“You’re going to win!” She looked up from his chest and took a step back, but even so, she didn’t release him. She grabbed the collar of his outer robe. “You can do this! Don’t worry! Do I look worried? No, I don’t, because I’m not, and you shouldn’t be either!”

She was practically screaming at him, and Lindon felt flash-blinded.

“Forgiveness, but what is happening?” he asked.

She took a deep breath. “Yerin couldn’t be here. They called her away.”

“Who did?” Lindon asked. She couldn’t be preparing for her match—her fight was against Mercy.

“The Ninecloud Soul. So I’m going to say what Yerin would say!” She slapped him hard enough that it echoed throughout the room, though he barely felt it. Yerin would have broken his jaw. “You have a sword! Stab the enemy!”

[That does sound like Yerin,] Dross observed.

The circle on the door had begun to glow dimly, and Lindon’s nerves returned. He gently extracted himself from Mercy, stepping up to the stone slab as the script-circle glowed brighter and brighter.

“Thank you, Mercy.” Lindon drew just enough Blackflame to set a torch of anger to his spirit. “I’ll see you in the next round.”

The door began to slide up, showing the dark floor and letting in a flood of screams and cries. He cycled his madra as memories spun in his mind.

Suriel showing him the death of Sacred Valley.

The Bleeding Phoenix covering the sky from horizon to horizon.

Ekeri’s gold-scaled chest burned through by dragon’s breath.

The gold dragon Herald, clutching a piece of the Temple of Rising Earth in its talons.

Sophara tearing off Lindon’s head with one swipe of her claws.

Naian Blackflame in chains, then collapsing bleeding to the floor.

On the other side of the door, she was waiting for him.

No…she was standing in his way.

The door slid slowly open, revealing the floor and letting in…silence and darkness. No screaming crowd. The shadow aura was thick, shrouding much of the arena, forming a barrier to keep him and his opponent isolated. The ground was slick, black, and irregular, like the stone had melted and then been frozen into place. His footing would be uncertain.

When the door lifted fully, the shadow aura didn’t stop him from seeing all the way across the arena, where his opponent saw him at the same time.

Not Sophara.

Yerin.

Her hand was frozen on the hilt of her sword, her dark eyes quivering in shock. Lindon stood rooted in place as Dross babbled in his head, insisting that there must be a mistake.

Northstrider stood between the two of them, black-scaled arms folded.

Rainbow light shimmered overhead, and the Ninecloud Soul cried, “Now, the first two fighters in the fourth round of the Uncrowned King tournament face their true opponents! Sacred artists, welcome Wei Shi Lindon Arelius, chosen of Akura Malice and representative of the prime Akura team…and Yerin Arelius, chosen of Akura Malice and representative of the Blackflame Empire!”

He could hear the Soul perfectly, but nothing from the crowd. Or perhaps Lindon had gone partially deaf.

Northstrider flicked his fingers, and suddenly the air carried both competitors forward. Yerin was visibly furious, and she focused her anger on the Monarch. Her six sword-arms burst out of her back, but he did not acknowledge her.

“This is not a punishment,” Northstrider said quietly. “Nor is it a plot. The measure of a sacred artist is how they respond to unexpected challenges, so I arranged this round to provide such challenges.”

Yerin glared at him. “You ready to swear that to the heavens?”

“The heavens do not constrain me,” Northstrider said, unaffected. “You should worry only about the opponent in front of you.”

Every breath rasped in Lindon’s lungs. He couldn’t take his eyes from Yerin’s face.

“I surrender.”

“No,” Yerin and the Monarch said at the same time.

Now Yerin had turned her anger to him. “This is a sour turn, but it won’t beat us. You bring everything you have…and so will I.”

The bonds of air released her, and she drew her master’s sword.

The audience cheered.

We were so close, Lindon thought. They had almost made it. One final round before the eight Uncrowned were chosen. He and Yerin could have both won.

Now he either had to give up his prizes or he had to take them from Yerin. It was as though he’d lost already.

“Begin,” Northstrider said, and vanished.

Chapter 19

Yerin closed the distance fast.

It was only thanks to Dross' enhancement of his reactions that Lindon managed to pull the shield from his soulspace and block the swing of Yerin's blade.

It felt like getting hit by a cloudship at full speed. The blow launched him backward over the warped obsidian surface of the stage, pain stabbing through his left arm as he fought to right himself in the air.

The Soul Cloak rippled into existence, surrounding him with a smooth blue-white corona. His newly enhanced Bloodforged Iron body drew madra to heal his left arm, which—he only now realized—had broken.

The strength and control the Soul Cloak gave him allowed him to land, skidding on the surface, shield raised.

Yerin was already bringing her white sword down on him. Her eyes were fixed and determined, her hair blowing behind her, her black robes rippling with the force of her spirit.

The Sage's blade crashed down on his shield, blasting air away from him in a ring. The Soul Cloak trembled; thanks to its strength, his arm didn't break again, but the Enforcer technique was reaching its limit. Even the shield's material was strained, its outer layer beginning to stress and deform.

Lindon's legs buckled, and he fell to his knees.

He'd known she was strong. Her Steelborn Iron body had started to show its real potential once she'd advanced to Underlord, and he'd seen how she had handled her opponents up to this point.

But he'd never felt how strong she was.

[What are you doing?] Dross asked. [Fight back!]

Lindon had been sure he could. In the top eight, he could fight. Once they had both obtained their goals.

Now, fighting back meant pitting his ambition against hers. He would be cutting down her chance of living up to her master.

And, though they were protected by a Monarch, though he had prepared himself for it, though there would be no lasting damage...he still didn't want to hurt Yerin.

Six sword-arms emerged from Yerin's back, and suddenly the air had claws. The Endless Sword technique tore at him, and though he pushed back with the power of his soulfire, Yerin was far better at controlling sword-aura. Slices appeared on his skin, cutting through his sacred artist's robes.

His Iron body repaired the cuts almost as they were made, but blood still streamed from him in ribbons, and he was losing madra.

Yerin lifted her blade, and it ignited silver in a complex dance of both madra and aura. The Flowing Sword, her weapon Enforcement technique.

She set her jaw and her dark eyes met his. There was a strange depth to them, as though she were pleading with him.

“You're holding more than this,” she said. “Pull it all out! Let me see it!”

Lindon didn't know how to respond, but she wasn't waiting on him. The shining sword came in high, and he blocked with his flying sword, but the force knocked him back. The second strike came low, while he was still trying to recover his stance, and the Soul Cloak let him slip aside before he lost a leg.