Blake sprang backward, sliding on his heels as the two cultivators charged in. They didn’t know what he was capable of, so he had that one advantage.

  He ducked under a sword swipe and gripped the haft of Cag’s hammer before it could hit him. He Augmented his arm to give him the strength to resist such a blow—these two mana cultivators couldn’t have had Augmentation techniques of their own yet.

  Honour flowed freely through him. It was mostly the nature of his disagreement with Svarikson that caused it, but these thugs had no business fighting him.

  Sure enough, he stopped the strike. Then he clenched his grip tighter and harder, and the wooden haft of the hammer splintered. It felt good, and the rush of power was almost addictive. Cag’s eyes widened, and Blake kept clenching his fingers tighter. With a puff of sawdust, then haft shattered, and the hammer’s head fell off.

  “Woah,” Ley and Cag both whispered. Blake echoed their mystified expressions.

  Then Ley thrust her sword at his gut.

  Blake pushed Cag away and spun to the side, just fast enough to dodge the blade’s whistling tip, but not fast enough to stop it from leaving a thin slice on his shirt.

  He batted the blade down with his staff, then, when the sword was touching the ground, he conducted an aftershock of the Black Palm through the staff. The blade shattered with a pulse of force, but no one would’ve seen what caused it.

  Both of Svarikson’s thugs now stood empty-handed in the street, staring at Blake.

  He just shrugged. “This is your last chance. Get out of here and tell your master to leave me alone.”

  “We can’t do that,” Cag said, face twisting into a scowl. He tightened his fists and rushed forward, throwing a heavy punch at Blake’s face. Blake leaned back, then slammed his staff into the man’s knuckles, breaking them. Cag shouted in pain.

  Ley attacked a fraction of a second later, but Blake whirled the bottom of his staff around like Wind-Eyes had taught him and struck her in the gut. He used another of his aftershocks, and she fell onto her back, gasping for breath.

  With his other hand, Cag reached for Blake’s neck. A pulse of fire formed on his fingertips, like he’d used in Blake’s apartment. He was going for a killing blow.

  Blake snapped the tip of his staff up, reading the situation, and aiming exactly where he intended to—a by-product of Wind-Eyes’ extensive accuracy training. The staff connected with Cag’s neck with a boom, and Blake used a third aftershock.

  The cultivator ragdolled across the street and crashed into a pillar out front a building. His head hung at an awkward angle, and blood dribbled down his chin. Blake winced, but Ley was already back up, and she was preparing a technique of her own.

  A Smite technique, apparently. Wind rushed around her arm, making her sleeve flutter, and leaves and debris swirled beneath her feet.

  Blake didn’t want to know what that’d do when it hit him, and he didn’t want to find out. He sprinted forward, closing the distance between them, and swung for her neck as well. She jumped out of immediate range.

  He couldn’t let this go on much longer, or someone else was going to come and interfere. They’d probably side against him. Instead of letting her escape, he planted the tip of his staff down, then used it to launch himself forward and give himself leverage. He planted an Augmented kick right in the center of her chest. She wasn’t fast enough to escape, nor strong enough to withstand the blow.

  Ribs and bone cracked, and she coughed, falling backward. She fell to her hands and knees, then coughed out a mouthful of blood. The wind technique sputtered out, then a moment later, she fell face-first to the ground. Unmoving.

  Blake glanced between both the thugs’ bodies. There were a few witnesses, but this hadn’t been his fault. It didn’t mean he couldn’t get in trouble for it. He had to get back to the sect—they’d have more privileges. He backed away from the street, trying to get to the main thoroughfare, when he bumped into an unmoving body.

  He whirled around to find Sclera standing behind him, arms crossed.

  “Oh, uh, sorry, ma’am—”

  “Senior Sister.”

  “Yeah, that. It wasn’t my fault, they—”

  “I saw what happened.”

  Blake narrowed his eyes and stomped a foot down. “Actually, you know what, why didn't you see them coming? I mean, seriously, you’re the one with all the fancy senses here, but you couldn’t even give me a warning? And like, you’re just going to let me fight them, no intervention whatsoever?”

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  “I sensed them. I did and said nothing.” She barely moved, and didn’t seem at all ashamed by what she’d just said. “The Junior Brother must learn.”

  “But—” Blake tucked his staff back into his backpack and let out a breath stuck in his throat. “Would you have just let me die?”

  “They were not the sect’s enemies. They were yours, outcast. Ulfreld may have helped, but I am not him. I would not have interfered, no matter the outcome.”

  “Some senior sister you are…” Blake muttered. “Come on, let’s get back to our stall then and finish setting up.”

  “Agreed,” Sclera said.

  “Actually…” Blake stopped mid-step. “Should we clean up the bodies? Did they actually die?”

  “Yes, they are dead. No, we will not clean up. The city will clean up for us. They are used to this.”

  Blake rubbed his shoulder and looked down at his hand. He’d only taken one hit in the whole fight, and that was when they dragged him over the counter. And of course, dragged him behind the wagon. His lower back was covered in scrapes and mud. His hand? Splinters of wood poked out of it at awkward angles. That was from crushing Cag’s hammer’s haft with his bare hand.

  It had felt good in the heat of the moment, but he was going to have a fun time trying to get all the splinters out.

  He never got a chance to tend to any of his minor injuries. As soon as they returned to the market stall, they continued setting up, mild discomfort be damned. And truly, compared to all the other pains he’d gone through these past few weeks, this was truly mild.

  When they finished emptying the storage rings and laying out the furs and other loot, the town square was packed with people, and two other Hunters exited the inn to relieve Blake and Sclera. One of them told Blake, “Elder Ulfeld wishes to speak with you, Junior Brother.”

  “Right…” Blake muttered. “Thanks, I’ll go see him.”

  He returned to the inn, then navigated up to Ulfreld’s suite. The elder had a room to himself, and though it wasn’t nearly as spacious as the inner quarters of the Hunters’ Pavilion, it was still nicer than any place Blake had lived recently. A guard let him in, then said, “The Elder is out on the balcony.”

  Blake nodded, then stepped into the room. It had its own balcony at the end overlooking the town square, where Ulfreld leaned on the tacked-on railing. The balcony hadn’t been part of the original building, but it seemed that even cultivators enjoyed a good view.

  “I hear you were attacked, Junior Brother,” Ulfreld said.

  “The Green Bears did it, yeah.”

  “Oh? They did?”

  “Well…they’re thugs working for Svarikson. Who’s a Green Bear. Or…affiliated with them.”

  Ulfreld shook his head. “There’s enough separation there. If I was a more influential member of the sect, I might be able to find some insult in it and seek revenge, but as it stands, you were attacked by two thugs, and that is all.”

  “I killed them…” Blake muttered. He chewed the inside of his lip. It wasn’t the first time he’d killed someone now, and he was pretty sure his hands were trembling from adrenaline, not sorrow. He’d given the cultivators plenty of chances.

  “Good,” Ulfreld said. “It would have been unwise to leave them alive, Junior Brother.”

  “Yeah…”

  He turned and put a hand on Blake’s shoulder. “And it was good that you were able to take on two thugs at the same stage as you and win. It means you are stronger than the average cultivator at Tempering one.”

  Blake had better be stronger, considering he’d gone through two extra stages to get here.

  “But you seem…jarred,” Ulfreld continued.

  “They’re not just going to stop at that,” Blake said. “They’re going to keep pushing until they kill me.”

  “Correct,” Ulfreld said. “And there is a high chance they will succeed. Most cultivators find themselves in a situation like this in their life. Our way of life practically guarantees it—the powerful must stamp out upstarts before they can get anywhere. If you’re not making a chain of enemies, you’re not making progress.”

  Blake grimaced and shook his head. “Is that what happened to you, Elder?”

  “Yes.” Ulfreld looked out into the distance.

  “But you seem fine.”

  “I do? Thank you.” He dipped his head. “Blake, most cultivators fail, some way or another. Even if we don’t die, we lose what’s important to us.”

  “Ah.”

  “Though, from the looks of it, you’re certainly at risk of death. They won’t punish you by cancelling your marriage to the love of your life and sending you out into the wilds with no hope of ever advancing beyond Core Formation.”

  Blake winced. That was an oddly specific example. “Yeah…”

  “How is your progress on Tempering?”

  “In all honesty, sir, I don’t know enough.”

  “Then I will advance the timeline.” Elder Ulfreld turned around and entered the inn’s room again, then picked up a storage ring and withdrew a book into the palm of his hand. “A guide on Body Tempering. I planned to have you read this when you get back, but I do not want to see you die during the Trade. That would be such a waste.” He held the book out to Blake.

  “Thank you, sir—I mean, Elder.” Blake took the book with a bow of his head.

  “Besides, I hear that the Green Bears’ new pupil has advanced to Tempering stage two as well. You have some catching up to do.”

  “The Green Bears’ new disciple?” Blake asked with a tilt of his head.

  “They have brought a promising new disciple of their own, yes. A daughter of one of the sect’s retired assassins, by the sounds of it. She has a good pedigree, but is young and only beginning her rise.” Ulfreld glanced back out the window to the plaza, where, in the center, four wooden stages had been built around the statue of the Steerman. They had no railings.

  Combat rings.

  “It is a ten-year tradition for the sects of Shell to pit their most promising disciples against each other in friendly matches during the provincial Trades. It is to see how we stack up. Up until you arrived, the most promising was to be Konuth—he didn’t know, of course—but you displaced him handily.”

  “Do I have a choice on if I participate?” Blake asked.

  “Not particularly.”

  “Then I’ll be ready, sir.”