How would I do against him? Lindon silently asked Dross.
[That, ah, depends on a few factors,] Dross responded, and Lindon hoped the spirit was keeping their conversation quiet. [He’s very strong, and he has a more effective range than you, so you would have to take it in close. But, if he doesn’t have any more tricks hidden, you would certainly win.]
Dross’ presence swelled in Lindon’s spirit, and Lindon got the impression that the spirit’s chest was puffed out in pride. [You have me.]
Which was a relief, but it also chafed a bit.
Dross was implying that, without him, Lindon couldn’t beat Blacksword in a straight-up fight. At least, not for certain.
Then again, what was wrong with that? At this point, the man from Redmoon Hall was virtually guaranteed a spot among the Uncrowned. There was no shame in being slightly worse in combat than one of the eight most combat-capable Underlords of their generation.
Or so Lindon repeated to himself over and over again.
Blacksword’s strain showed on his face and in his spirit. He had gathered all his madra for a final volley, and this really would be his last. After this, Lindon doubted the man’s soul would be in good enough shape for a simple Enforcer technique.
Yan Shoumei looked worse. She nursed grievous wounds all over her body, though it was difficult to see most of them beneath the Blood Shadow she wore as a cloak. Her face was bruised and bloody, one eye swollen shut, and she stared up at Blacksword as though at her executioner.
He raised his sword.
She screamed.
Lindon heard it in his spirit as well as his ears. He flinched, and so did almost everyone in the crowd. Somehow, her scream sounded like a chorus of Remnants, and it drowned out the entire audience.
Misty red madra filled the arena.
And the projection of the match disappeared.
Lindon, Yerin, and Mercy all sat up at once. As far as Lindon understood the constructs involved, this couldn’t happen. The recording and projection constructs were made of Archlord madra and were almost undetectable, not to mention resilient.
But that was nothing to his astonishment when he felt the Akura tower tremble beneath him.
Not just the tower.
The entire arena.
“Northstrider, you think?” Yerin asked softly.
The arena was supposed to be able to handle a contest between Heralds, much less Underlords. One of the Monarchs must have gotten upset about their view being interrupted.
Only two or three seconds after the projection ended, the view returned. The red haze over the battlefield began to thin.
Yan Shoumei stood there, wounded and panting, her red robes exposed but her Blood Shadow no longer visible.
It was eating Blacksword.
Little Blue squeaked and covered her eyes.
The Shadow had swollen into a monstrous form, fifteen feet tall and built like a cross between a heavily muscled man and a bear. Its fingers were unnaturally long, with sharp claws on the end, and it had the ears of a rabbit and the maw of a wolf. It was covered in the suggestion of fur, but spines rose in a row from along its back.
Every inch of it was blood-red.
It dug into Blacksword’s chest with its muzzle, feasting. In the center of a bowl-shaped crater that covered two-thirds of the arena floor.
They had only a second to take in the sight before Blacksword and his gear faded to white light. The monstrous Blood Shadow roared at having its meal interrupted.
“Victory,” the Ninecloud Soul announced, “to Yan Shoumei of Redmoon Hall, chosen of Reigan Shen.”
The audience didn’t cheer. Lindon caught mostly confused murmurs.
[Do you want to know how you stack up against that?] Dross asked.
Lindon did, actually.
Later, he said.
He was about to go comb the records for any information he might have missed on Yan Shoumei.
Seven matches into the fourth round, and seven of the Uncrowned had been selected.
Among those selected so far, only three Monarchs were represented: Ziel for Northstrider, three from the Dreadgod cults for Reigan Shen, and three for Akura Malice.
So four on their side, who would avoid releasing the Dreadgods on the Blackflame Empire if they won. Four allies, and three enemies.
But really it was four against four.
There was one match left, but there was no suspense in it. Yerin, Mercy, and Lindon had gathered to watch, and Lindon had a moment to wonder where Eithan was. He hadn’t seen the man at any of the matches, and had barely seen Eithan at all this week.
Then again, there was no need for him to stay in the stands. He could watch from anywhere.
The Ninecloud Soul announced the names of the fighters as they strode out to see each other, though there was no surprise at the matchup since only two competitors remained.
“Kenvata Nasuma Juvari of the Silent Servants, chosen of Reigan Shen, you face Sopharanatoth of the gold dragons, chosen of the Dragon King!”
Kenvata—or Juvari, Lindon wasn’t sure which was her family name and which her personal one—was a short woman in a plain white robe. A shawl covered her head, and between that and the cloth wrapping her mouth, the only visible parts of her were her dark eyes.
Sophara strode out, dressed in elaborate jewelry. Gems gleamed in every color. The fine strands of scales that ran from her scalp like hair glistened in the sunlight.
The projection overhead showed that her vertical-slitted gold eyes were calm, her face impassive. Her tail drifted slowly behind her as she paced up to her opponent.
Anger bubbled up in Lindon as he remembered her spraying Naian Blackflame’s blood across the floor. Just to send a message.
Yerin’s fist tightened on her armrest. “I’ll give this Juvari my own sword and a wagonload of scales if she knocks the dragon out here.”
“Wouldn’t that be nice,” Mercy said wistfully.
But there was a chance, Lindon knew, and Dross agreed.
[Her dream techniques might be the perfect weapons to use against Sophara. Superior strength and madra would never come into play.]
After reviewing records of previous rounds, Lindon had trained against a simulation of Juvari. Once.
Her entire Path was based around mimicking the dream Ruler techniques of the Silent King, the most subtle and insidious of the Dreadgods, so Lindon had thought she might pose a challenge for Dross.
She didn’t. Dross could always hold her influence off long enough for Lindon to cut her in half with dragon’s breath.
But throughout the entire tournament, Sophara had struggled the most during the first round when she had been trapped in an illusion. Clearly, she had no way of quickly or easily breaking free from dream techniques.
The two Underladies faced each other, both outwardly calm.
The arena was plain sand again, but this time clouds of purple fire drifted randomly around the battlefield. Strange shapes and images played within the flames. They reminded Lindon of his own family’s foxfire, but these were made of dream and fire aura rather than dreams and light.
An even playing field for the two competitors.
Juvari clearly meant to take advantage. A white ring hovered over her head, like Samara’s ring back home, and he could see dream aura gathering around her. She was preparing her Ruler technique.
He expected Sophara to do the same, but she stood with hands at her sides, waiting.
Juvari’s technique was complete before the barrier separating the two of them fell. In fact, Lindon and Dross discussed with Yerin and Mercy, and they suspected she might have two Ruler techniques prepared and ready to launch.
Lindon’s hopes rose as he saw that Sophara still had prepared nothing. She only cycled her madra to be ready when the fight began.
Overconfidence. That could be her undoing.
Northstrider dropped the wall between them, and the aura rippled purple as Juvari’s dream techniques formed.