Blake sprinted as fast as he could out of the mists, racing into the red forests outside. He didn’t let up on his Augmentation, no matter how much char got lodged in his channels, no matter how much his body screamed at him to stop. He had to keep pushing forward until he reached the pavilion.

  But the char was a problem. He’d built up so much that he couldn’t cleanse it with a single push of River’s echo ability.

  When he was halfway through the mists, he came to a halt. The sun was starting to set, and it was getting dark, but he just couldn’t push himself any more. No matter how much he tried to maintain his Serpent’s Cloak, the Honour wouldn’t move through his channels. The technique sputtered out, leaving trails of black lightning simmering in the air behind him.

  He fell to his knees, panting.

  And that was when Ulfreld caught up to him.

  “It’s too dangerous.” Ulfreld shook his head. “Heron has been planning this for weeks. The sect will be surrounded. It will have already begun.”

  “Did you know this would happen?” Blake asked. “And you didn’t even try to—”

  “I did not know it would happen this soon. I was hoping we would have until after the next Great Trade, at which point you would be gone.”

  Blake punched the ground. It was pretty much all he could muster, but without any Honour enhancing him, it just made a dull thud.

  “It’s the way of the world, Junior Brother,” Ulfreld said. “They will rip us up by the roots, like we would have done to them if we had the power.” He crossed his arms. “You’re still thinking of going back. Still trying to fight him?”

  “What else can I do?”

  Ulfreld sighed. “I shall return to the sect and meet my end in battle, as is honourable. But Heron wants you to return, too. He wants to kill you before your duel.”

  “I can make it. I can survive. You need my help.”

  Ulfreld sighed. “I would’ve said the same when I was younger. But I can’t take that risk. Out here, Heron won’t find you. You must live to duel him.”

  “No—”

  Ulfreld was already pulling back his arm. A sword hovered in the air behind Blake. With a flick of Ulfreld’s fingers, it fell, slamming the pommel into the back of Blake’s head. He had no Augmentation technique to protect himself, and all he could rely on was his enhanced body. Alone, it wasn’t enough—not against a Core Formation cultivator like Ulfreld.

  A dark veil fell over his eyes, and he blinked, trying to catch one last look at Ulfreld.

  “When you wake up, it will all be over.”

  ~ ~ ~

  When Blake regained consciousness, it was still night. The sky was twilight, and it hadn’t been too long. Probably not as long as Ulfreld expected.

  He did not anticipate how strong your body truly was, Ethbin said inside Blake’s head. And he didn’t anticipate your eiknir.

  Blake bolted upright. His channels were clear again, and his body wasn’t nearly as sore. River must’ve forced her ability to trigger while he was unconscious. She was standing right next to him, nuzzling him with her nose.

  Ulfreld is right, Ethbin continued. You should leave. Wait for the next Great Trade. Wait for your duel.

  Blake sighed. “I can’t do that, and you know it.”

  Why? Why help them? They’re cultivators. Half of them hate your guts, and most of them aren’t even from your planet. You hate them back.

  “And some of them are my friends. I can’t just abandon them.” Blake sighed. “I’m close. I can feel it. I know my reason for cultivating is there. I can feel it, and I don’t know how. Like there’s some kind of spiritual tug pulling me back.” He hadn’t even felt anything until he’d started speaking those words, and he hadn’t known that he was about to say that until they came out of his mouth.

  But it was like there was a puzzle piece floating at the top of his spine, waiting to click into place. He just needed one last push. And there was an invisible cord calling him back to the pavilion.

  Very well, Ethbin said. Trust the Way.

  Blake jumped to his feet, then looked around. In the distance, a column of smoke rose over the treetops, coming from the direction of the hunters’ pavilion.

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  “There’s no point in hiding you, now,” Blake said, glancing at River. “Are you alright?”

  “I am alive,” she chimed.

  He patted his backpack and said, “If you want a lift, hop on.”

  “Blake is exhausted still. I did not have enough time to heal him completely, and his channels are weak. He is in no condition to fight Heron.”

  “I don’t have a choice. Are you coming or not?”

  She scampered up to his backpack, and in turn, he climbed up into a tree, then launched himself off with the Serpent’s Cloak.

  He crossed the rest of the distance in a matter of minutes, bolting toward the pavilion in a surge of speed. Just before he arrived, he cleansed his channels one last time, then stepped through the gate.

  Everything was on fire. The longhouses, the gardens, the training pits. Bodies littered the front walkway. A few were Green Bears, but most of the dead were Hunters, caught off guard. The bear girl Blake had fought hung limply from a stake, and the bodies of the mortal attendants lay scattered in front of the storehouse.

  Green Bears ran along the pathways, swinging swords and axes and launching Smite techniques, cutting down anyone in their way. It looked like they had trapped a cluster of survivors near the armoury, so that was where Blake ran first.

  Blake scowled, then charged into the fray, smashing through cultivators and knocking them aside. The Foundation stage Green Bears gave him a little more trouble, but the rest were easy enough. The smoke was the biggest trouble, clogging his lungs and making it hard to breathe. Sparks doused him, and he choked on the sour wind. The air was warm, despite the winter chill, and it was thick with the scent of blood.

  When he reached the armoury, he came face-to-face with Wind-Eyes and a few others, defending the armoury from the gateway. Iver and Froskur stood in the doorway, staring out at Blake.

  “I’m back,” he said.

  “You shouldn’t be here,” Wind-Eyes said.

  “And you need to get out. Fates, is everyone here so fatalistic? Come on! Go! I’ve cleared—”

  Before he could finish, a thud sounded on the pathway behind him. Clouds of smoke parted, and a silhouette of a man descended, parting the clouds. A broken halo of glowing white wrapped around his head.

  “Heron!” Blake shouted. The man raised his sword. White light shone on the edge. As Blake turned to face him, he swung down, aiming for Blake’s neck. Aiming a killing blow.

  It broke his flesh, but Blake turned just in time, angling his neck. The blade blasted into his hardened vertebrae and launched him across the armoury, sending him smashing into a wall. A rack of spears toppled beneath him.

  The other hunters attacked. Some ran, trying to take the route Blake had carved, but Heron cut them down. Wind-Eyes rushed to the defence, but Heron smashed him in the chest with his round shield, sending him tumbling back into the armoury as well. As he tried to stand, Heron plunged his sword into the exhausted man’s chest.

  It was all happening so fast. Blake pushed himself up, rushing back toward Heron, but he wasn’t the first to arrive. Iver and Froskur were first.

  They didn’t stand a chance.

  Heron smashed Froskur with his shield, slamming the frog-blend boy into the ground and trapping him. He let go of his shield and caught Iver by the ear, then tossed him back into the far wall, knocking him unconscious.

  Both his friends would burn alive soon if he did nothing.

  Blake glanced around. He was the only one. His eyes glistened with tears. River leaned closer to him, but he could barely feel her.

  Then Heron leapt forward. He swung his sword in a heavy downward arc. Blake tried to block it, but his staff wasn’t strong enough. The wood splintered, shattering in his grip, and Heron’s sword left a slice down his chest. It caught on his bottom rib, but the force of the blow threw him to the ground right beside Wind-Eyes.

  “You really thought you could stand against me?” Heron gloated. “I am the son of the Steerman, blessed from birth! You’re nothing but a thrall.”

  “Yeah,” Blake said, coughing. “Then why’d you go through all this effort? You’re worried about me, aren’t you?” But he didn’t have a heal ready from River, and it’d probably take two or three to repair all that damage they’d done to him.

  Shit. Ulfreld had been right. Of course he had.

  “You don’t know how much pain you’ve caused me. How much explaining I had to do to my father, how many plots and backup plans I had to go through to get to this moment, to get out of our duel and to put you down like the rabid dog you are. But one day, I’ll be a prince, and I won’t have to jump through any hoops. The world will just be mine for the taking.”

  Blake tried to snap back, but he couldn’t. His lungs had been pierced with a shallow slice, and blood was trickling in. Any words came out as a weak gasp.

  “Pathetic. It wasn’t even worth it. You weren’t that dangerous.” Heron put his boot on Blake’s shoulder and rolled him onto his back. “Look at me when I talk to you!”

  Blake. Get up, Ethbin said. You can do this. You need to escape.

  Heron raised his sword. “You’re from this world, aren’t you?”

  “We’ll kill you,” Blake finally gasped. “We’ll be free.”

  “Oh? You truly think so, don’t you.” Heron threw his head back and laughed. “You think any of it had meaning. Your culture, your way of life, any of that? You think you even had such things? A history? Let me tell you what you are, you miserable little creature.” He pointed his sword at Blake’s chin and lifted. “The Nords made you. A thousand years ago, your world was a barren husk. The King seeded your world, locked your pitiful planet in an isolation zone, and let your people grow. Breed, expand. What better way to gain mana than by Harvesting an entire world for mana?” Heron laughed. “You were cattle for the slaughter. Your people are all thralls, bred for the purpose of consumption. Your existence was to sate an insatiable king, and you were too foolish to know.”

  “Then why am I still alive?” Blake gasped. “Why didn’t you Harvest us all and be done?”

  “Sometimes the isolation zones fail. Sometimes the barriers go haywire. It’s an unstable technique.” Heron dug his sword into Blake’s chin, piercing skin. “The Integration was a mistake. Five seed worlds blended together into an impure amalgamation unfit for Harvesting. But it made a perfect hunting ground for the up-and-coming sects like ours.”

  “I—”

  “Silverbeard!” came a voice from behind. The wall of the armoury shattered, and Ulfreld stepped in, his swords floating behind him. “Heron, enough. Get away from my disciple and fight me.”