She’d only been able to win so quickly because the Winter Sage had scanned Calan Archer, sensing that he had a spatial transfer artifact and predicting that he’d use it to move behind Yerin.
It wasn’t one of his prizes from the tournament, and he hadn’t used it in previous rounds. It must have been a gift from Reigan Shen.
As soon as Yerin had sensed strange madra gathering behind her, she’d spun and struck without holding back.
It had still been close. If she’d been half a second too late and he had shoved one of those dragons into her back, she would have been the one melting into white light.
“It’s only natural that you can’t hold on to a Sage’s mentality,” the Winter Sage said. “You’re only an Underlady.”
“What good is a sword I can’t grip too hard?” It was disorienting to get shaken out of a state of concentration in every fight. Eventually, that was going to cost her.
“Using it to any degree of consistency at your level is nothing short of extraordinary. When you reach Archlord, you will be Adama’s true successor.”
Mercy gave Yerin a look of exaggerated confusion. “What’s to complain about? You won. You won!”
“Now let’s go do it again,” Yerin said. She wore her usual attitude like a mask, but her heart was tight.
She was so close to achieving her master’s dream. To prizes beyond her imagination. Every step forward meant there were fewer people in the world who could threaten her.
But she was close to defeat, too.
And she didn’t feel any closer to becoming a Sage.
Lindon believed she could win, so did Mercy, so did Min Shuei, and she still might let them down. One of the enemy Monarchs could end up with a weapon of heavenly death.
And it all came down to her, right now.
“Not a worry in the world,” she muttered.
A door popped open to the waiting room. Not the exit; the entrance.
Lindon stumbled in.
It looked like he’d been leaning on the door and hadn’t expected to get it open. Constructs hung from the wall like a deer half-gutted, and the sealing scripts on the door had been scratched up. His Archlord flying sword hung over his shoulder; he must have used that.
To break in and see her.
Yerin’s spirits lifted, and she had to hold back laughter as the Ninecloud Soul manifested as a beam of rainbow light. “Contestant Lindon, you cannot keep doing this. We thought the increased security this time would teach you a lesson.”
Lindon pressed his fists together. “I did learn quite a bit. Gratitude.”
Yerin’s laughter escaped, and Mercy joined her. The Winter Sage’s face paled.
“Next time, you will be charged for the cost of repairs and punished according to Ninecloud City law,” the Ninecloud Soul insisted.
Lindon inclined his head as though he understood, but immediately afterward he turned to Yerin. “They told me I couldn’t come see you.”
“Are you insane?” The Sage demanded. “What if you distract her? Yerin, look, focus on me! Don’t lose the trance!”
She tried to grab both sides of Yerin’s face, but Yerin pushed her away.
Lindon looked horrified that he might have ruined her chances.
“She sounds the horns at every breeze,” Yerin assured him. “This is where you should be.”
There were tears in the Winter Sage’s eyes, and Yerin couldn’t tell if the woman was hurt or worried. Or proud. Yerin found no point in trying to figure out the source of the Sage’s tears.
But then the exit door began to slide open, and Yerin really did need to re-focus herself. She spun around, gripped her sword, and took several calming breaths to keep her madra moving easily.
She extended her senses into the aura gathering around her blade, finding that it helped her focus. The aura wanted to move in a certain way, and she had to quiet herself to hear it.
“This can be it,” the Winter Sage whispered. “Let the Icon show through you.”
Yerin’s delicate focus wobbled. Wasn’t she the one telling everybody to leave Yerin alone? Now why was she whispering in Yerin’s ear?
The battlefield was a clash of sword and storm aura, with thunder rolling overhead. Yerin felt like she heard something as she passed the sword blades rising from the ground, like the distant ring of metal.
She kept her eyes closed, using only her perception to guide her to stand opposite Calan.
Northstrider asked if they were both ready, but he would know when she was prepared. She sensed inside herself—the orderly flow of sword madra, the dormant Blood Shadow lurking inside, the flow of power between herself and her master’s blade—and she extended that perception outward.
Thoughts tried to crowd in: what if she couldn’t touch the Sword Icon? What if she lost the fight? Everyone was counting on her.
She pushed them all aside and stretched out her perception. She stopped watching herself, sensing everything else. It felt as though she’d moved herself from her body; she couldn’t even tell if her madra was cycling correctly.
It was hard to escape her panic. This went against her every instinct, but she stretched out to the world around her as she had when she was advancing to Underlord.
The barrier holding her apart from Calan dropped, and storm madra gathered around him. She fought against all her training and experience, waiting until that silent music moved her.
A Striker technique blasted toward her, and it took all her willpower to stay still.
Someone’s sword madra sliced it apart.
Did I make it?
Maybe this was what it felt like to succeed in manifesting the Sword Icon: like she was feeling someone else fight instead of herself.
The moment she had the thought, she knew it wasn’t true. That sword madra had a source.
And it radiated the power of blood.
Her concentration vanished, and she opened her eyes and drew her sword at the same time.
The Blood Shadow dashed after Calan Archer. The big, sandy-haired man jumped and landed on a Thousand-Mile Cloud, which he used to speed away, but the spirit raised a black blade and used the Endless Sword.
Aura erupted from each of his seven bladed rings. They weren’t knocked back as effectively as if Yerin had deflected them—the Blood Shadow still had to dodge two. But she managed to put a cut on Calan’s forearm.
The Shadow’s smile gleamed white. She looked more and more like Yerin, except for her ruby eyes and bright red hair. Her teeth had once looked like she’d chugged a tall glass of red paint, but now Yerin couldn’t tell the difference between the spirit’s smile and any human’s.
Her skin was still tinged pink, and she let out wild laughter that never could have come from Yerin.
The Blood Shadow was trying to cheat her out of a chance to advance like a Sage.
Furious, Yerin pulled on her connection to the Shadow. The spirit stumbled, red robes waving in the air like actual cloth, and from its knees it turned and gave her a scarlet glare.
Then it pulled right back.
Yerin stumbled this time, her madra faltering in its cycle as the Shadow regained control and continued pursuing Calan. Rain began to fall as his Ruler technique spread a storm over her.
For a moment, she was frozen in indecision. Should she stay and try to recapture the feeling of the Sword Icon, or should she join the fight and push to win however she could?
The Blood Shadow traded blows with Calan, leaping off one of his jade circles and tossing a red-tinged Rippling Sword at him. A thin line of blue-gold light lanced down from the clouds; Calan’s second Striker technique. It drilled a hole through the spirit’s hand, and though it growled in pain, the power of blood madra stretched out and flesh knitted back together.
The Shadow was keeping his attention, and though Yerin hated to waste the opportunity to sense the Sword Icon, there were lives at stake.
She had to fight.