“This is a Heart’s Gem,” the Blood Sage said, “the ultimate source of blood aura. As Heaven’s Torch is the pinnacle of fire aura and Titan’s Bone is of earth, this is the greatest natural treasure of its type in the world. Furthermore, it is condensed from the blood of the Redmoon Herald, who was once my own Blood Shadow.”

Yerin’s Shadow stirred at the feeling of the aura in the air, and it began pulling power to itself without Yerin’s intervention.

She let it happen. Even Yerin knew the value of this gift, and she was surprised to see it come from Reigan Shen. Or from Yan Shoumei’s master.

“You’re giving this to me out of the sweetness in your soul, then,” Yerin said dryly. “So I can use it to beat your apprentice like a rented drum.”

Red Faith loomed over her so suddenly that her hand shot to her sword.

Another white blade was already pointed at his neck, and dream aura danced around his head, but he hadn’t even touched his madra. He leaned down close to her, eyes wide.

“What is this tournament? What are the lives and deaths of Monarchs? In my youth, I devised a method to fuse with my Blood Shadow instead of my own Remnant to grant me the power of a Herald. When I became a Sage, as I knew I would, I could then ascend to Monarch as easily as slipping on a new robe.”

His face contorted like it was being pulled in three different directions. “But the treachery and selfishness of my Shadow knew no bounds. It fled from me until it had become a Herald in its own right, so we could no longer become one.

“Hear me, girl: feed your Shadow, but do not trust it. Use this aura for its nourishment that it may become a potent weapon, but your will must remain dominant. And do not fuse with it until you become a Sage. Your will is not developed enough, so the blending will result in an imperfect fusion when your Shadow fights you.”

He stuck a finger in her face, and this time Yerin couldn’t resist. She shoved it away from herself.

Not that it stopped him from speaking. “No one else other than myself has reached your stage. They were devoured by their Shadows because their wills were weak, or they lacked the insight to become a Sage, or they fell in battle, or they succumbed to their own lack of discipline or talent. It is your duty to complete this process. Prove to the world that it can be done, and usher in a new generation of Monarchs born from the Bleeding Phoenix.”

A crazed fervor had grown in his eyes, and Yerin had finally had enough.

She snatched the cylinder from his hands. “Your duty can go die and rot. The first chance I get to send my Shadow out on its own, I’m jumping right on it.”

“No…” the Blood Sage whispered, “…you won’t. The lure of power is too much for you, as it is for all of great ambition. You will soon manifest the Sword Icon, perhaps before Archlord, and you will know that your genius has given you a unique opportunity. You have a path to Monarch that none others have achieved, and you will give in to—”

“Do people dress up like you to scare children?” Yerin interrupted.

His face twitched.

“You look like you sleep under someone else’s bed. Do mirrors break when you walk by? I figured why your Shadow left: it couldn’t stand looking at its own face every day.”

She lifted up the cylinder. “Thanks for the jar. Now take a step back, then keep doing that until you freeze to death in the snow. Or else have mercy and cut my ears off so I don’t have to listen to you talk.”

Yerin knew it was dangerous to provoke a Sage, but she had two of her own for protection.

And she hadn’t been able to stop herself. Every word from his mouth made her sick.

The Winter Sage shoved him back from Yerin with a smug look. “You heard her. You’ve delivered the prize, now get out of my home.”

He didn’t look as furious as Yerin had thought he would. He didn’t try to strike her down or swear revenge. His face rippled again, like a puppeteer was pulling at his cheeks and couldn’t figure out how to make a human expression, and Yerin sensed nothing in his spirit but dead calm.

Then he turned and walked out the door. A moment later, he vanished.

“That was unwise,” Charity said, picking up her cup of tea and taking a sip. “And not nearly as harsh as he deserved. Before we begin your training, let me help you work on some better insults for next time.”

19

Sophara held a ball of Forged madra in her palm. It would have been hard for an observer to notice, but the madra trembled ever so slightly.

Now that she had reached Overlord, her spiritual imbalance was becoming more obvious by the day.

It wouldn’t slow her in combat, but she could tell. Souls didn’t age quite like bodies did, but her channels were starting to feel…worn. Old. As the Symbiote Veins wrung them out, they could only take so much more abuse.

She would last through the end of the tournament, but then she would begin falling apart. After that, she might only live…ten more years? It was hard to say.

She ran a hand over Ekeri’s Remnant to drive off her fear, as the glowing dragon-spirit nuzzled her side. This tournament was all she needed.

If she won, the Monarchs could fix her spirit.

And by winning, she would be humiliating her enemies. Those who sought to humiliate her.

As her rage burned, she looked over her prizes.

Reigan Shen had given her a doll, seemingly made of clay, that made it easier to shift forms. It resembled a dragon when she was in human form and a human when she wore her dragon body. He appreciated how difficult it was to shift as an Overlord, and he knew that she had already received all the combat gifts she could handle. It was her favorite prize.

The Arelius family, poor and hostile to her cause as they were, had admittedly given her a pleasant gift as well. The Dawn Sky Palace was a tiny pocket world—smaller than some void keys—containing only an opulent home. It had once belonged to Tiberian Arelius’ wife, and it was gorgeous.

She lounged in it now, and they had even redecorated for her, lining all the furniture in gold and planting trees that shone with a golden light. She would have to think of a gift to send them as thanks.

The Eight-Man Empire had given her a Tear of the Deep, the highest grade natural treasure that produced water aura, though it would be useless to her without the fire equivalent. Her Monarch should be able to track down a Heaven’s Torch, so that was useful enough.

It was the gifts from her two enemies that grated on her.

Northstrider had given her a thumb-sized bottle containing a drop of luminous white liquid, and she had been shocked when she opened it. He must have sensed her mind-enhancing elixir and sent her another dose.

Then she’d read the note accompanying it. “This is called ghostwater. It is the prize your sister failed to win.”

If it hadn’t been such a powerful weapon, she would have shattered the bottle against the wall.

Not only was he mocking her, but the mental elixir she had relied on to make it so far had been a product of Northstrider’s.

If she had known that this “ghostwater” came from Northstrider, she would never have taken it.

Her King would say that pleasure could be found in taking the enemy’s weapon and turning it against him, but she could only see the shame that she’d needed help from their great enemy to succeed.