Beginning report…

Path: the Eightfold Spear. What the Empire calls “the Path of the Eightfold Spear” is not a Path in the traditional sense. It is a complex bond of mind and spirit woven through a network of Divine Treasures that allow the eight members of the Empire to access the powers of the other seven. In reality, each member of the Eight-Man Empire is on a separate Path.

When Sages and Heralds refuse to ascend, it is almost always because they dream of becoming a Monarch and ruling over the world of their birth. Over the course of history, therefore, there have been many attempts to create a reliable way to advance to Monarch.

All those who pursue such research eventually have the same idea: if Monarchs are those who have advanced both to Herald and to Sage, why not link a Sage with a Herald? Surely they would then, together, exert the power of a Monarch.

If this research reaches the stage of experimentation, it almost always ends in tragedy. The strain is too great for both the Herald and the Sage, as neither has the insight required to control the power of the other.

All who tried this technique have been torn apart by their own spirits…with a single exception.

The founding members of the Eight-Man Empire, four Heralds and four Sages, suspected that spreading their power more widely could lessen the burden on any one member. They crafted eight Divine Treasures, suits of golden armor, that linked their wills together.

It is unknown how sacred artists who never ventured beyond Cradle understood such principles so thoroughly, but Abidan intervention is suspected.

The Path of the Eightfold Spear is unique in all the world, and the Eight-Man Empire is always on the lookout for heirs to inherit their positions in the event of death or ascension. Their suits of armor can be passed down and repaired, but not replaced.

Their experiment has never been successfully repeated.

Suggested topic: squires of the Eight-Man Empire. Continue?

Denied, report complete.

14

Yerin sat in a plush seat in the audience hall of a floating castle covered in shadow: the Akura family Monarch platform. Constructs of light projected the contents of the arena so that she could see everything in perfect detail, and she had a personal servant to cater to her every whim.

If she could have cut her way out, she would have.

“It’s for your own security,” the Winter Sage reminded her for the tenth time. “The Ninecloud Court couldn’t afford it if anything happened to the Uncrowned under their watch, and our political relations are more strained than ever.”

Yerin still seethed. “Show me the face of the killer with so much courage that they’ll attack while I’m protected by the heavens.”

“It’s not courage we’re concerned about,” the Sage snapped. “Who can count on the Abidan?”

Mercy leaned forward and laced her black-gloved fingers together. “It’s about to start,” she said quietly.

Yerin eyed her. Mercy wasn’t acting like her usual self. She was on the edge of her seat, tapping her foot, and she hadn’t tried to make Yerin feel better.

Mercy’s match was in two days, and it was enough to put anyone on the edge.

Which meant it was Yerin’s turn to try cheering someone up.

“Look at it with new eyes,” Yerin suggested. “When you win, she won’t make it any further.”

Mercy let out a long, heavy breath and slumped down further in her chair. “Yeah, but I have to win,” she muttered. “That takes all the fun out of it.”

Well, I tried, Yerin thought.

The Ninecloud Soul introduced Yan Shoumei, and Yerin paid more attention to the projection. After all the dream tablets and recordings Yerin had seen of the Redmoon girl, she recognized the signs of nerves in her fixed expression and the way she let her hair hang over the sides of her face.

Yerin was particularly interested in this match because she had never actually seen Yan Shoumei use her Blood Shadow. She had only summoned it in the match against Blacksword. To Yerin, it seemed like the woman was on a standard blood Path.

And while Yerin knew that she hadn’t seen everything Shoumei was capable of, she suspected she hadn’t seen everything the other fighter had to offer either.

Yan Shoumei stood in the middle of a field full of obstacles that resembled ancient ruins. Dark stains spattered everything, and since the projection of these high-quality constructs even conveyed spiritual impressions, Yerin could sense that the stains gave off blood aura.

So the aura would allow Shoumei to use the full extent of her Path, but the obstacles would break sight and force both participants to rely on their spiritual senses.

Which would greatly favor Yan Shoumei’s opponent.

The Ninecloud Soul was wrapping up her introduction. “…and facing the prodigy of Redmoon Hall, we have a prodigy in his own right: the exile separated from his homeland and fighting for the glory of a new Monarch. Eithan Arelius!”

There came the faint sound of applause, though Yerin could only hear it because of the projection. The Monarch platform blocked all outside sound.

A stone door lifted, and out came…not Eithan.

Two Remnants, like chubby golden phoenixes, soared out of the waiting room. Rainbows streamed behind them, and they cried in a chorus that seemed like it couldn’t possibly come from any less than a hundred throats.

Eithan drifted out, floating not on a Thousand-Mile Cloud but on a platform of shimmering light generated from diamond shoes. His robes were five shades of gold, sewn with images of dragons and phoenixes and tigers in even more gold. The robes glowed, too.

He held an ivory pipe encrusted in jewels, and it must have been two entire feet long. When he held the pipe out to the side, the smoke drifting up from the bowl spelled out letters in the air.

“…do I want to know what that says?” Yerin asked.

“It’s his name,” the Winter Sage said icily.

Mercy choked down a laugh.

A gold-rimmed glass lens sat over one of Eithan’s eyes, and a crown of shining crystals hovered over his head. As he came to a stop, shimmering white wings of light spread from behind him.

It was the ugliest, most unnecessary thing Yerin had ever seen.

Northstrider stood with his arms crossed between both fighters, and while Yan Shoumei looked confused, the Monarch gave Eithan a sharp glare.

“I did not call for a clown,” he said.

“Really? I could have sworn I heard my name.” Eithan took a puff of the pipe and blew out the smoke, which formed the shape of a star in midair. “It’s an important occasion, so I thought I’d dress my best.”

Northstrider turned to Yan Shoumei. “Will this distract you?”

Shoumei was still examining Eithan the way she would a mysterious creature of unknown origin, but she shook her head.

“Very well,” the Monarch said. “Then…begin.”

He vanished, and so did the barrier separating them.

Eithan adjusted the lens over his eye. “I say, I hope you’re prepared for a real tussle. Yes, a knuckle-scraper. Put up your—”

Shoumei threw one Striker technique, a simple nest of bloody whips that struck Eithan in the chest.

Eithan didn’t defend himself at all. The madra tore through him, and Yerin knew what the technique would do. It was easy enough to block or avoid, but blood madra affected bodies directly; undefended, the Striker technique tore his heart in half.