And then that Blackflame madra becomes flesh. It Forges into something resembling a Remnant at first, slowly hardening into an indistinguishable patch of black scales.
Can all Heralds rebuild their body with madra, or is this a special property of some Path? Northstrider would know, but Lindon is too distant from the memory at the moment to read his thoughts.
Northstrider fights by tearing at the dragon with blood aura, summoning living techniques shaped like red dragons that hurl themselves at the enemy, and by unleashing blows that slam the dragon into the ground hard enough to cause earthquakes for miles around.
The dragon sprays dragon’s breath all over Northstrider, calls columns of fiery destruction from the sky, and blackens the terrain. It even becomes fiery madra for a moment, to move in a rush of flame.
There are a treasure trove of insights here, but Lindon focuses on Northstrider’s techniques.
When he gets an opening, he sinks his hands—which are scaled in red, not black—into the dragon’s side.
And he pulls with the full force of his spirit.
A hunger madra technique.
Lindon has to choke off his excitement before the strong emotion disrupts the vision. He and Dross guessed that Northstrider incorporated hunger madra into his techniques, but they’ve never known for sure.
Now they know.
Northstrider is beaten and bloody and exhausted when he finally tears off the dragon’s head. Only the power he stole with his hunger madra kept his spirit moving.
He drains even more, trying to stop the Remnant from rising, and this time Lindon can feel a little more of the technique. It’s pulling not just madra, but everything. Life, physical strength, even some of the dragon’s thoughts and personality.
Northstrider has to struggle to control it all, and Lindon desperately wished he could feel more of that process.
Unfortunately, the Sage isn’t in time. The Remnant rises.
It’s nothing like any other Remnant birth that Lindon has ever seen.
The corpse becomes Blackflame, transforming into black fire, twisting and evolving until it is a spirit of black-and-red madra that only vaguely resembles a dragon. It looks almost as physical as before, so that Lindon almost can’t identify it as a Remnant.
It launches dragon’s breath from its mouth and both arms, and Northstrider calls a barrier.
Of this battle, Lindon could see virtually nothing. It’s a gray blur with half-felt spiritual sensations.
Sorry, sorry, Dross says. Fights, like I said. Let’s move to the next part.
Northstrider drags himself across the ground, victorious but gravely wounded.
He can heal himself with blood aura easily, but he needs a safe place to stop and do so. He senses distant enemies.
There were more dragons after all.
These are actually Archlords, but Northstrider doesn’t feel equal to even a Gold at the moment. If they arrive before he restores himself, he will surely die. But he has stolen power from a Herald; he can try to advance.
He isn’t sure if it will work. Isn’t certain his spirit is stable or complete enough.
Here, he will become a Monarch or die trying.
In a nearby cave, he carves a script into the stone with one finger. This should hide him long enough.
Then he sinks into meditation.
It takes him hours to manifest his Remnant in front of him, a clawed and scaled monstrous version of himself. It is made mostly of blood madra, with red curling horns on its head, and it looks almost as real as he does himself.
His own Remnant glares at him with the vertically slitted eyes of a gold dragon.
Northstrider draws his Remnant into his flesh, and his Remnant resists. Their wills clash, the spirit trying to consume him even as he does the same.
Though it involves no sacred techniques, only a straightforward competition of focus and resolve, it is the deadliest fight of his life.
Being a Sage makes this harder. His Remnant has power and authority beyond what an ordinary Archlord’s spirit should. If he fails, he can’t simply try again.
There’s a real possibility that his very existence will be erased.
But his will is steel. He weaves his own Remnant into his body, spirit becoming flesh and flesh fusing with spirit.
For the final time in his life, his body is remade.
Reality itself quakes at the birth of a Monarch. There is no Icon in the sky, as there was on his ascension to Sage, but the ground shakes and aura trembles for dozens of miles around. His enemies will find him soon, if they haven’t already.
He takes control of the changes.
The scales on his arms transform, turning black, but they want to spread all over his body. He restricts them to the arms, though they still take up more of his skin. Horns begin to grow on his head, and he puts a stop to that. No horns.
Finally, his eyes transform to resemble a dragon’s.
That he cannot stop.
His transformation reaches its final stages, and he stretches out with the sense of a Monarch—
Information lost.
Report complete.
Lindon returned to himself, still sitting cross-legged on his bed, and Dross manifested in front of him. His huge purple eye was downcast.
[I’m sorry, Lindon, I was sure I could hold it at the end there. If I get to see Northstrider again, I might be able to get more information. I’m sure I can! But I…well, I’m not sure I can read it. That’s just about the limit of my understanding.]
Lindon grabbed Dross in both hands.
It would be too strange to give Dross a hug. For one thing, Dross wasn’t completely material, and Lindon was worried about pushing the spirit through his rib cage.
So Lindon met his gaze and projected complete sincerity, hoping Dross would feel it.
“Gratitude. Everything we just learned, I can’t…I can only thank you.”
Dross perked up. [Right? Right! And we were right about the hunger madra, weren’t we? Well, I was.]
“You were.”
Northstrider’s hunger madra was almost the least of the secrets they’d learned. The nature of Heralds, Sages, and Monarchs…these things were considered secrets for anyone below Archlord.
Now Lindon had hints about all of them.
He was far too excited to go back to sleep.
3
Lindon and Yerin stayed with Eithan in the waiting room, anxious for the door to open.
Eithan sat on a bench between them with his eyes closed, cycling. For once, he was really dressed for a fight.
His hair was tied into a tail behind him, and he wore a practical set of gray fighting robes. Instead of the Akura or Blackflame symbols, the Arelius family symbol was displayed on his back in white: a crescent moon next to a pair of symbols in the old language that indicated power.
He had stayed so focused, unsmiling and sharp, that Lindon was starting to worry.
Little Blue gave a sad peep from her seat beside Lindon’s ear.
[He looks like he’s walking to his death,] Dross said.
“Two scales says he’s faking it,” Yerin said, but she kept her voice low to avoid disrupting him.
“I was hoping we could help somehow,” Lindon responded, but he felt foolish saying it. Eithan never needed moral support.
Yerin sighed. “I’m the same kind of fool as you, I guess. Thought we could do some good, but his own mother’s funeral couldn’t crack his mask.”
“I was quite upset when my mother died,” Eithan said. He cracked one eye. “I do have a heart, you know.”
“Prove it.”
He lifted his scissors—the black Archlord scissors that had been his reward from the second round—and drummed them on his thigh. He still didn’t smile, but he didn’t seem upset. Only pensive. Like he was chewing on a problem.