[Getting a little ahead of ourselves, aren’t we? Just kidding, I’ve already made plans.]
“Make it a shield,” Ziel said.
Lindon returned to the Soulforge with less direction than before. “All right, then we’re back to asking who can use the binding.”
[Don’t pretend you’re not excited,] Dross said.
Lindon was.
The Bow of the Silent King had never been made for him and didn’t suit him. It was made for Mercy to grow into, once she was ready.
Yerin’s madra wasn’t compatible with the Weeping Dragon’s, and of course the Bleeding Phoenix would make the perfect weapon for her. Ziel had refused this chance, and Orthos and Little Blue would have a difficult time establishing authority over the Weeping Dragon’s binding.
Which left Lindon himself.
Lindon opened his void key and summoned the weapon he had chosen from the Uncrowned King tournament years before.
Wavedancer flew out eagerly. Dross landed on its back and caressed the flat of the blade. [We never gave you the attention you deserved, did we?]
The flying sword had never been made with a binding. In exchange, it was solid and well-crafted. A strong, if unexciting weapon. Fury had recommended it to Lindon as something he could control well even as an Underlord, but that would serve him through Archlord.
Lindon had come a long way since then.
[Obviously, these materials will explode if you try to put the Weeping Dragon’s binding inside.] Lindon knew that, but Dross sent an illusion of a massive explosion anyway. [We’ll be borrowing its form, structure, and significance. And we’ll have more than enough excess materials.]
“I have an idea for that. Can you model it for me?”
Dross saw Lindon’s idea, and his purple eye lit up. [You see? Isn’t that way more fun than a hammer?]
21
Iteration 300: Vesper
Ozriel hated fighting at a disadvantage. Not that anyone liked it, but Ozriel was always the strongest being in any given world. He had rarely had occasion to practice fighting with a disadvantage.
Eithan, however, had some recent experience.
He dodged shots from Tal’gullour, bolts of gold that warped space as they streaked past him. At the same time, he turned strikes from the Mad King himself, but his black armor cracked a little more every time.
Even with his powers returned, Ozriel was not what he had been. For one thing, he was fighting with neither his Scythe nor his Presence. The Mantle of the Reaper allowed him to extend his authority farther, effectively granting him more power, but that was only enough to help him keep up.
More importantly, his time as Eithan had diminished him. He hadn’t forgotten anything, but he was not as sharp as he had once been. Not so singularly focused.
In mortal terms, he was rusty.
He would recover in only a matter of years, but he was hardly in the best condition to be fighting the Mad King while down two of his most powerful tools.
Fate was still cloudy in this sector, even to him, but he saw no way out of this. He doubted there was one, short of Suriel bringing back a miracle.
He was tempted to fall back on old instincts.
A seemingly casual sword-slash from the Mad King sliced through the void where Ozriel had once been. He slipped aside, leaving a star behind him to split in two and then detonate, but the old Ozriel wouldn’t have only dodged.
Once, he would have taken the chance to attack. If he died, he would take the enemy with him into death.
This time, he dodged.
Eithan fully expected to die here. But before he did, he would draw this out as long as he could. Maybe he could buy enough time for someone to save him.
Neither Eithan nor Ozriel liked waiting to be saved.
A seal from the fortress-world snared Ozriel, manifesting as a golden circle of runic script floating around his left ankle. It sealed his motion for just a moment before the Reaper dissolved it, but this time the sword-strike from the Mad King landed.
The slash had to crash through several Titan barriers before it reached Ozriel’s upraised arm, but it still stripped away his armor. Now his hand, from fingers to elbow, was unprotected.
That was how the fight proceeded.
One at a time, his limbs were laid bare. When he could no longer sacrifice those, he had to take hits to his chest until his breastplate cracked and peeled off.
Finally, the divine artifact protecting him dissolved and blew away into space like so much dust.
Ozriel drifted in the jumpsuit Abidan often wore beneath their armor. It had enough protections on it to qualify as legendary armor in its own right, but by the standards of this fight, it was practically ordinary cloth.
He was left with a conjured sword, his Mantle of billowing black flame, and his winning smile.
He had no doubt which of those the Mad King would target first.
“Go,” Ozriel commanded.
His Mantle detached from his back and twisted into the Way. This wasn’t likely to work, but maybe—
Daruman reached out a hand and pulled the squirming length of black fire from nowhere.
Then he tore the Mantle of Ozriel in half.
Ozriel felt the artifact’s destruction. He’d crafted it himself, and it was a very real symbol of his own power reflected in the Way. It was a part of him.
Now, he was less the Reaper than he had been a moment ago.
“We’ve had enough Reapers,” the Mad King said.
Ozriel felt hot rage and an urge to kill. But he channeled those into his most annoying Eithan smile. “Too late for that,” he said. Then he winked.
He had hoped that the Mad King would take the bait and ask questions, but no such luck. Oth’kimeth, the Conqueror, smelled conquest.
The Fiend peeled out from its host, regarding Ozriel with a burning gaze beneath its crown. Daruman’s eyes held no more pity.
He had been waiting for a chance like this for millennia.
In a way, so had Ozriel. Eventually, someone was going to get him. He had hoped to see Lindon and Yerin ascend, but there was always something to regret.
At least he was leaving something behind.
The Reaper folded his arms and faced death with a smile on his face.
Daruman gave him one nod of respect before bringing his sword down.
Ozriel dodged.
He slipped through space, reappearing a thousand miles away and calling back, “You didn’t expect me to stand there and take it, did you?”
If he’d still been in Eithan’s body instead of Ozriel’s, his heart would be hammering. That had been too close.
He had indeed intended to stand there and face death with a calm smile. But at the last second, he’d felt something approaching. And someone.
Suddenly he remembered all the things he had to live for and ran like a fox with its tail on fire.
The Mad King sensed the same thing he had, and the golden circles from Tal’gullour suddenly surrounded him like a cage. They weren’t just to trap him, though; they sealed up the entire world of Vesper.
A moment later, a black slash sliced the entire ceiling of the cage in half.
Ozriel’s heart leaped.
A blue rift formed into the Way, and a familiar figure popped out.
Zakariel the Fox glared at him. “How are you still alive? I lost a bet.”
Daruman slashed out at her. He didn’t hit her—she disappeared even faster than she’d appeared—but the attack was still wiped out by the Scythe in the hands of a white-clad Judge.
But not the Judge he’d expected.
Ozriel doubted his own eyes when he saw Makiel holding the Reaper’s Scythe. If he hadn’t recognized his own handiwork, he might have wondered if this was another fake.
Makiel said nothing on his arrival. He didn’t acknowledge Ozriel at all, though the Scythe squirmed in his grip out of desire to get back to its creator.
The Hound slashed down, and a significant chunk of the universe behind the Mad King vanished.
Not the Mad King himself, of course. Gold circles appeared from Tal’gullour, and—anchored by the fortress—Daruman weathered the attack.