Blake sprinted down the slope, holding his staff out to the side, using the Serpent’s Cloak to enhance every step he took and shoot himself forward faster and harder.

  When he was only a few leaps away from the Monarch, the mist beside him parted, and a howler leapt out, its fangs barred, ready to snap his head off in a single bite. He didn’t know how strong it was, but it couldn’t have been too powerful, and its eyes glowed orange.

  Blake ducked under its snapping jaws then bashed the side of its head, sending it sprawling to the side and tumbling to the dirt. There was a crack, bones crunched, and it fell still.

  “What was that?” Blake exclaimed.

  Like I said, it can control other lesser monsters, Ethbin replied. The other hunters have cleared out most of them, but there will be some stragglers.

  “Noted.”

  Blake glanced around. There were a few other hunters left, maybe ten in total, surrounding the Monarch. A pair of howlers feasted on a man’s body, and another group scrambled back into the mists, but Blake couldn’t pick them all out.

  Then the Monarch turned toward him, its six glowing eyes all boring into his chest. It had sensed him right away.

  Blake was expecting it to attack, but it didn’t. Up close, it was nearly five times his height. It wasn’t that much larger than the spikers, not like he was expecting, but it was certainly more powerful.

  Although he couldn’t sense the spiritual weight of other cultivators well, the weight of the Monarch weighed down on him. A chill ran through his spine, and all his hairs stood on end.

  And then a headache began, and he realized what he was up against. It was trying to crush him with its killing intent. It thought he was a monster to be controlled, not an opponent to slay.

  Something wormed into his mind. It wasn’t a voice, it wasn’t even conscious. But it was an external will, applying killing intent and other pressures, twisting his fears. He regarded it with detachment.

  His limbs trembled. Images flashed through his mind too quickly to pick up. A vision of his body as a fiend’s, mostly corrupted, mostly covered in scales, eyes doubled on the sides of his head. Then a different image altogether, one of him kneeling before the Nords cultivators, serving them.

  War. Nord cultivators charged into a flurry of other fighters. He’d never seen a proper Cohong cultivator, and he wasn’t sure if he ever would, but the image in his mind had to be one. They wielded curved blades and wore ornate armour.

  Oily black clouds floated overhead in his visions, dripping, and dark storms overtook everything.

  Too late did Blake realize that Ethbin was screaming inside his mind.

  The headache had gotten worse. Blake’s nose was bleeding, and he was backing away from the fight, almost obeying the Monarch through its killing intent.

  Was he really going to let the Green Bears have their way?

  More importantly, was he really going to let a fiend have its way with his mind?

  He focussed his own killing intent and shot it forward in a wedge, splitting apart the Monarch’s weight and pressure, giving his mind room to breathe. He wasn’t going to let this beast get the best of him.

  He had to show it he wasn’t on its side. He wasn’t even an object to be dominated. Just something to fight against.

  Charging forward, he launched himself up, aiming at its eye, then channelled a Black Palm into its chin. Dark lightning snaked up from the ground, surging into the beast’s chin. Its head snapped back, and it staggered away as if it had tried to pet a dog—but the dog bit its hand. An icy frost pattern grew on the monster’s chin, but shattered after a few seconds.

  Blake landed in a crouch, throwing off the monster’s killing intent and pushing out with his own.

  “You’re dead,” he snarled.

  There’s the spirit, Ethbin replied. I was getting worried, there.

  “Worried? Ah, I was fine…”

  Let’s not get distracted.

  Blake held his staff out, pointing it at the temporarily stunned Monarch, then stepped back a few paces.

  “Junior Brother!” Ulfreld shouted, sprinting out of the mists. “What are you doing here?”

  Blake laughed. “You didn’t really think I’d stay behind, did you?”

  “...No, I did not.”

  “So what’s the plan?” Blake shouted. “How do we take it down?”

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  They could try fancy maneuvering. They could try to wait until Prince Arald got off his ass, wherever he was, and attacked. But Blake was pretty sure that wouldn’t matter. All he could do is choose how many of them survived, how many of them made it out of here right now. And that meant hunting the Monarch as much as he could—right now.

  Ulfreld whistled. His swords took their position behind his back, hovering in a star shape, and two other Foundation-stage cultivators ran to the Elder’s side. Ulfreld told them, “Distract it. Buy us time.”

  “Yes, Elder,” they both said, then charged toward the Monarch. One held a longbow and fired enhanced arrows, and the other wielded a massive battle axe. They got its attention, then charged into the mists, leading it away.

  “Elder?” Blake asked. “There were talismans enhancing its strength. I ripped them out. It should be more…normal again. What happened?”

  It is normal, Ethbin replied. As normal as a Core Formation stage seven monster can be.

  “We entered the Sceat Bowl, looking for the Lightstalkers. Then the Monarch raced toward us. It was on us before we could flee, and it is stronger than it should be,” Ulfreld said. “We already lost half of our hunting party, and we might not win.”

  “Don’t talk like that,” Blake said. “Where are its weak spots? What do you know about it?”

  “Large monsters like the Monarch are abominations of nature,” Ulfreld said. “They can only sustain themselves for as long as they can with the help of the Way and their mana, but they will run out, and they will have to recharge. We call it staggering them, because they’re forced to stop moving for a little while and let their mana recover to levels that allows them to move.”

  “But…” There had to be a ‘but.’ There always was.

  “But we haven’t been able to make this Monarch reach that point yet. It has been infected by the Dark Surge, and it is regenerating its mana much faster than normal.”

  He’s mostly right, Ethbin said, but you can still interrupt the Monarch’s attacks. Goad it into a strike, then break its flame, and it will waste much of its mana. The backlash will be costly. Land a few precise hits, and you will stagger it.

  “Understood,” Blake said, speaking to both of them. “Ulfreld, can you lure it into its heaviest strike?”

  “Yes, I can. Do you have an idea?”

  Blake grimaced. “How good is lightning against flame?”

  “Lightning is an evolution of flame, Junior Brother. It is very similar.”

  “Well, then that’s a good thing,” Blake said. His black lightning was the opposite of regular lightning, and so almost the opposite of flame. That had to count for something.

  Remember, Ethbin said. Your lightning comes from the Galaxy Serpent. The great boundary of our Galaxy, and an arbiter of cycles and nature—and the great foe of the Lightning God. It is more than just a cold, awkward lightning.

  “But…how?” Blake asked. “How do I use any of that?”

  Ulfreld thought Blake was talking to him, and prattled off some explanation, but Blake didn’t listen. He was more interested in Ethbin’s response.

  I need you to see that for yourself, Blake, Ethbin said. The Way rewards understanding. When you truly understand what your aspect is, you will become stronger. If I told you, it wouldn’t be the same.

  Grimacing, Blake whirled his staff, then launched himself back toward the Monarch. It was pursuing the two Foundation-stage cultivators that Ulfreld had sent to distract it, but it was winning. One of them had a broken leg, his bone shattered and piercing through his skin as he tried to draw his bow. The other whirled her axe, preparing to intercept a heavy strike that she couldn’t run from.

  But Blake could help.

  He sprang off, using the Serpent’s Cloak. His lightning was about boundaries, huh?

  He’d seen the lightning worshipers. They loved power. That was what their lightning represented. Their God, whatever his name, was a patron of the freemen. But Blake had always been a thrall, the lowest type of worker, unable to own anything of his own, really. Sure, he was Blended. But he was also a simple Earthling who hadn’t accepted the ways of the Cultivators. The lightning god was never going to be a good fit for him.

  He could put a shackle on other creatures. He could be the arbiter, with the will of the Galaxy Serpent. It wasn’t just about having power, it was about using power and stopping others from abusing theirs.

  It was about actually making things happen, about justice.

  He brought his staff down in a heavy arc, smashing the Monarch’s cudgel to the side with a burst of dark lightning. The weapon almost flew out of the Monarch’s hand, but instead, a satisfying resonance rang out through the fabric of the world, making Blake’s bones tingle. In that moment, he knew he had intercepted the strike and broken it.

  The flames glittering on the Monarch’s cudgel dimmed, spewing off into the air, and it had to make more, spending mana.

  Black snakes of lightning writhed around the blade, circling it for a few seconds and fighting the flame, before dissipating into the air.

  “Oh, now I have an idea…” Blake muttered.

  Ulfreld shouted something, rallying the rest of the hunters, and they attacked as one, distracting it, and giving Blake a target to hit. Something to interrupt just the same as he had done before. He ducked out of the way so the Monarch wouldn’t focus on him.

  It raised its arms, preparing to swing at the hunters, telegraphing its move. And it gave Blake just enough time to get ready.

  When it swung, Blake darted in once more, drawing immense surges of Honour, and he bashed its weapon again, deflecting it into the ground. This time, he concentrated his Smite technique. He poured as much black-lightning-tainted Honour as he could out of his staff, and a cage of black snakes erupted around the Monarch’s cudgel.

  The black lightning constantly cycled around the cudgel, holding it in place and restricting its flame. Each tendril formed became its own snake, and after a few seconds, they all began biting their own tail.

  The Monarch tried to resist the binding nature of Blake’s Honour, but it couldn’t. It tried to pour more mana into the flames, to break through his bonds. Some shattered. They wouldn't hold against a beast so strong.

  But they could sap its mana.

  Just before the last cycling snake bond broke, the monarch’s eyes dimmed, and it collapsed, staggered, temporarily out of mana.

  “It won’t last long!” Ulfreld shouted. “Find a weak spot. Break its armour and kill it!”