Blake spent the rest of the day in Mergewatch, experimenting with the slice of the Monarch’s core Reccán gave him. At first, it seemed just like stone. He couldn’t break it, and it was completely inert. How was he supposed to draw it into his staff?

  It didn’t help that he imposed a time limit on himself. The Trade would last two weeks, sure, but Blake didn’t want to wait until the end. He couldn’t. He had to look ready, willing, and able to fight Heron. And that meant taking the fight to Heron instead of waiting around, hoping not to get caught. He planned to announce himself tomorrow morning.

  He hadn’t reached Foundation two yet, but if that hadn’t come by now, he wasn’t sure when it would. He had to force it. How many times did he hear stories of cultivators advancing in the middle of a fight? Maybe the rush of combat was just the kind of push he needed to get himself on track.

  Or those were just stories. Embellishments, something that sounded good and made him feel good. But he could use a bit of sentimentality.

  Blake hid in an alleyway near the edge of the town, leaning back against a wall. A few people cast sideways glances at him, but he kept to the darkness, and they all just moved along. As long as River stayed hidden and his eyes didn’t glow orange, he just seemed like the average vagabond.

  “Perhaps Blake should crush it up,” River said.

  “I wish I could, but I’m no Path Paladin,” he replied. “Not strong enough. And I don’t have any of their fancy batons.”

  “It is condensed, physical mana, yes?”

  He squinted. “Some kind of energy. The Paladins said mana, so I suppose I’ll take their word for it. But I don’t think the kind of energy matters. We’re extracting the aspect right out of it.”

  River tried licking the core slice just for good measure, only to report that it tasted like ash and dust.

  After a little more experimentation, which lasted well into the evening, Blake tried drawing out the core’s strength like he would absorb an echo. The core trembled, and wisps of black energy flooded out, trying to flow into his body. They didn’t make it all the way, and he didn’t let them. He didn’t need it in his body.

  But he used the same principle with his staff. Allowing it to be a conduit for killing intent, he focused the pressure on the core. It trembled, quivering, then pushed down into the ground, threatening to crack the muddy alleyway ground below. Blake’s vision narrowed, and he couldn’t focus on anything but the Monarch’s core.

  Icy frost encroached on the sides of his vision. In the corner, a blurry image of River seemed weighed down by an immense weight.

  Then the core slice shattered. First into wisps of dust, then into motes of energy. They began hovering in the air. Everything became a little black spark, a tiny glob of liquid void, but he pulled it into the staff, guiding it with his intent.

  Turquoise mana vented out the opposite end of his staff like a flare, but the Kinghaven sand caught the aspect. In the dim light of the evening and the faint glow of the surrounding torches and moons, even he could tell that the sand had gotten darker.

  He whirled his staff, then slammed it upward through a stack of abandoned barrels while using a Black Palm. Lightning surged up from the paving stones, shattering the barrels before holding their wood shards in place. It was like the world froze around them. Little wisps of black energy gathered around each shard.

  The longer his black lightning held the shards in the air, the more agitated they grew, until finally, they all burst apart into splinters and dust with a catastrophic boom. Lightning surged to the surrounding objects, trying to create a chain reaction, but he didn’t have enough willpower to spread the Smite technique any farther.

  “That is the biggest damage I have seen Blake do so far,” River remarked.

  “Most damage,” Blake corrected with a grin. “I don’t think Heron will be expecting that.”

  After a short pause, River said, “Someone would tell Blake to sleep. Whoever lives in that ring, or perhaps an elder at Blake’s old sect.”

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  He tilted his head. “Can you hear Ethbin’s voice?”

  “I cannot hear Blake’s ring. But I can guess what the voice says because Blake always talks to it out loud.”

  He chuckled. “I suppose. Alright, then. I’ll rest up.”

  ~ ~ ~

  In the morning, Blake woke with the sun, which was later than normal, given how late in the season it was. He gathered his equipment, then approached the central plaza of the city. Crowds had formed already, going about their business. They exchanged pelts and equipment.

  Blake slipped through the crowd, keeping his head down, but plenty of people cast him glances out the corner of their eyes. One man whispered, “I’ll go get the guards. It’s him.” Blake just kept walking.

  When he reached the center of the plaza, he climbed up to the tournament platforms, which were entirely empty. There was no other sect for the Green Bears to measure themselves against, and no one seemed interested in displaying their techniques when there was no competition.

  Then Blake watched. He stayed low, keeping back from the edge, keeping out of sight from any curious onlookers. He was hoping to spot Heron among the crowd, but like before, the man hadn’t shown himself.

  He was probably hoping Blake wouldn’t show up. That he’d win by default.

  But slowly, as the crowd thickened, more Green Bear guards appeared at the edge of the plaza, locking people in. Preparing to keep Blake here, and maybe try to kill him. Maybe they’d sick Mingel on him, try to make her redeem herself.

  He couldn’t let them get the jump on him.

  After standing up, he ran to the edge of the arena, then Augmented his throat, hoping it would extend to his vocal cords as well.

  He yelled, “Heron Silverbeard!” His voice boomed over the crowd and echoed deep into Mergewatch. Anyone below Tempering winced and crouched down, covering their ears. “I’ve come to duel you! Face me, or lose by default!”

  Almost everyone’s heads turned up to look at him. There were a few gazes of awe, plenty of scowls, but everyone granted him worth whether intentionally or not.

  Blake waited. Everything was silent. He spotted the Path Paladins and Prince Arald watching from the balcony of their suite—which overlooked the plaza. After a few seconds of searching, he noticed Mingel sitting on a rooftop, watching. An especially powerful stream of worth travelled over from her.

  Wind whistled across the platform. Snowflakes tumbled in the air.

  Silence. He took off his backpack and put it on the edge of the platform, then looked inside and whispered, “River, it’s probably best if you stay invisible.”

  She winked out of existence, then whispered, “Blake is correct. I will stay invisible.”

  He glanced around. Hope swelled in his chest. Was Heron just not going to show up? Would he just…win? Just like that?

  But it turned bitter. He remembered Wind-Eyes’ dying breaths, Ulfreld’s pleading eyes. His agreement with Mingel. He tightened his fists. Just winning the duel on a technicality wasn’t good enough for him. He needed to put Heron into the ground.

  As the minutes dragged on, he grew more and more agitated, kicking at the ground, until finally, a thud rang out behind him. The boards shuddered, and Heron leapt up onto the platform.

  “It’s about time,” Blake snapped.

  Heron laughed, then unclasped his cloak. He let the wind take it away, revealing a coat of chainmail above a gambeson. He pulled his shield off his back, then drew his sword and gave it a quick flourish. “You have to know that you are doomed.”

  “We’ll see,” Blake replied.

  “No tricks.” Heron held up a finger. “The prince is watching, and he expects a fair fight.”

  “A fair fight, like you gave to the Hunters? Like you gave to Ulfreld? Your old friend, who you’d loved for years before you let the mana go to your brain? Him?” Blake spat on the ground, then gave his staff a whirl.

  He turned his back on Heron, then faced the crowd. “I hereby declare my innocence and the innocence of Ulfreld’s pavilion. Everything Heron did is a ploy.” He motioned back. “And don’t pretend not to see it. He’s just trying to twist you with empty words, hoping you respect his power and don’t think about anything else for too long.”

  No one, not even the prince said anything.

  “You’re afraid of him, huh?” Blake shouted. “Well, enough of this! I’ll defeat him, and you won’t have anything to be afraid of. You’ll be free to see the truth!”

  Prince Arald leaned forward, gazing down at Blake with curiosity.

  “He tried to kill you, my lord,” Blake said. “He wanted the Monarch to take your head, because it would’ve been much cleaner for him. He’d have been able to blame the Hunters so much more easily, with less twisting—”

  “Enough!” Heron shouted. “Face me. Show the world your truth if you want, and I’ll show them mine.”

  Blake shook his head. “There’s only the truth, asshole. No, I’m going to show them that they’re free to accept what they already know.”

  Heron glared at him. Blake didn’t even have to turn around to see that. He could just feel the man’s gaze boring into him. A pulse of killing intent washed out from him, but Blake whirled around and pushed his own pressure outward, splitting it like waves upon a rock and weighing down with his own pressure.

  Heron’s glare turned to shock, and he staggered backward. “How?”

  Blake shrugged. “Are we going to fight or what?”

  Shouting, the man sprinted forward, sword raised.