Sophara cradled in both hands a transparent glass vial with a thread of shining, pure silver liquid twisting in the center. It circled in on itself, winding in an endless loop.

The Gate of Heaven elixir was extremely volatile and difficult to refine, even for the world’s greatest refiners. The ingredients and conditions for its creation were closely guarded secrets, and Sophara had heard that it even required attention from Sages.

Now she was seeing it with her own eyes: an elixir that smoothed the road from Underlord to Archlord.

She had already been on the verge of becoming an Overlady. Now she could advance whenever she wanted.

~~~

Lindon's Void Dragon's Dance fell on Sophara, tearing at her with winds of fire and destruction.

She pushed through the red-and-black cyclone as though through a stiff breeze. He dropped the Ruler technique as quickly as he could—he had practiced for this, trained himself to switch techniques instantly.

He was still a moment too slow. While the dragon's breath formed on his fingers, Sophara had closed the gaps with quick, fluid movements, her feet glowing orange. Golden madra gushed from her hands, flowing into his chest from only a moment away.

He held up his shield and tried to trigger the binding, but her power was too strong. The shield melted, its technique failing. Lindon's flying sword, Wavedancer, was too far away to recall in time.

The fire madra seared him, and her claws were already at his throat.

The vision shimmered and vanished.

Lindon opened his eyes. He sat in a cycling position next to an artificial waterfall in his personal training room, and though he hadn't moved a step, sweat streamed down his face. His breath came in ugly rasps.

The more intense his training with Dross, the more it took from him.

[A new record!] Dross cried. [You lasted twenty-one seconds that time! This is progress!]

Only eighteen tries, and he had exhausted every tactic he knew. He had at least managed to go from dying immediately to holding his own for a few breaths of time, but that wasn't as much progress as Dross pretended.

Birds chirped and flew from a tree planted in one corner of the room toward a bed of flowers all the way at the other. Most of the room was empty space, but evidently the Ninecloud Court believed in decorating everything.

He spoke aloud as he toweled sweat from his head and neck. “Gratitude, but even if I manage to win, I will have only beaten your version of Sophara. The real one will be stronger.”

[Yes, she almost certainly has more in reserve than she's shown, just as you do. Yes, she is the strongest competitor in this tournament. Yes, she will have gotten her own prize after the third round that will surely make her even stronger. Yes, she will be preparing for this match against you while you are preparing against her.]

Lindon waited for more, but Dross was quiet.

“But...” Lindon began.

[But what? That was all true.]

Lindon passed his spiritual perception through his body, feeling the glittering motes of ruby sand that now permeated his flesh. The Iron Heart had integrated seamlessly with his Iron body, but he still wasn't sure what that meant.

“I haven't noticed much increased healing in the simulations,” Lindon said.

[I've never seen an Iron Heart in action, have I? How am I supposed to know what it can do for you?]

“We should test it.”

The door opened just as he spoke, and Yerin strolled into the room. Her long hair streaming behind her like a black banner and the sword at her waist made her look like a warrior from a painting. Her silver sword-arms had been withdrawn, but she still looked ready for battle at any second.

“What are we testing?” she asked, walking up to Lindon. He hurriedly stood to meet her.

“My Iron Heart. It's finished bonding with my Iron body, but Dross can't show me what it can do, because we haven't tested it yet.”

[You have perfect timing!] Dross said to Yerin. [You can cut him for me! I only wish I could do it myself.]

“Sure,” Yerin said casually, gripping her sword. “A big cut or a bunch of little ones?”

Lindon had to slow this down before it went too far. “Hold on! I'm not the only one with a match coming up. Are you going to be all right against Mercy?”

Yerin frowned, glaring a hole in the wall.

“That...Monarch.” She was obviously afraid that saying his name would draw his attention, which Lindon thought was wisely cautious. “He did this to us on purpose. Makes me not want to dance to his song.”

Lindon fervently agreed, but he stayed silent to encourage her to keep talking.

“But this is a fresh chance,” she continued. “How often do you get to sharpen yourself against a friend without hurting them? My master used to say that you never really knew someone until you crossed swords with them, and I'm starting to take his meaning.”

“Apologies; I don't understand. I've never fought you outside of training, but that doesn't mean we don't know each other.”

Yerin looked up to the ceiling, visibly searching for the right words. “I’d say...I know the you I see, but how did that prince Kiro see you? How did Harmony see you in Ghostwater?”

[Last,] Dross said. [Harmony saw him last.]

“We have to blunt our swords when we're training. Nothing wrong with that—I'm not trying to take off your ear, and I don't want dragon's breath in my eyes. But it means that we never get to use that last little bit, you know?”

She shrugged. “There's something honest about going all-out. Now that we don't have to worry about killing each other, I get to see everything Mercy's got. And I get to show her everything I can do.”

Yerin stood with perfect confidence, her master's sword at her waist, wearing a sacred artist's robe that was the duplicate of the one Lindon had first seen her in. But he saw now how different she had become. These robes were new, not tattered at the edges—her control had grown.

Her skin was smooth, the scars gone. The rope-belt of Forged blood madra she had once worn was missing, integrated into her spirit. Her hair hung past her shoulders, and her face had been sculpted anew during her advancement to Underlord. She looked more mature, a worthy competitor in the Uncrowned King tournament.

She was beautiful.

Her dark eyes turned back to him, and he jerked his gaze away, afraid to be caught staring.

“What about you?” she asked. “What if you had to fight one of us?”

Lindon still shivered when he imagined Naian's razor steel pushing through his guts. It had only been a few days. He saw the hole he'd burned through his opponents on the island. And not just on the island, either. Ekeri the gold dragon had been speared through by his dragon's breath and had eventually died.

Could he picture doing the same to Yerin, even if she would be resurrected by a Monarch immediately? Could he slice her in half with a bar of burning madra? Could he bash her skull in with his shield?

“I'm glad I don't have to,” Lindon finally said.

“This isn't the last round. If we all make it, you'll have to fight at least one of us in the top eight.”

He shifted uncomfortably. “I will do it. But I don't have to be happy about it.”

“What's not to be happy about? We could all make it into the top eight of the Uncrowned King tournament!” She hesitated. “Uh...three of the four of us.”