The Artificers were nothing if not efficient. In a day they’d rearranged the main floor of their forge. Now Dorian and Artificer Head Thon strolled on a catwalk above clusters of forges, each clanging and smoking and bursting with sparks. Gruff shouts rose up in spurts.

“We’ve done sixty already!” said Oasis Head Thon. He rubbed his hands. “The first ten came out all deformed and shitty. Kinda like my first two kids. And just like with child-making, it took a fair few tries to get it right. But once we did, it’s all been smooth as steel!”

Dorian glanced down at a long steel table at the end of the assembly line where all the finished products were stacked. He gave it a quick once-over. He’d made the Sticks simple and modular on purpose, and it paid off: these things were shiny clones of one another. It hadn’t taken long for Thon and his crew to bring his blueprints to life—which he’d expected, of course, but seeing things going to plan still scratched an itch deep in his mind. His grin was catlike. “Well done! These will do quite nicely.”

One by one workers in heat-suits hauled them off and strapped them wagons. In batches of five, the wagons trundled out of the room, flanked by Heilong guards. Headed for the Heilong military base, where new recruits and army vets alike would get their hands on these within the hour.

And though money wasn’t a great concern at this stage, the fact that Dorian got a 20% commission per Stick still made that tiny goblin of undying greed at the core of his being cackle with glee.

***

Tournament, Day 2, started with an announcement. One Dorian was itching to hear.

The Oasis Lord was set to reveal the prize they all fought for.

What would it be? Pebble had hinted it would be a relic of the Dweller. But Dorian had other hopes.

One thought had stuck in the back of his mind as he took the gamble and burned his Bloodline. For the grand prize, the Oasis Lord had drudged up great treasures from its vaults—and what in the Oasis were of more value than Scales? Or, even better—an even greater Bloodline relic, akin to the Heilong Javelin’s fang? There seemed to be no shortage of Basilisk parts scattered about these lands, after all…

With a little luck, his Bloodline would soon be replenished!

The Oasis Lord took center field. He cleared his throat, and the vibrations rattled about the whole arena, made louder a hundredfold by qi. The crowd’s chatter died down.

“The final day of the Tournament is upon us,” said the Oasis Lord, “Those who remain are the finest young talents of the Oasis. They shall lead us to a glorious tomorrow, true. But recent matters have made it clear that they must also lead us today. I am sure you have all heard by now of the fall of the Oasis Stronghold at Kal-Dur.”

Scattered murmuring. A subtle tension swept the crowd.

“Fear not!” said the Lord. “Though are enemies advance fast, our fighters grow faster. And the Prizess for which they fight on this day shall only boost them to new heights.”

There it is. At his seat on the sidelines, Dorian sat up straighter.

“Behold! The Black Tear!”

The Lord held out a hand, and a treasure whirled to the center of his palm, bobbing peacefully.

Damn! Not a Scale. Dorian shrugged. Ah, well. I suppose I’ll have to snatch some of the nobles’ instead.

The treasure was a glass sphere. In it, suspended in a strange white solution, was a teardrop of sheer black. There was black, and there was this black; it would make the night sky seem pale. Dorian got the distinct impression that any light that went into the thing never came out. It was like a hole poked in the fabric of the plane.

Dorian frowned. That thick sheen of glass—it must be enchanted—was doing a marvelous job at stopping any of its aura from leaking out. But even from afar, that teardrop called to something deep within Dorian, within his very sea. Like a massive hunk of metal drawing on a compass. It was unmistakable.

Hold on. He froze. A resonance?!

And not just any resonance.

If that glass didn’t keep that aura sealed, it might drive everyone in this whole arena to their knees! Dorian could tell by instinct. Whatever was in there was dense as hells.

The Oasis Lord chuckled. “I call it a tear, but this is a misnomer. In truth this is a drop of suspended Blood. More than that: is the Blood Essence of the Dweller itself. It is one of three such Tears ever collected. The first was consumed by the Moondragon Knight, the second by myself. Today’s champion, Fate willing, shall be the third! The powers it grants are most fearsome, I can attest…”

Then he put it away with a casual flick of his wrist, as though he hadn’t just dropped that absolute bomb in the middle of the arena.

Stunned silence.

So Pebble was right. It is the Dweller’s Blood!

And more—Dorian had resonated with it. Which meant the Dweller, this god rumored to be hidden in the depths of the Sinkhole, must be an Evernight Basilisk! Dorian was dumbstruck.

This meant even one drop of his Blood essence would not only be enough to replenish Dorian’s Bloodline. That much was guaranteed. It would also boost him tremendously. Perhaps even enough to unlock another Spirit Weapon ability! Or even its second Form?

Not to mention it’d push him into the Earth Realm, too.

Nine hells! He was salivating already. He had to have it. It wasn’t even a question. This thing—

It was all he’d hoped for, and then some! It might be the missing piece. A leap in his cultivation, a boost to his Bloodline, and possibly an upgrade for his Spirit Weapon?! If he ate that thing he’d be invincible in all Azcan.

There was something else, too.

The Scales. The Fang. The Javelin. The Blood.

The dots were fast connecting in Dorian’s mind. Of course. They all fit together like puzzle pieces, humming to a resonance. A resonance so pure it could only mean they’d come from the same source. Everything here, on this Oasis if not the whole of the Desert, was built on remnants of the Dweller. These Scales must’ve been Scales that the Dweller had shed, lo those years ago! The Javelin within him, Fang and all, must’ve been one of its lesser teeth.

All this only made him all the more curious about the Sinkhole, and the creature that might’ve been hiding at its very bottom… Was it worth paying a visit? Intriguing…

Then the Oasis Lord’s voice snapped him back. Right, right—the Tournament. He was getting ahead of himself. He could daydream all he liked, but he had to actually win it first!

“Enough dilly-dally!” The Oasis Lord smiled. “Let us begin the first round. Young Master Fang! Io of the Heilong! To the stage!”

The crowd went wild. There came a florid blast of cheering and hooting and chanting as Dorian got to his feet, eyes shining. I’ve invested three percent of all my Bloodline density into this. His blood was hot with fighting spirit. Time to see just how much of a difference it makes!

***

Young Master Fang smiled nastily at Dorian.

“I am not Eudora Azcan,” he said in a hoarse whisper. He licked his lips. “A word of advice: do not let me get ahold of you! You’ll find that I offer no second chances.”

He unfurled his unnaturally long, spidery limbs, and unwrapped his whip from around his tiny waist. Where it passed, the air crackled with frost; a frigid mist trailed the weapon, tip-to-handle, stinging the sands it touched. Dorian could see how this creature was a nuisance to deal with. Every inch of the man was pointy and jagged—and with his whip, his reach swallowed half the battlefield!

But Dorian only snorted.

Seeded number three, eh? Maybe it was due to the astounding glut of aura within him, but he was still brimming with confidence. Irrational confidence, sure, but it brought a smile to his lips just the same. “Funny! You claim you’re unlike her, but Miss Azcan said the very same thing to me. Then I squashed her.” Dorian grinned. “All you Oasis Young Masters sound the same! All hot air and bluster ‘till it’s time to perform. Then… sadly flaccid.” He sighed. “I finished off Miss Azcan in two strokes. Try to last longer, will you?”

“Hmph!” Young Master Fang’s face reddened. “You think such—such juvenile taunts would bother me?! Fool!”

Oh, my. I’m in his head already? This might be easier than I thought.

Dorian’s own aura flaring to life. Tufts of noxious smoke wafted about him, and the gleaming head of the Heilong Javelin rose above him like a scorpion’s tail.

He had a very simple plan.

The referee raised a hand to the high heavens. “Let the battle commence!”

He charged.

So did Young Master Fang.

By the look on his face the Young Master hadn’t expected it —this Profound Realm brat, dashing straight at him? His grin grew sharklike as his whip lashed out, making a vicious arc for Dorian’s head.

Truth be told, if he was still the Dorian of a few hours ago, this would be the end of him.

But now—with a Perfect-Grade Spirit Sea filled to the brim—Dorian could make a brutally simple gamble.

A smidge after Young Master Fang threw, the Heilong Javelin shot forth. The timing was intentional. Dorian wanted to get the Young Master to fully commit to his strike before he threw out his own. No backing out now!

He grinned.

There was one glaring issue with this whole arrangement. For Dorian, that was.

He was too slow. Fast as the Heilong Javelin was, he’d intentionally mistimed it. Which meant the whip would land first!

And it did, in brutal fashion.

Young Master Fang was seeded third for a reason. His whip could cleave steel blocks in half. It slashed a molten line across Dorian’s torso, at once scalding hot and freezing cold, and his chest blossomed in exquisite agony. He hissed, his tunic shredded at its seams.

But pain was all it was.

Above, his health bar was slashed to 30% in an instant. Young Master Fang’s face lit up in shock—how?! It should’ve been zero! He was but a Profound Realm runt, taking the full, unblocked force of an Earth-Realm slash!

Except… on a pure qi-for-qi basis Dorian gambled that his Perfect-grade pool outstripped Young Master Fang’s—even with the Young Master’s Earth core. He was right. His qi let him straight-up eat the blow.

His eyes glinted. My turn.

Young Master Fang shrieked as the Heilong Javelin, backed by the full force of Dorian’s Spirit Sea, crushed his life-saving treasure like tissue paper and skewered him to the sands in one smooth stroke.

There was a beat. A beat where everyone in the arena processed just what the hells had just happened.

The announcer found his wits first.

“THE WINNER IS—IO OF THE HEILONG!” He croaked.

***

Once the clamor had died down—and it took a while for the crowd to go from utterly ballistic to some semblance of calm—the Oasis Lord took center stage once more.

“Kaya Rust!”

Dorian squeezed her arm. “Good luck!” he said with a wink.

She was nervous, but she hid it well with a brave smile. “Pssh!” She puffed out her chest. “Won’t need it!”

The Oasis Lord cleared his throat. “Versus…Feiyang Shen, Rat-King of Azcan!”

….Ah, shit.