As far as I did, Lindon realized, and he pretended the thought didn’t hurt.
Therian Nills did resemble a bag full of bloody meat more than a human being, and Lindon felt a wince of sympathy for him. At least he would be healed completely whenever Ziel decided to end the match.
“His Striker techniques are powerful,” Lindon said. They were alive, like Jai Long’s had been. “Last round, he didn’t let his opponent close to him.”
“I’d bet my soul against a rat’s tail that either of us could tear him apart with both hands and both feet tied.”
Lindon knew that she was as frustrated by his elimination as he was. Maybe more so, in a different way. She had enjoyed fighting him all-out, but she’d wanted to meet him as Uncrowned.
Even so, he didn’t want to keep thinking about it.
[Not that I can hear your thoughts or anything, but it seems like you’re trying not to think about something else.]
Little Blue stuck her head down to stare into his eye.
I’m waiting until the match is over, Lindon told Dross.
There was too much on the line for him to interrupt the match. It seemed clear that Ziel was going to win, but you never knew what sorts of life-saving trump cards an enemy might have in store. If Ziel won, that would mean one more ally in the top eight, and his loss would mean that Reigan Shen had another chance at Penance.
Lindon focused on his Heaven and Earth Purification Wheel, pushing a burning circle uphill as slowly as possible.
Though he’d practiced the cycling technique for years, it was still uncomfortable. As always, it felt like he was breathing through a damp cloth, his lungs and spirit straining with every cycle of his madra. But that made the technique a better distraction.
For a few seconds.
Then Ziel’s hammer crushed Therian’s head, and his body dissolved into white light. So did the blood he’d left all over the arena.
There was a surprising amount.
“Victory!” the Ninecloud Soul announced, and the projection of light overhead showed an image of a dull-eyed Ziel dragging his hammer away.
[Oh, would you look at that!] Dross observed. [It seems the match is over.]
Little Blue gave an encouraging chime.
Yerin stood up and stretched, extending her steel madra sword-arms as well. “Guess you could call that a fight. Let’s grab some food while they finish up the tablets.”
They had examined the records of every fight together, analyzing Yerin’s future opponents.
Though Lindon couldn’t get a full breath, he spoke. “Apologies, but tomorrow night, would you like to go with me to—”
“Yes.”
She looked like she might say more, but after considering for a moment she only nodded once. “Yes” apparently said it all.
But she had answered too easily. He worried she thought he was just inviting her to eat together while training, as they often did.
“I mean, I was thinking something different than normal. We can reserve—”
Her reply was even faster this time: “Yes.”
That was clear enough.
“…okay. I will…do that, then.” And then, because he wanted her to see that he hadn’t been forced into this, he gave her a shaky smile. “Gratitude. I’m looking forward to it.”
“Same on my side.”
He still couldn’t read her face. Sometimes she turned bright red, but now she seemed normal to him.
As they ordered lunch from a Ninecloud servant and ate while discussing Ziel’s performance, she was unusually quiet. In one lull in the conversation, he noticed her breath coming at odd intervals.
She was breathing according to her cycling technique. Keeping her madra and feelings under control.
Just like he was.
“You’ve reserved the best table?” Mercy asked, looking from Lindon to Yerin.
“Yes. Gratitude.” Lindon had been more than willing to book an ordinary table at the restaurant Mercy had recommended, but she had informed him that the Akura family was paying the tab and insisted he order the best.
Since she was funding it, she had every right to ask, but Lindon wasn’t sure this was the best time.
“Is this really what you want to be talking about now?”
Mercy was in her full Akura uniform, purple and black and white, with Suu in one hand and a violet lens over her left eye. Her hair had been tied back, and she limbered up as she spoke.
Her waiting room door was set to open at any moment.
“We cleaned out every tablet on record,” Yerin said. “The worst left in the tournament is still no training dummy.”
Ulrok Crag-Strider was the one Ghost-Blade remaining in the competition, and Lindon agreed with Dross and Yerin that he was most likely Mercy’s opponent. It was either him or the girl from the Silent Servants whose name Lindon had difficulty pronouncing, but Mercy believed it would be Ulrok.
Her mother considered brute-force fighters weaker than clever ones, and Ghost-Blades were not subtle. They practiced a Path of sword and death madra, so their fights tended to be brief.
There were other, lesser aspects of their Path that tended to make them difficult to read with spiritual perception, but those were negligible.
“You’ll need to dress up tonight,” Mercy warned them, stretching out one arm and then the other. “Yerin, come to my room when you’re getting ready. Lindon, wear whatever Eithan tells you.”
She thought about that for a second, then added, “Within reason.”
Lindon appreciated the addition, because he could easily imagine Eithan telling him to go to the restaurant in some kind of costume. Or a wig.
But he was still concerned about Mercy’s attitude. The safety of the entire Blackflame Empire was on the line, not to mention her own mother’s life, but she was acting as carefree as usual.
“We can talk about this later,” he said. “Are you ready for this? You have a strategy?”
The door started to grind up, and Mercy gave them a sheepish smile. “Sorry. You two had one guaranteed loss and one guaranteed win, and Eithan’s match was supposed to be a loss for him. Which means the weakest opponent was left for me.”
The Ninecloud Soul called her name and Ulrok Crag-Strider. As expected.
The Ghost-Blade was a hulking brute of a man in dark gray robes, with lines of black paint covering his face and a swirling green-tinged spirit over his head. He held a rough saber like an oversized cleaver in both hands.
As the Ninecloud Soul called the names of both competitors, Mercy turned over her shoulder and waved cheerily. “See you in a minute!” she called.
Mercy walked through a darkened arena, which had been sealed off by a massive stretch of shadow madra like a tent’s roof. Sharpened bones rose from the ground, giving off death and sword aura in equal measure.
The arena favored neither of them, though Ulrok was trying to gain a psychological advantage by pushing against the invisible wall separating them, snarling like a beast and brandishing his rough saber.
He should have saved his breath. Mercy had done her research.
Back in his homeland, Ulrok was a famous poet and philosopher known for his musings on the nature of the soul. Pretending to be an animalistic brute would only work on someone who didn’t know him.
Besides, Mercy was already scared. Just not of him.
She was frightened for her family.
Impassive as always, Northstrider stood between the two competitors. The Ninecloud Soul was probably continuing their introduction, but the thick layer of shadow madra blocked out the sound.
“Do not make light of your opponent,” Northstrider said. “Either of you.”
He was looking at her when he said that, and Mercy nodded earnestly. The violet lens of the Moon’s Eye hung over her left eye, like a layer of stained glass.
It had been her Archlord reward for surviving the second round, selected especially for her. Though it had no binding, it was cleverly made from layers of transparent Remnant eyes.