In the morning, as soon as the mists showed even the first signs of light, Blake pushed himself up and stretched out. Despite his enhanced body, he could still get sore from laying in the wrong position for too long. Apparently, some things never changed.

  River had been sleeping peacefully beside him, and she was asleep, so Blake picked her up gently and tucked her into his backpack, leaving it open slightly so she could see out and wouldn’t freak out when she woke up.

  Then he set out back across the merge border, heading back to the city. His feet dragged, and his head drooped, and he used his new staff as a walking stick. As often as he could, he triggered River’s echo ability, but he was pretty sure he’d healed every injury at this point. Something just felt wrong, though. Almost like his Honour was stuck behind a single blockage. It still flowed, but it didn’t feel nearly as strong as he wanted.

  And there wasn’t anything he could do about it.

  You know that’s not true, Ethbin said. You have reached a major bottleneck. And not a helpful kind.

  Blake grimaced. “Of course I have.”

  You’ll get through it. But only with the right pushes.

  “Can you tell me what those might be?”

  Sometimes, it is simply witnessing a majestic mountain or some other sight that invokes a sense of the sublime. Sometimes, people like you require a battle, and need the rush of combat, the fear of death and failure, to break through a bottleneck and reach the next stage.

  “So, you think that I can beat Heron if I make it to Foundation two, right? What will actually…allow me to win?”

  Ethbin chuckled softly. Advancing a stage won’t be a magic arrow. But it could be the edge you need. Sure, you will eventually need a focus for your willpower to harden your echo. It can protect you from spiritual attacks, yadda yadda, all that. But the willpower is truly what we’re looking for. It will do more for you than just harden your echo.

  Blake narrowed his eyes. “Gramps, I’m really not in the mood for cryptic messages this morning.”

  I will have to sleep if I tell you outright.

  “I’m alright with that,” Blake said. “This seems pretty important.”

  I won’t be able to speak with you until after your duel.

  “I understand.”

  Very well. Your Smite techniques are leaving behind a residual burst of void lightning and Honour of the same aspect. The greater the willpower, the more you will be able to output, the longer it will linger, and the stronger its binding power will be. You will be able to restrict Heron’s weapons and prevent him from using his techniques to his fullest ability, giving you the edge you need. You’ll be able to sap his mana and cancel his most powerful techniques, neutralizing him. Hardening your echo is important, yes, but the means through which you do it are truly what we’re looking for. The willpower it takes.

  “I understand,” Blake said. He stopped, then said, “Thanks, Gramps.”

  There was no response. This time, Blake kept the ring on his finger. There was no point in him hiding it anymore.

  He turned around and glanced back from the direction he came. “What are the chances Ulfreld survived?” he muttered.

  Slim. Impossible.

  If a Core Formation cultivator couldn’t beat Heron, though, what chance did Blake have?

  But that was a foolish question. Heron had been average in all ways. The better question was what choice did Blake have?

  He could always run. He could always hide, avoid this duel, and earn the ire of every other cultivator on Shell. The thought was somewhat comforting, knowing that he had a way out. But it wasn’t right.

  Crouching down, he pressed his lips together, trying to purge the image of Wind-Eyes dead among the burning ruins of the armoury, of Ulfreld yelling at him to run. They hadn’t done anything wrong.

  If he couldn’t save all of them, then he could make sure Heron never hurt anyone again.

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  Blake walked until it was bright enough to get a good look at his new staff for the first time in direct light.

  The wood was a marbled, varnished dark orange with deep umber streaks running through it. Mana had soaked it while it was growing, but not anymore. It simply resonated with spiritual power, as if it was trying to become alive again.

  The tips had been capped with simple silver metal, and all along the staff’s length, serpentine swirls of gunmetal gray sand and flexible resin had been embedded into the wood. Silversand from the deltas of Kinghaven, just like Wind-Eyes had described.

  The staff was heavier than before, but it was more flexible, and no matter how hard Blake pushed it, it didn’t even threaten to splinter.

  But how good of a conduit for black lightning was it?

  The next mangrove tree he found of decent size, he twirled his staff and tried smashing through its roots with a Black Palm. He built as much speed as he could while preparing the Smite technique, then swept his staff sideways through them.

  The staff smashed through with ease, no matter how flexible and spongy the roots were, and black lightning coursed up from the ground, helping shatter and pop the branches with an overload of Vir energies.

  But instead of toppling instantly, the stubs of the roots on either side of the swipe froze, and void lightning circled around them, forming rings of snakes chomping their own tails, holding the branches in place.

  After a second, they burst apart, and the tree fell.

  “Woah…” Blake muttered. That was probably the most Honour he’d output with a single Smite technique before.

  It had also woken River up. Her head peeked out from the backpack and stared over Blake’s shoulder, looking out at the staff. “Blake was loud.”

  “Sorry about that. But hey, if you sleep in too much, you won’t sleep well tomorrow.”

  “Blake is not my mother.”

  “Yeah, well,” Blake tilted his head. “I’m not letting anyone else that I care about die on me, and that includes you.” He trailed off, voice breaking. “I’m going to take care of you, okay? That’s a promise.”

  “Blake is…my mother.”

  “That’s not how mothers work, silly,” Blake replied, wiping his nose. “Did you even know your parents?”

  He’d seen plenty of fawns walking with their mother, but those were regular deer, not eiknir.

  “I do not really remember…” River said.

  “Yeah, sorry,” Blake replied.

  “I will think about it. I may deduce that Blake is my mother after all.”

  “I just don’t have the facilities for that. I couldn’t be your mother,” Blake said. When River didn’t reply, only tilted her head in confusion, Blake added, “Ah, you’ll figure it out when you get older.”

  He walked for a few more days, not mustering the will to use the Serpent’s Cloak, nor wanting to draw that kind of attention to himself, before he emerged from the mists. He passed beneath the mist-rigs and the water gatherers, looking up. There were a few other scampermen crawling around on the chain-link sheets, as usual, but as he passed below, one of them stopped and narrowed his eyes.

  “Ekkson!” he called.

  Blake tilted his head up. “Olf?” He hadn’t known the other scamperman well, but he’d learned a few of their names, and apparently, they still remembered him.

  “Where have you been?” Olf shouted. He climbed down to the bottom of his rig, hanging with one hand, and looked down on Blake. “I saw that Nord harassing you, and then you just…dissapeared for months! We all thought you’d been killed. But…”

  Blake looked down at himself. His blue runic-covered shirt, his gambeson, his vambraces, his new staff and his backpack. Quickly, he whispered, “River, get down.”

  She tucked her head into his backpack, but before he could zip it up, she turned herself invisible.

  “You’re getting better at that,” he muttered. Then he glanced up at Olf and said, “Nah, man. I just went on a bit of an adventure. Good to see you’re still alive, too.” After a short pause, he added, “So, I hear Svarikson died. What’s going on?”

  “His properties have fallen to a bunch of smaller, competing land-masters,” Olf said. He let his arm hang, bucket drooping. “I can’t say it’s much better, but it’s getting there. Them having to fight amongst themselves means that they actually have to…you know, try to to appeal to us and treat us well instead of the usual.”

  Blake chuckled. “What about my old place?”

  “No one touched it. Buncha misfortune befell Svarikson after you left, and your apartment was the last place he was seen. Aside from a few Fate Monks trying to purify the place, no one wanted it. Superstition.”

  Blake rolled his eyes, then nodded his thanks to Olf and set off.

  He traced his path back toward the Blended district. A thick layer of snow had accumulated on the roads, but the scampermen walking along it had packed down a narrow path. There were a few newly posted signs decreeing the Red Pine Hunters banned from the city and the region.

  When he reached the fence, he ducked through, keeping his head down, before marching back toward his apartment. The door was broken from his scuffle with Svarikson and his goons, and a pair of Blended rats hung by their tails above the doorway. The Fate Monks had made an offering on incense at the doorway, but otherwise, there were no changes.

  He pushed the door open and stepped into a room full of musty, stale air. One of the windows had shattered, letting in snow, but with the Manaship hovering overhead, there wasn’t as much as normal.

  He tossed his backpack down on his bed, then shut his old bedroom’s door.

  For a few minutes, he contemplated. It didn’t amount to much, and he really didn’t accomplish anything, so he opened his backpack. Beneath River, he still had a handful of contribution point chits, which he could exchange for hacksilver.

  He needed a bath, he decided, and then he could figure out a plan afterward. He only had a few days before he’d have to set off for Mergewatch, and there wasn’t much time. But there was enough to watch. To look around, observe, and hope that he found something sublime enough to break through this bottleneck.