The fog peeled away, parting in waves before Blake. As he ran toward the sound, he lost sight of Prince Arald, but he didn’t really care. The Monarch was more important. He wasn’t going to let others die for him.

  He came to a halt at the top of a dirt mound, looking down over the Sceat Bowl. It was a crater perhaps a mile across, with sloping edges leading to a shallow pool at the center. There were no trees, and it was almost entirely barren save for the monster at the center. There was no sign of any Lightstalkers.

  The Monarch.

  Blake shouldn’t have been able to see it. The fog was too thick. But every time it craned back its reptilian head and screeched, it created a shockwave, parting the mist in rolling waves. It stood on two thick hind legs, bent at the knee and bent back at the ankle like a horse. Patchy, mangy fur ran up its legs, and black scales pierced through.

  Ropy muscles covered its body, giving its arched back and body immense volume, and every time it swung its arms, which were more scale than fur, it moved in a flash. If Blake hadn’t enhanced his senses as much as he had, he wouldn’t have been able to see the movement at all. Just a swish, then death.

  Instead of just claws, it held a heavy cudgel made from a tree and wedges of stone. Dark orange flame crackled on the edge—darker than flame should have been, and it left a trail of sparks wherever it swung.

  Its head flicked side to side. It had the shape of a horse’s muzzle mixed with a lizard, but slightly flatter, and with three eyes on each side in a line of glowing orange pinpricks. Two horns poked out from its head. They curled over in a sickle shape, and they would’ve formed a complete circle had one not been significantly larger than the other.

  “That’s…pretty much entirely a fiend,” Blake muttered. Its head had more scale than fur now, too, and with the way its eyes glowed…

  It has been evolving over the past few months, Ethbin replied. The Dark Surge has infected it entirely.

  “How strong is it? Can you tell, now that we’re closer?”

  The peak of Core Formation. But something is off about it. Internally, it has not changed, and it has not finished forming its core entirely. Somehow, the strength coming off it feels higher than Core Formation.

  “Do you think I can kill it?”

  Not alone. Not even you could punch up that high. And neither could the prince—not on his own.

  Blake gulped. The Monarch bounded forward, swinging its cudgel, and Blake picked out three hunters.

  They had already engaged. That was what the screeching was all about.

  Engaged? No, the Monarch had attacked them.

  A few arrows stuck out the beast’s back, and a Smite technique flashed, but it all seemed to glance off the scales harmlessly.

  Blake squinted, looking for Ulfreld, then picked the man out in the distance. The Elder darted behind the Monarch with a squad of hunters, launching his flying swords at the beast’s back. Each edge glinted with enhanced force and mana and whatever it was that sword cultivators did, but it only left a light scoring on the monster’s scales.

  Then the Monarch slammed its cudgel down, crushing a hunter with a single blow and incinerating his guts. It swept the weapon to the side, creating a tidal wave of mud that swept another hunter off her feet, then cleaved her in half with a heavy downward swipe.

  The Hunters weren’t going to last long.

  Then Blake narrowed his eyebrows. He was about to rush in, to do whatever he could to sway the fight. But there was a faint ringing in his left ear, a faint physical screech, like a kettle boiling, but with a static crackle. It was coming from a bush nearby.

  He rushed over to the bush and ripped away some of the foliage, finding a small stake of wood embedded in the ground. A parchment flag had been attached into it, painted with glowing runes.

  That was where the noise was coming from.

  “What’s that?” Blake asked.

  A talisman flag, Ethbin replied, disgust in his voice. It’s agitating the Monarch and temporarily enhancing its echo. Making it stronger than it should be.

  Without hesitation, Blake ripped up the flag, cracked the stake, then tore the page into shreds. The ringing stopped.

  That won’t be the only one, Ethbin said. Someone put those here.

  Scowling, Blake sprinted around the edge of the crater. It had been a trap, he just didn’t understand why. The Green Bears had to have set up the talismans, right?

  Blake reached another patch of bushes, and sure enough, there was another static-y screech coming from it. He sifted through it, moving as fast as he could, until he grew frustrated and struck it with a pulse of black lightning. The bush burst apart, scattering leaves and twigs everywhere.

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  He must’ve destroyed the talisman, too, because shreds of paper floated in the air like confetti.

  He continued running, sprinting along the ridge and destroying talismans as quickly as he could, until, just behind one talisman, he found a hatch into the ground. Mud and twigs covered the wooden panel, but he swept them away, revealing lines of runes.

  Concealment runes. Hiding the spiritual pressure of whatever is inside, Ethbin said. And making them immune to the senses of other cultivators.

  Glaring, Blake searched for a handle or something he could use to open it, but he didn’t have to search long. Someone threw the hatch open from the inside, nearly sending him tumbling off to the side. A head poked out, and a Green Bear wearing ornate leather armour emerged. She was an average Body Tempering cultivator, and the moment her eyes settled on Blake, she attacked.

  She hoisted a spear, jabbing at Blake’s chin. Without thinking, Blake leaned back. The spearhead glinted past, glancing off his hardened skin, and he retaliated with a swipe of his staff, bringing around the bottom to strike the woman’s head and channel an aftershock through the staff.

  The woman smashed into the side of the hatchway faster than an arrow and slumped down, dead on the spot.

  Blake jumped down. He didn’t have time to figure this out. The longer it took, the more hunters died. The closer they got to letting whatever plan the Green Bears had succeed.

  Blake found himself surrounded by three Body Tempering cultivators and one Foundation cultivator, all from the Green Bear sect. They stood in a small dugout, with a mud floor and a thin slit in the wall to look into the crater and watch the fight. A glowing lantern lit the room, and a few supply barrels lined the far wall. They’d been hiding out here for a while.

  All of the cultivators brandished swords and axes, and they charged. Rolling, Blake used his training. It was like telling his body to walk. He knew where to swing, where to strike his opponents, and his body knew exactly how to block and where to move his staff. Everything Wind-Eyes had drilled into him came back, and Blake added his own flair.

  He had access to the Serpent’s Cloak. Using the Cloud Body half, he jumped, then lashed out with a ‘Lightning Fists’ enhanced kick, cracking a man’s skull. He struck another with a bolt of black lightning, channelled through his staff. A bolt snaked up from the ground, arcing up the man’s leg. Ice filled his body, and the shock stopped his heart. The pure force probably killed him before the cold Vir energies did.

  With a swipe of his staff, Blake shattered the brittle man.

  He attacked and defended himself and countered until he was the only one standing. Two cultivators had completely shattered, one was dead, his skull caved in, the last…was still alive. He’d fallen to his back, moaning, holding his arm and bleeding from a gash on his forehead.

  He scrambled back, trying to push himself away from Blake, eyes wide. He gasped, choking, and tried to speak.

  Blake blinked. “You. You’re the guy from Mergewatch. The one who told me about Mingel.” The sensible one.

  Blake darted over and grabbed the man by the collar of his armour, then pinned him up to the wall with a thud.

  The man gasped, blinking. He was losing consciousness fast.

  “Tell me what you’re doing here,” Blake said. “What’s going on?”

  “We—we have our orders! If we don’t, Silverbeard will kill us!”

  “If you don’t tell me what you’re doing,” Blake said, “I’ll kill you.” He threw the man across the room, smashing him through a barrel and sending hard ration biscuits rolling across the floor.

  Careful, Ethbin warned. Don’t succumb to anger. They still need you.

  “Why? Why agitate the Monarch?” Blake demanded.

  “It needs to kill Prince Arald…”

  “What?”

  The man scrambled back up to a sitting position. “The Hunters needed to attack it first. We lured it away from the prince and toward the Hunters, toward the Sceat Bowl—where we knew the Hunters would be.”

  “What about the Lightstalkers?”

  “There were no Lightstalkers! Only a Monarch.” The man coughed. “We agitated it and enhanced it—those talismans are fuelled with Heron Silverbeard’s mana directly, nothing else would be strong enough. And it would look like the hunters tried to steal the prince’s prize, but more importantly, it would kill him. The hunters would look responsible for the Prince’s death. It would give Silverbeard free reign to exact the King’s justice and wipe out the hunters entirely. In—including you!”

  “Me?”

  “The longer he gives you to prepare, the higher the chances that you defeat him. He’s heard the stories about you. Your growing legend. He has spies everywhere.”

  Blake winced. Of course Silverbeard would want a better excuse than just ‘they stole the Prince’s prize.’ It was too petty. Silverbeard wasn’t stupid enough to know how his pettiness looked, to know that the Path Paladins and the crowd would favour Blake. To know that there was a prince out there who could overrule him.

  So the prince had to die. And it had to look like the Hunters’ fault.

  If Blake could defeat the Monarch and keep the prince alive…? Would it foil Silverbeard’s plan?

  Silverbeard would still have his excuse, sure. The Hunters stole the prince’s prize. Hell, even the Hunters trying to kill the Monarch would be enough to condemn the sect, wouldn’t it?

  It didn’t make sense. There were so many layers, so much twisting, so much justification for everything. So many people who had to turn away from the truth. It was just stupid. But it was probably going to work, because the Green Bears were the ones with power. Silverbeard was the special son, who’d get his way no matter what.

  The prince was the only variable. The only wild card who could throw a wrench in the plan. If the Prince lived, Blake stood a chance, no matter how slim. Prince Arald was the only one who could overrule Silverbeard.

  Blake didn’t know who the prince would side with. The Green Bears or the Hunters. But seemingly, neither did Heron—which was why he wanted them all dead. So he could make up whatever story he wanted.

  So the only slim chance of getting out of this trap was by keeping Prince Arald alive.

  Blake tightened his fists, then turned back to the surviving Green Bear. “How many talismans are there?”

  “...Twenty.”

  “Then I destroyed most of them.” Blake turned away, running back to the hatch. “Your sect is not going to get away with this.”

  He jumped outside, then, as the cultivator fell unconscious, he slammed the hatch shut again.

  He found the rest of the talismans in a circle around the crater and destroyed them with as much rage as he could muster. Then he turned to the Monarch and rushed down the slopes of the crater.