With ghostwater speeding her reflexes, Sophara turned and caught Yerin’s blow on her own sword.
She went flying into the distant ceiling.
Yerin had already started her follow-up swing, so finding no opponent was a shock. A moment later, she shook herself out of it, using the Moonlight Bridge to follow.
As she fell, Sophara began to gather gold light into the image of a dragon over her head. Yerin felt dangerous power in that, so she sent a Rippling Sword at Sophara.
It crashed into Sophara’s Imperial Aegis and knocked the shield aside.
The second one cut Sophara in half.
Yerin found herself falling to the sand as Sophara turned to white light and dispersed.
Yerin blinked.
Northstrider reappeared before her. “A Herald’s spirit and body are one. You can use your power freely, and your own body can shift to spiritual or physical form. Like sacred instruments that can be stored in a soulspace.”
A black orb appeared on his shoulder, and her spirit shivered. She got the impression that it was scanning her.
“You will not be a true Herald until you advance to the peak of Archlord the traditional way, but you can think of yourself as being…more than any other Overlord.” He looked into the black orb as though checking something. “It’s fascinating. The Blood Sage will do anything to examine you. I would advise you not to let him.”
That was advice Yerin didn’t need.
But the fight wasn’t over. She gestured vaguely to the waiting room on the far side. “So they’re just going to let me beat on her two more times?”
“The Dragon King, as you can imagine, is less than satisfied by this turn of events. I have been hiding his anger from you.”
Yerin felt a wave of something pass from Northstrider, as though he tore down an invisible curtain, and then an overwhelming anger crashed like a wave around her. Anger…and helplessness.
“There is nothing he can do with the Abidan and six other Monarchs here.” Northstrider murmured. “Nothing to do with all his power, all his wealth.”
His smile was like the cracking of stone. “Poor little dragon.”
Tension held the atmosphere in stasis as enemies filled the air over the Sky’s Edge fortress.
Lindon had to withdraw his spiritual sense, as the pressure of so many hostile spirits was grating on him. His own nerves were bad enough.
[There’s no point in worrying,] Dross said. [How can worry help? Look at me! I’m not worried.]
Lindon didn’t respond.
Five seconds later, Dross continued. [It’s a strange human thing, worrying. There’s no point to it, like I said. What will happen if Yerin loses, anyway? I have so many scenarios. Some of them aren’t too bad!]
More than just dragons flew through the air. The sacred artists from the Dreadgod cults hovered above them too, ready to attack at news of Sophara’s victory.
Even Fury drifted over the fortress, hands tucked into his pockets. He didn’t look as lazy or as unconcerned as he had before, looking to each of the four Herald spirits around him as though he couldn’t wait to fight.
Four.
Lindon focused on his breathing, and he had to focus twice as hard when he saw a flickering violet star appear in front of Fury.
A messenger construct.
What did it say? Lindon asked Dross desperately, but Dross had already begun a dull response.
[Sophara’s won twice, and there’s a delay in the third fight.]
Lindon’s heart crashed.
[Maybe a delay is a good thing! Maybe she’s…advancing.]
A rousing cheer went up from every direction outside their forces. The enemy was spreading the news far and wide.
A few stray Striker techniques crashed here and there around the fortress, though the only ones likely to do any harm were annihilated by a casual flick of Fury’s hand.
But he didn’t retaliate.
Beneath him, under the roof of the fortress, Archlords had started to gather up the Golds in front of a tall, scripted stone.
This was their emergency escape: an evacuation portal. It connected to a network of permanent gates, but even so it was a huge expense to activate. Especially since it was meant to escape four hostile Heralds.
Mercy and Pride stood whispering frantically to one another near the portal, and Lindon could imagine from their gestures what they were arguing about.
Either Pride wanted them both to leave and Mercy wanted to stay until the others were evacuated, or they each wanted the other to leave.
He wanted to go weigh in his opinion—Mercy and Pride should both leave, given their relative importance to the Akura clan—but the Seishen Underlords were nearby. Meira stood in full armor, looking up the stairs, while Daji glared holes through Mercy and Pride.
At least he wasn’t angry at Lindon.
Lindon exchanged nods with Akura Grace as he walked further away. Talking with the Seishen Kingdom around would be too uncomfortable.
And he wanted to be close to Fury so he could get the battle report that little bit sooner.
When the violet spark appeared only a moment later, his throat clenched shut. The only reason for the fight to be so short was Sophara annihilating Yerin.
[Yerin won,] Dross repeated. [Yerin won! She…wow, we owe Yerin some congratulations.]
Overhead, Fury began to laugh.
Yerin started the second fight once again with no technique forming and her madra still.
Gold light began to condense over Sophara’s head.
She didn’t play around with Ruler techniques this time. She didn’t even start out with dragon’s breath.
The Dragon King’s Totem condensed into a crown of power over her head. A majestic golden serpent drifted over her, crafted from powerful madra, whipping up a sandstorm of Forged madra. The spirit of the Totem glared down on Yerin with majesty that pressed against her spirit…and given that her spirit was now interwoven with her flesh, it felt like it was pushing down on her body.
“Begin,” Northstrider said.
Yerin used the Final Sword.
Her sword shone mostly silver, but even this was tinged with red. A greater will battered at hers, trying to stop her technique, and sand tore her skin.
Yerin unleashed her technique, and red-white light blasted through the image of the golden dragon overhead.
It detonated, blasting out a hurricane of wind. The burning waterfalls from the ceiling sprayed outwards, and sparks of golden essence filled the sky like fireworks.
Sophara staggered back as her technique was broken, and Yerin appeared at her throat with the Moonlight Bridge.
A white blade lopped off the dragon’s head.
Reigan Shen turned to the Blood Sage.
“Ready yourself,” he said. “This tournament is over.”
Over the Sky’s Edge fortress, Akura Fury drifted higher into the air.
His voice boomed out over the valley, echoing across every inch between the giant white blade stabbed into the earth and the black stone hand clutching the bay. “What’s wrong, everybody? You don’t want to play anymore?”
Inside the fortress, a doorway ignited. Blue light swirled, and the Archlords started loading Golds into it.
A massive gold dragon slithered out of the clouds on the back of a sandstorm. “Don’t get excited, Fury,” she said. “We’re not letting you leave because we’re afraid of you.”
Fury laughed heartily.
“You’re letting me leave, you say?”
In the fifth and final fight of the last round of the Uncrowned King tournament, Sophara launched herself at Yerin, screaming.
Northstrider hadn’t even called the beginning of the fight yet, but he didn’t stop her. Quickriver was covered in orange flame, the Archlord Enforcer binding, and Sophara launched dragon’s breath from her left hand.