She would have been better off using a Striker technique, as the man wasn’t carrying a weapon. He took a few superficial cuts, but he seemed surprised that she’d wounded him at all. The Jade turned, readying a technique of his own.
Adama was surrounded by a half-circle of other Jades, all of them either beating him with their clubs or readying their own techniques, but all his attention was focused on Yerin.
When he fought his way through and went up the stairs, she’d follow him.
“Go!” he screamed, but of course she didn’t listen.
Her expression firmed, and she took a two-handed grip on her sword.
It was the resolve, the determination, the focus that had made her stand out to him as a disciple candidate in the first place.
That was a will worthy of the future Sage of the Endless Sword.
He scraped together everything he had left. Every ounce of thought, emotion, and madra drew together to a point.
“Go,” he said again, and this time it was a command written on the world itself.
Behind Yerin, space tore like a cut. Spatial cracks slid out from around the rift, but they would soon heal. The destination of this transportation was beyond his control. It would be close; he didn’t have the skill or power at the moment to send her far.
Nor to send her quickly, it seemed. The portal sliced open in slow motion, and she was pulled back as though by invisible hands.
It should have happened in an instant, but she had time to fight, struggling toward him. The Jades near Yerin backed away from her, unsure what was happening, but the ones around him redoubled their assault.
Adama took a club on the jaw and another on the back of his head. A line of madra seared into his back, and his sight started to fade.
With Jades and Irons piled on top of him, he turned from Yerin and took a step up the stairs of the Ancestor’s Tomb.
More attacks landed, and he took another step.
Another.
His entire being fixed on the door, and his existence narrowed down to a singular purpose. He was going to that door, and these people would not stop Yerin from advancing. She would succeed him.
Those were the two most prominent thoughts his Remnant inherited when it rose from his body.
The door.
And Yerin.
[Synchronization terminated.]
Suggested topic: Yerin and the Sword Icon.
Denied, report complete.
1
“Who’s Dross?”
Northstrider clutched Lindon’s throat in one black-scaled hand, but his grip relaxed slightly to allow Lindon to respond. Lindon’s spirit trembled under the weight of a spiritual scan, and he shook before the Monarch’s golden eyes.
Lindon’s entire body urged him to cooperate with Northstrider, but he was still afraid. If Dross was peeled forcibly away from his soul, what would happen?
He needed more information. He needed time.
“Apologies, Monarch,” Lindon choked out. “I don’t understand—”
Northstrider’s patience ended immediately.
Invisible weight forced Lindon to his knees. The Monarch’s hand left his neck, but Lindon still choked. It felt like the air squeezed every inch of his skin. He tried to cycle madra, but his spirit was just as restricted as his body.
“Manifest yourself,” Northstrider commanded.
Don’t do it, Lindon urged Dross. I’ll talk to him.
As soon as he had enough breath to speak.
Dross didn’t respond. Instead, he spun into existence over Lindon’s left shoulder.
The spiritual pressure released Lindon, who sagged to the ground but caught himself with one hand and a knee.
Dross manifested as a purple-skinned ball with a single eye and two stubby, boneless arms. His eye was wide, and he coughed once as he addressed Northstrider. [It is an honor to meet you, Master. I am called Dross.]
“You are the mind-spirit born from Ghostwater in its last days,” Northstrider said.
Lindon pushed back to his feet; he needed to remind the Monarch he was there. “He is, and I am in your debt for the benefits I gained inside.”
Dross bobbed up and down in agreement, but Northstrider did not spare a glance for Lindon.
[Ah yes, Master, you’ve met Lindon, haven’t you? Sorry, I know you have, I’m just nervous. Anyway, Lindon has taken very good care of me after I became complete, and I’d say he has earned a reward. Maybe some kind of mind elixir, or a source of powerful dream aura, or perhaps a few delicious Dreamseeds. What do you say?]
A shiny black orb appeared over Northstrider’s shoulder, mirroring Dross on Lindon’s.
“Do you recognize this?” Northstrider asked Dross.
Dross squinted his eye. [That is the temperature construct from the Ghostwater storage room. I’m one hundred percent confident. Unless, of course, I’m wrong.]
Script flashed in various colors all over the reflective surface of Northstrider’s orb, so quickly that it was meaningless to Lindon.
“Look beyond its appearance,” the Monarch instructed.
Lindon couldn’t decide if Northstrider seemed patient or impatient. He observed Dross’ performance with no expression, but Lindon could imagine him erupting into violence at any second. Or simply disappearing.
Dross drifted closer to the black orb, peering into its surface.
[Hmmm, let me see…yes, that’s…oh. Oh. It’s the oracle tree! It’s so small now.]
Lindon remembered the oracle tree. He had pulled Dross from inside it in Ghostwater. It had been a web of knowledge and memory constructs that had ultimately led to Dross’ evolution.
Dross regularly regretted not being connected to that ocean of information longer.
Northstrider’s eyes flashed with an emotion Lindon couldn’t name. “This is the latest version of that project, which I call the oracle codex.”
[You were right to change the name; it doesn’t look anything like a tree anymore.]
“It is more than capable of teaching you the next step in your advancement.” Northstrider spread one black-scaled hand, gesturing to the orb. “Read it for yourself, if you can.”
That set off every alarm in Lindon’s mind.
Northstrider was Lindon’s benefactor, he was a great enemy of the gold dragons, and he was capable of upgrading Dross. Lindon would have traded his remaining arm for that kind of support.
But this was no act of charity. Northstrider was testing Dross in some way, and Lindon didn’t know what passing looked like.
Or what the penalty for failure was.
Dross gasped as though he’d been offered a glorious present, but Lindon held him back with a thought.
“Gratitude, Monarch, but surely we are not worthy of such generosity.”
[Yes, we are!] Dross said. In spite of Lindon’s alarm, he pushed forward. One of his stubby, flexible arms touched the surface of the orb.
Light rippled on Northstrider’s construct, but otherwise nothing happened.
[Just…just a moment, this is…hmmm. This is tougher than it looks.] Dross furrowed his purple brow and pushed harder, until Lindon could feel the strain himself.
More colors echoed out from the point of contact around Dross’ arm, and light rippled faster and faster.
Until, as though he’d broken through a barrier, Dross finally pushed through.
The spirit took in a deep breath. [Ooohhh, it’s amazing! So much space! And it’s so organized in here, like a library run by clocks. Here’s an interesting memory…not about me. And this one…also not me.]
Dross’ arm was finally ejected, and he flew back to Lindon’s shoulder as though kicked. [Sorry! So sorry! Just give me one more try.]
This time, there was the smallest hint of satisfaction on Northstrider’s face. “No. You passed. You’re coming with me.”