Sea, but this was his fallback.
Also, the Monarchs had more for Lindon to take.
No, he thought. I’ll hold the lightning back. Release him.
[Do you know how much I hate relying on things we don’t understand and can’t model? This much!] Dross’ arms stretched impossibly far so that Lindon couldn’t see their ends.
Apologies, Lindon said, and then the world started moving again.
Tiberian’s thunderbolt was large enough to swallow the heart of Sacred Valley, but it fell through a suddenly expanded Hollow Domain and met Lindon’s white palm. Lightning shot through his body, bringing him agony. His teeth grit together and he struggled to remain focused.
Lindon drew the energy deeper with his Consume technique, pulling the lightning to himself. His whole spirit was in anguish, but at the same time, he wove his own madra through Tiberian’s technique. Strands of pure madra, of hunger, even Blackflame.
They wormed into the lightning bolt according to a method he’d adopted from Ozmanthus Arelius. Not enough to be called a true sacred arts technique, this was more of a skilled manipulation of madra. It took longer than he would have liked, with the Monarch lightning tearing apart his body.
But an instant later, he dismantled the technique.
The different types of power tore apart Tiberian’s thunderbolt, sending clouds of three-colored essence bursting for miles. They exploded against the barriers set up by Northstrider and Malice, lighting the sky so that even the halo of the Silent King dimmed by comparison.
Lindon was breathing heavily when the next technique came streaking in, and his vision fuzzed on the edges. He had been sprinting all-out with these techniques, and while he still had madra to spare, he needed to rest. Every Penance arrow was a test of will, and he was concentrating to his limits with every attack. Even holding the Silent King Bow was an extra burden.
He released the Hollow Domain, allowing himself to catch his breath as the gold-edged chaos descended on him. He needed to buy a little time, since the echo technique from the labyrinth was not instant.
But it was quick.
“Sloppy,” said a cold voice from nearby. It was familiar and unfamiliar at the same time, like a slightly distorted imitation of a voice he knew well.
A black-and-gray Ozmanthus Arelius stood next to Lindon, broom braced on his shoulder.
His features were sharp and his demeanor haughty, but his clothes were still finely pressed. He sneered up at the descending technique. “Dismantling should be clean. Like so.”
Ozmanthus swept his broom through the sky, and the space-ripping golden sphere disappeared. So did the rain of orange-red blades, and the Silent King’s halo, and the indistinct Void Icon that had hovered over Lindon.
Lindon gazed up into a perfectly clear sky.
Ozmanthus gave a satisfied little hum. “You see? Clean.”
“Gratitude,” Lindon said. “But the enemy who used those techniques is still there. In fact, there are three Monarchs, and they’re enemies of your—”
“I understand the situation,” Ozmanthus said, cutting him off. “I saw every detail the instant I was Forged. You should assume that I see everything.”
“I do.”
The barriers around Sacred Valley were starting to fade as Northstrider and Malice gathered up their own attacks, but Ozmanthus was still focused on Lindon. A small smile quirked up the corner of his mouth, and Lindon saw shadows of the Eithan he knew.
“Such a high opinion of me,” Ozmanthus murmured. “I’ll try not to let it go to my head.”
Lindon heard the wry tone and inspected the man’s expression for more traces of Eithan. Should he speak freely, or not?
[Not!] Dross suggested.
Lindon dipped his head. “Apologies. I’m grateful for the help.” He held the Arelius Patriarch’s gaze firmly. “But I prefer the modern version of you.”
Ozmanthus looked startled for a moment before his smile grew more genuine. “I’m pleased to hear it. Now…” He looked at the sky. “…if you wanted me to wipe out our enemies, why did you make me so weak?”
“Lack of time.”
“Poor planning. You should improve your foresight. No student of mine should ever be caught off guard.”
[We’re working on it,] Dross said defensively.
Lindon tensed and cycled his madra. Malice had called the image of an empress behind her and was readying an attack no less deadly than the ones Reigan Shen had dropped, and Northstrider condensed so much power that half the horizon turned red and a snarling dragon’s face was starting to form from blood and authority.
“I can strike once, with the power you have allotted me,” Ozmanthus said. “Afterwards, you will not be able to project me again for quite some time without destabilizing my memory.”
Lindon turned to face Malice, as her attack seemed most imminent. “Which target would you prefer?”