Kono appeared to wrack his mind. “Maybe it isn’t under control.”

Dorian glanced back, frowning. “What?”

“Look.” He gestured to the Dragon. “It’s not moving stiffly or in set patterns. It is simply enraged.” Kono tilted his head. “Besides, wouldn’t it take a master of Profound strength or higher to command it? Such a beast heels to few men.”

Dorian shook his head. This Kono was either a very good actor or a very bad actor. Regardless—“Why is it still mad?”

Kono paused. “That’s the question, isn’t it?”

It acted like a feral animal; for all its powers there wasn’t a keen intelligence at work behind its attacks. Derision and rage were its only guides, it seemed. Hence why its attacks were so brutish, so telegraphed. Still they were enough to force the Sect Leaders to their knees, but it was almost like… like an animal in heat. Or like it’d been driven mad. As it drifted for another loop, dropping blasts of ice indiscriminately, it seemed clearer and clearer that Kono was right.

“What drives Beasts mad?” mused Dorian. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Aphrodisiac. Certain irritants—high-pitched sounds; certain smells. Perhaps it’s been brought out by a lure.”

Or could it have detected Pearl’s use of a god’s energies, which dragged it up to the surface? Doubtful.

“Or…the answer is simpler than that,” said Kono. He bit his bottom lip. “This year, the twin moons crossed. It was the first time in centuries, and on the night when qi is thickest…on such nights strange things happen.”

With a small sigh, Kono shook his head. “I fear there may be no solving this. The only course left to us is to retreat.”

“And you’re confident it will not follow?” said Dorian.

“No…which is why some will need to sacrifice. To hold back the Beast as the others escape.” He closed his eyes. “It’s all we can do.”

As Kono spoke, the clan leaders’ moves were growing more and more desperate. Yalta had a gaping wound torn down his chest; Dorian could see the muscles and bone under, and still he charged fearlessly into the fray. Narong bled in fifty places; it seemed he’d found out which was sharper between him and the Dragon. Matriarch Xiamen lay dead. By her side, seven other Tribe Chiefs lay dead too.

The hordes of Vigor Tribesmen joining in, throwing up fluff strikes, were little more than tiny distractions. One dragon’s breath mowed down the crowd; then it swerved, flexing its mighty tail. In one whip-fast stroke it slapped Patriarch Narong straight out of the sky. He streaked into a dune in an eruption of sands and smoke, and did not re-emerge.

They were finished. At this rate there was little hope of mounting much of a delay at all.

“You may be right,” said Dorian, fists clenching. “Very well.” He hesitated. “But before we go—let my try one more thing.”

“Mmh?” said Kono absently, his eyes still glued to the Frost Dragon.

Then Dorian raised a hand and slapped Kono with all the force he could muster. A hand filled with death-qi cracked against Kono’s cheek, snapping his head back hard. Gasping, Kono sprawled to the sands.

Behind Kono, the Frost Dragon sagged; for a second the light went out of its eyes. It was like it’d fallen asleep mid-flight.

Shocked cries resounded from all around the Beast.

“What?!”

“How?!”

Without warning, Dorian lashed out with two Yama’s Chains. Two small, dainty hands rose and batted them away with ease.

Kono rose slowly, carefully. At the same time, Frost Dragon regained its bearings. This time Dorian knew it was no coincidence. The coldness in his gut hardened. Somewhere far away an Elder screamed, “Shaman! Shaman! It’s under control!”

“That wasn’t very nice,” said the man who claimed to be called Kono. He rubbed his cheek but the redness was already fading. That blow to an unprotected, off-guard face should’ve left a harsh mark—especially to a Vigor-Realm man. But Kono didn’t look hurt at all. He smiled sadly.

“Well done, Io Rust. Well done.”

Dorian stepped back. Black qi licked at his palms. “Reveal yourself.”

“…Would you believe me if I claimed to be a young master of a humble tribe?“ Kono’s smile grew resigned. “I suppose not. I was never much of a liar.”

He sighed softly. “It was a matter of time before I was caught. Between us, I hadn’t imagined it quite like this…” His chuckle was rueful. “To think! I made the tournament. This close to gaining access to the Oases’ inner sanctums.”

Then a part of Kono unlocked, and a glut of aura burst into the world. Profound Realm! Dorian took another step back, his muscles all tensed for combat.

At the same time, a new sense of unfathomable depth swirled around Kono. Bloodline unleashed. When Dorian looked at Kono he was struck by a pang of deja-vu. He’d felt this aura before—when he’d stared into the depths of a Sinkhole, and felt the barest wisps of aura from the things living in its darkest, deepest places. It felt like the Frost Dragon’s aura, but tinged with an ancient majesty that eclipsed nearly everything Dorian had felt in this realm. He’d only gotten impression like this from his own god’s bone.

The battle still raged behind them, but Kono looked more relaxed than ever. It was like a weight had lifted from his chest. He smile was so sincere it grew off-putting.

“A re-introduction is in order, I think,” he said. He bowed with a royal’s grace. “Greetings, Io of Rust Tribe. My name is Nijo Ugoc, Young Master of the Ugoc Clan, Conquerer of the North and Heaven’s chosen heir to the throne.” Somehow he managed to say it all without a hint of pretension. “But you may call me Nijo, if you like. Or Ny. I’m not finicky. It’s a pleasure to meet you, truly.”

He held out a hand. Dorian answered him with another Chain’s lash. Blocked again.

“Please,” said Nijo with a small, awkward laugh. He raised his hands. “There’s no need for that.”

“Isn’t there?” said Dorian calmly.

“I’m sorry we’ve got off to such a rough start.” Nijo shook his head. “I came here in peace, as a scout. I only wished to observe. All this…” He gestured to the dead and the dying littering the sands. “Was my father’s idea.”

Dorian still wasn’t sure what to make of this creature. It was as though he’d seen a man take off his mask, only to find the same face beneath. Nijo winced. “I’m sorry about him. My father thinks of all of you as savages, irredeemable. He wishes to conquer and raze. I, on the other hand, know that you are very much like me. You’ve simply been molded by a base society, base environs. Your kind can be shown a better way.”

There was a hint of paternal resignation in his smile. Around them, bodies burned. “Today was… regrettable. We don’t need to be enemies. In fact, you’ve caught my eye—you stand out from your kind. I’d like if we became friends, in time.”

Now it was Dorian’s turn to laugh. “Friends, except that I’d be a conquered subject, under the rule of you and your clan. I’ll pass. Besides, genocide tends to leave a bad first impression on would-be friends, I’m afraid. And didn’t we meet because you tried offing me in a Trial?”

Nijo held up his hands, and a different aura layered atop his Bloodline. It felt like Dorian had been dunked at the bottom of a vast ocean.

On Nijo’s forehead glowed a golden infinity.

“If I wanted you dead, you’d be dead,” Nijo said, wringing his hands. “I…this has gone much like our first meeting.” His gaze swept across the battlefield. “The clan has accomplished what it set out to do. This is enough. I should go.”

He drew a long breath as he turned back to Dorian. “I must seem callous to you, to the plight of your people. Please, don’t think that of me! I met with your kind, dined with you…this last week, I saw the world through your eyes. I did all I could to understand you tribesmen. So that today I could bear the full weight of what must be done.”

Dorian raised a brow. “What must be done. Right.” Always the same with these empires. Isn’t it convenient that what you want always aligns with fate?

“The conquest of the Ugoc is inevitable. Ordained by the Heavens,” said Nijo with a shrug.“All the rest of you can do is resist or accept us. You’ve made your stance clear. It was foolish of me to attempt recruitment…poor timing, I admit. I’ve much to apologize for today, it seems.”

Then Nijo raised a hand; with an earth-trembling bellow, the Frost Dragon shifted course. In two wing-beats it landed behind Nijo, its hulking body blotting out all of Dorian’s vision.

In one step, Nijo kicked off, leapt the height of a small hill, and landed nimbly on the dragon’s neck. Its breaths frosted the air. Nijo waved, forlorn. “Goodbye.”

“Hold on.” Gears spun in Dorian’s head. The shape of his circumstances had shifted drastically in a day, then in an instant—but he was a Godking. He’d only survived so long due to his sheer adaptability. He had no loyalties to Rust Tribe. He had no loyalties to the Oasis; he had no loyalties to anyone. He was his own actor. “Since you’ve been so honest, I should reply with some honesty of my own.”

He jerked his head at the collection of dismembered limbs which had once been Rust Tribe. “Until I awakened my talent, my tribe treated me as a doormat. I was roundly abused for sixteen years. I’ve no love for them. They are not my people. In truth they’re better off dead.”

“Oh?” A glimmer of light in Nijo’s eyes. Behind him, Patriarchs and the Elders dashed toward them. They didn’t have much time.

“My loyalties are to myself. Only myself. True, we’ve got off to a poor start—but that doesn’t mean I’m not amenable to working together.”

The warriors were almost upon them. Dorian readied a battle stance; to an onlooker, it’d seem as though they were mid-battle. “You want an agent in the Oasis?” He smirked. “Contact me. Make it worth my while.”

Nijo stared at him. Then he burst out laughing. “You’re a curious fellow, Io Rust. I suspect we’ll meet again soon.”

Then, with two ferocious blasts of its wings the Frost Dragon took to the sky. In seconds it was gone.