Tuketu raised his hand and all the other Chosen fell back. All around Dorian and Hento, a circle of runes rippled to life, hemming them in: a makeshift arena.

But before Tuketu could finish, Dorian stepped up. “Wait!”

“Hm?” Tuketu raised an eyebrow. The runes died down.

“One moment,” gasped Dorian.

Five seconds passed. Then ten. By now everyone was staring at him like he’d lost his head.

Then—

Level-up!]

[Origin] Lv. 3

His qi crossed a new threshold; now it felt like a small pond rather than a puddle as it flowed within him. He ceased his cycling at last. The ginseng fell, withered and fully drained, to the ground.

This time, a small ripple of qi signaled the breakthrough.

If the Chosen around him were jealous before, a few were positively foaming at the mouth now. For a beat, there was silence.

Kaya’s voice broke it. “Oh, come on!” She looked like she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “It’s not fair. It took me six months to get from level two to three!”

Dorian smiled contently, bathing in that warm leveling sensation. The Vigor Spirit Pill was now nearly fully digested too. His talent had, he guessed, gone from abject awfulness—by this realm’s standards—to simply mediocre. Nearly decent.

How much can treasures boost me? A limited amount more, probably. The real gains—the ones that’ll let me exceed the limits of this form—are bloodlines.

He stretched out his hands. The impurities hadn’t only been under-the-skin: he looked cleaner, cleared-up. His body brimmed with new vigor.

“Very good,” said Tuketu dryly, his head tilted just a fraction. “You are to be congratulated. Is there anything else, Chosen Io? Or shall we get on with it?”

“Only one more thing,” grinned Dorian. “I can’t fight Young Master Hento on such terms, Master.”

“You’re afraid?” Tuketu’s eyes narrowed to dangerous slits.

“I’m afraid of winning,” said Dorian. He shrugged. “Young Master Hento is the son of Chief Rust, as we all know. If winning means demoting his son from Chosen…I wouldn’t dare offend the Chief so!”

Hento looked at once pleased and insulted. Mostly confused. Even Tuketu looked a bit incredulous.

It didn’t take an immortal Godking to guess what was running through his mind.

This little cretin is negotiating the terms of his victory? Does he know he isn’t supposed to win? That there’s a human’s chance in Hells that he wins?

Tuketu had set this fight up plainly to test them both—on the inside. He wished to see how Hento show his conviction by dealing with an aggressive upstart with nothing to lose. He wished to see how Dorian handle a challenge he could not defeat.

In his mind, Dorian wasn’t a serious threat. Clearly.

Dorian kept up his earnest expression. Humor me, Tuketu. Alter the terms.

After all, his words were genuine.

Then Tuketu laughed.

“Laudable spirit,” he said. “You think exactly right. In every fight, you must be confident of victory. You must be doubly confident of the consequences of the fight.”

He thought for a moment, then turned to Hento once more.

“In the event young Io wins, I’ll spare you demotion. What is of equal value to you?” He looked down Hento’s body, taking note of the garb of dark, night-smooth silk.

“Perhaps those robes. Custom-made, isn’t it? I’ll wager they’d fetch quite a price.”

Hento’s eyes widened comically. He opened his mouth to object.

“The task is simple,” sighed Tuketu. “You merely need to beat a tyro. It is, in theory, a simple task for you. The stakes should be irrelevant.”

He crossed his arms. “To me you are no true Chosen. Speak less. You haven’t the right. Make something of yourself first.”

Hento swallowed.

“Rest assured: this is only the start,” said Tuketu. His brows were a severe line. His eyes scanned the rest of the Chosen. “The Young Master’s status absolves him of nothing!” He barked. “From now on, the same applies to all of you. ‘Chosen’ is a privilege. See to it I do not find you unworthy of it.”

When he turned back, there was a hint of impatience in his eyes.

“Enough interruptions.”

Stepping away, he snapped his fingers.

The runes blazed to life. A small formation: golden walls of qi crept up, forming a barrier. No doubt it’d hold against any attacks either of them threw.

Meanwhile, Dorian took stock of his enemy.

The Young Master still looked quite confused.

“Hold on just a moment,” he said, his sing-song voice a pitch higher than usual. He seemed to be rousing out of a shocked stupor. “I’m meant to prove myself… by fighting him?”

He rubbed at his eyes. His old self seemed to be coming back to him. “No offense meant, of course!” he said to Io. Though he still seemed shaken, he managed a sly grin. “You are an adorable squirt, but merely Level Three.” He shot Tuketu a glance. “Not, ah, that I seek greater challenge—not at all! But isn’t it as you say? An easy task?”

He winked to Dorian again. “Again—no offense, dear.”

“Frankly,” sighed Tuketu, “You will need to back up your words. After last night I have no faith in you.”

The smile froze on Hento’s face.

“I suspect Io has something you do not.” Tuketu raised an eyebrow at Dorian. “They say that hungry Vordors are the most vicious. How hungry are you?”

“Hmph,” said Hento. His nose wrinkled, like he’d smelled something rotten. When he looked at Dorian again he wasn’t angry, maybe, but distinctly annoyed. Even he had some pride, it seemed. “Very well! So I’m the villain today, am I? Easy pickings?” He frowned. “I’ll make this fast.”

He looked over to Kaya with fawn’s eyes. “You’ll forgive me, won’t you?”

Her glare could melt steel.

Tuketu looked at him, nonplussed, as he stepped back. The runic walls finished forming. He spoke a single word. “Begin.”

Luckily, during all the chatter Dorian had time to plan.

In fighting, skill was merely a force multiplier. If most only utilized their powers to a tenth of their full capacities, Dorian squeezed every drop out; he won because he was multiples more effective across every phase and layer of the fight.

The first layer? Strategy.

What did he know of Hento? The man was skittish. Scared. Frazzled. Dazed. He responded poorly to the explosive and the unexpected. He was on edge after the Tuketu’s psychological dissection—which Dorian still considered more rhetorical gimmicks than anything, but it had the undeniable offbalancing effect.

And if Hento was off-balance, all Dorian needed was to push.

Tuketu hadn’t finished his word before Dorian dashed forward; in the next instant, he swerved, pressed a palm to the ground behind him, and forced out a fast [Flash Palm]. It collided with the dune in a geyser of sand.

First there was the bang and the flash and the sand-cloud. Unexpected, explosive.

Second, the [Palm] served as a booster: it launched Dorian halfway across the makeshift ring in an instant. Enough that Hento leapt back, a surprised squeal on his lips.

Could he have stood his ground? With the power discrepancy, certainly. If he’d been given a few seconds to gather himself, he might’ve even done it. Which was why Dorian was on him in an instant. It was the same principle which had able people scrambling away from an aggressive insect.

For just a moment, he needed fear to supersede reason. It worked.

Instantly, panicked, Hento chucked up an attack Dorian didn’t recognize—it seemed like a rope fashioned of sunlight. Whatever the case, Hento was in no condition to time and aim precise shots; it was thrown hopelessly fast and sloppy. It missed Dorian and skittered into the barrier.

Another layer of skill? Execution.

Already Hento was falling back, circling out. A fighter’s basic instinct to defusing pressure: moving to open space. A lesser fighter, likely any of the Chosen here, would’ve followed him in a circle.

To crack the fragile—especially without giving them a chance to breathe, to strike back—Dorian needed pressure. But just running at someone willy-nilly was not pressure; that led to being kited.

Pressure was the systematic denial of space.

Dorian had literally written the textbook on martial combat. He might not know specific qi [Techniques], but he knew the principles of fighting better than he knew himself. Now he drew on the basic concept of fieldcraft: the ability to use one’s surroundings to one’s advantage. It was a wide-ranging concept which played out in vastly dissimilar ways across differing terrain. In all terrain, though, one thing was true.

The enemy could only move if he had space.

So Dorian started to cut him off. With big leaps he ran not for Hento, but where Hento was going; when Hento saw it, and with a yelp, reversed course, Dorian did the same—in the opposite direction. Hento chucked out another rope of light. The technique itself was intricate and well-done. Thrown too fast, though, it also skewed way off; this time Dorian didn’t even need to dodge.

Clearly Hento hadn’t expected a fraction of this resistance. As Dorian closed in he seemed claustrophobic.

Now came the kicker.

First was the [Ray]. But rather than load a heavy intricate shot, he put almost nothing on the strike. Instead he focused on throwing it with pinpoint accuracy.

To a spot five feet in front of Hento, cutting off Hento’s path.

He was banking on one thing: that Hento would see the flash and react automatically. That in his flight, in his panic, he’d skid to a halt.

And once more, Dorian was right.

There were now only ten-odd feet between Hento and him. Dorian closed the distance like lightning.

The sequence was simple. Thrown a little sloppily, even—enough to make an observer think all he was doing was being an overaggressive neophyte. He pivoted, zig-zagged, lunged to avoid a wild [Ray] by Hento, shifted into a switched stance, and—at point-blank range, five feet away, chucked another [Ray] up high.

This strike was also meaningless. Empty volume, thrown right at Hento’s eyes. All flash, no power behind it. This time Hento had the wherewithal to block it fully.

He realized too late it was yet another trick.

Its only purpose was to draw Hento’s attention. Blind him with light for a second, force him to block, lose track of Dorian for just a moment—

—enough for Dorian to close the remainder of the distance.

Skilled as he was, not even Dorian had total confidence he could consistently bridge a four-Level difference, especially at this power level. But that was against a prepared opponent. In that whole sequence he hadn’t given Hento a second to breathe or think straight.

Now it was over.

Above, he heard Hento’s voice rise to a shriek in a register that put pre-pubescent girls to shame. Dorian drove his fist out, and aimed straight at the liver, and threw all of himself into the strongest [Ray] he was capable of.

This time he held nothing back. It was so close that nobody could see it before it’d land; he could afford to throw it with everything he had. Every single correction he could think of was dredged up in an instant as he spun into the move.

More than half of his qi vanished in an instant, birthed into a supercharged blast of of sheer light and heat, a molten hemorrhage-inducing shot aimed straight to the weakest point of Hento’s liver. He knew, even as he threw the shot, that this was the end.

[Level-up!]

[Ray] Lv. 6

[Level-up!]

[Ray] Lv. 7

[Level-up!]

[Ray] Lv. 8

[Level-up!]

[Ray] Lv. 9

Then something very strange happened, and Dorian’s blood chilled. It wasn’t only from the sight.

The temperature suddenly dropped ten degrees.

A cold spiral of icy-blue qi had burst into the air, a whirlpool which caught the [Ray] in its center, slowing it, siphoning off the power, cushioning its blow. When the shot connected, it only succeeded in bending Hento over and knocking him back a step.

When he stood, breathing heavy, he was far from knocked out.

Then the spiral vanished as fast as it’d come.

What?!

An enchanted treasure? A spell tied to his robes? But no—the moment the qi came into being he knew exactly what it was. What Hento was.

That was a [Technique]. Not just any technique, though. A bloodline [Technique].

You’re kidding me.

Now Hento had regrouped, panting; Dorian didn’t have the qi for another concentrated pursuit. Shit. He could only watch as Hento stood upright. His aura was laced with a familiar undertone now, one Dorian had the displeasure of experiencing up-close a mere day before—but from Hento’s father.

Frost Python bloodline!

Stepping back, Dorian cycled his qi with renewed vigor.

He’d just put the brunt of his gas tank into one strike. Now he’d lost that oh-so-crucial element of surprise.

A rueful smile played on Hento’s lips. “Heh,” he said. “I’m ashamed you’ve forced this out of me. Well done.”

Then he got into a fighting stance, and the playfulness vanished in an instant.

“My, you had my heart fluttering! A sublime attack.” He frowned. “But now it’s my turn.”

Then he glared at Tuketu. “You want me to stop running? Fine!”

Shards of qi, the same [Technique] which had brought down the Vordor horde, crackled into the air. They glinted like broken-off icicles in the sunlight, promising fast and spectral violence.

Dorian gritted his teeth. This just got a hell of a lot harder…

Time Elapsed: 1 day, 6 hours