The shards hissed and crackled into being in a small sphere around Hento—a spawning zone. Hento whipped out the embroidered sleeves of his silk robes in a flourish.

The shards shot out, arching like spears, and Dorian was reduced to frantic dodging. His eyes flitted between them, noting their trajectories and speeds as he screamed at his limbs to move.

The issue with newer bodies was that they never felt quite right until he’d worn them in. The major things were the lack of muscle memory; the dodge of an experienced fighter was nearly automatic, aided by years of physical instinct. Now, he had to physically think through each and every small motion.

Which meant even with all his dodging, and running, and diving, and whirling, a shard still snuck its way through and scored him across the back.

He kept running, shunting the pain into a corner of his mind. All the while he cycled furiously, trying to recover enough for a counterattack. Perhaps the only benefit of having a pittance of qi was that it didn’t take long to replenish.

Fleeing, bleeding and dodging shards by finger widths, he tried dashing at Hento again. Predictably, he was met with a barrage of strikes which flew at him head-on; two nicked him on the sides in flares of pain. Where they touched the skin hardened, deadening. Grimacing, he retreated and forced himself to reassess.

All the while he ran, dodging for all his life’s worth.

Skill might be a power multiplier, but at a certain point 10% of the enemy’s firepower used effectively exceeded 90% of his own. That was when he was well and truly screwed.

Before Hento unveiled his bloodline, he was sure it hadn’t gotten to that point.

Now, though… he wasn’t sure of anything.

How pure was the bloodline? How much had Chief Rust invested? How many skills did it grant—what was its true nature? All frustrating unknowns. So far Hento had shown two skills, a ranged icicle shot and a shielding skill; was that all? At his level, possibly.

But possibly wasn’t good enough. Dorian was not risk-averse—if he wished to but these 50/50 situations were the worst, especially if a run hinged on a win. If he got in the habit of slipping into them over the course of centuries, the odds would inevitably tip the other way.

He took a deep breath. He needed to right his head. Win or not, this run wasn’t over. But this was a matter of weeks, perhaps months saved. Maybe more; where else would he get an interspatial ring this early?

He sighed as another shard cut him across the thigh. It seemed it was time for another veteran move.

The instinctual thing was to sit at range and try to win a battle of attrition; it was what most fighters would do. Dashing into the shards’ spawn points was asking to be made a pincushion, after all. Wouldn’t it be better to sit outside, trade [Rays] for shards?

No. That only lead to a slower but inevitable demise. He had a fraction of Hento’s qi and even fewer projectiles, and what [Rays] did get through might just be absorbed by that shield! Slow-playing things was out.

Which only led to one choice: a very fast and possible demise.

He needed to run in to deliver a clean, more damaging blow. The question changed from ‘what to do’ to ‘how to do it.’

So for the next twenty seconds, during which he yelped and spun, and got laced with three more shots, he looked for just one thing. Spawning patterns.

In mental attacks, humans always used heuristics; it was a means of preserving mental strength. With the Shaman, it was flying the Vordors in set patterns. With Hento, it was cycling through nine or ten distinct spawning patterns. To the untrained eye it might look random, but after three successive cycles—and a gash across the chest—he was starting to piece things together, to puzzle out a route.

He growled. It was like running calculations on an abacus. Intolerable. Ideally he’d hit the Brain Refining stage of the [Vigor] Realm soon….

For now, he’d need to take his chances. His body still hummed with adrenaline. His nerves felt on fire. Even dulled, though, the pain dug at him from all sides. Was he woozy already from blood loss, or was that the effect of the shards? Moving his legs, which had taken a few on the thighs and the calf, felt like lugging metal pipes.

“It’s over, little Io!” called Hento. He grinned like a cat. His confidence seemed to be rushing back into him, puffing out his chest like hot air. “Give up. I’d hate to hurt you more.”

As though to underscore his words, a slip on the sand had Dorian hurtling into a shard. It cut him heavy across the brows; blood seeped down into his eyes in an instant. It was the worst cut yet.

Shit!

From the sidelines came a shout: “Make it a fight!” Tocho’s face was reddening. To his side Tuketu stared in stony silence. “Don’t just run, damn you! Bring it!”

Which turned out to be perfect timing, because now Dorian had no time to waste.

The shout came as the latest volley finished; the shards were starting a new cycle.

The pattern flashed in Dorian’s mind. It was never a question of making it through unscathed. That was impossible. Instead, the route that’d eat the least damage surfaced in his mind.

Wiping a splattering of blood out of his eyes, his qi half-replenished and feeling like he was dragging his body through mud, he went for it.

Left, pivot right, eat first shot, somersault forward, slip under, eat second shot, duck shot from behind. There.

He dashed in. Left. Pivoted right, dodging three shards but eating one straight on the cheek, hissed, somersaulted to avoid another, slipped three up-top to eat a second shot—

—and staggered.

Drat! His leg was more compromised than he thought. It had already been dragging along, slowed by the shards’ effects. Now it stopped listening to him for just a second.

A second, sadly, cost him an icicle which speared him so hard it knocked him off his feet. The cleanest hit yet. He felt like he’d swallowed pure lightning; for a second he saw only white.

The only plus? It hit him in the back.

Which meant it propelled him right to Hento’s feet, on his knees.

Dorian didn’t believe it. He looked up. By Hento’s shocked gaze, he didn’t believe it either.

Dorian couldn’t let him get his bearings. Any qi attack was not only too slow, Hento would only dissolve it with his whirlpool shield. Which left him only one option.

Then Dorian grinned two rows of bloodied teeth, looked down to the hems of Hento’s prized silk robes, and spat out a glob of blood.

What happened next seemed to go in slow motion.

Hento’s eyes popped out so far it was like they were going to fall out his head. His mouth gaped dumbly. He recoiled in utter horror, yanking his legs all the way back to dodge. He fell forward hands splayed, legs shunting back, back hunched, in one of the least aerodynamic positions a human being could possibly be in.

Dorian watched on his knees, half-amused, half-incredulous. Even he hadn’t expected this much of a reaction. He tried jumping up with his legs. No luck. He breathed in, and it felt like a lung had collapsed; whatever had struck him on the back had hit him clean. He yelled at his left arm. Left arm did not reply. You’re kidding me.

It was definitely the shards. He couldn’t tell if it was poison or freezing, but his whole body felt weighed down and far away.

This all took place in less than half a second.

In one last-ditch effort, he flexed out his right hand and found that it, thank Fate, obeyed.

So he hauled it up as fast as he could muster. He saw the tiny motions of the eyelashes, the slight curves of the mouth down, down, as Hento saw the motion, saw its implication, moved to react—

As fast as he possibly could, Dorian forced out a [Ray].

Its sound was a thunderclap. In the same instant, Hento drew up the whirlpool.

A blink too late.

Had he not been midway through a flailing fall, it might’ve worked. But as it was, the [Ray] whipped by an instant before the shield formed.

And nailed Hento right in the eyes.

“AAAAAAGH!”

Hento fell to his knees, clutching his face in both hands. The shards vanished. He shuddered on the ground, trembling, and loosed a drawn-out groan.

Dorian was a little taken aback. Did it do that much damage? Really? Maybe he’d hit a more sensitive spot than he thought. But he hadn’t put much at all into that [Ray]—at most it should’ve felt like a strong sting.

He’d been planning to follow it up with a [Flash Palm], this one loaded with everything he had.

But now it seemed the fight was over at the first strike. Somehow. He blinked.

“Get up, you feckless wuss!” roared Tocho. He looked beyond enraged. He smashed his staff into the sand, scattering a black cloud.

“Hrrng!” replied Hento. “Gahhhh!!” He’d progressed to squirming on the ground. “I yield! I yield!” he cried, his voice warbling tearfully.

Then Dorian understood. He put his palm down, perplexed.

Oh. He’s just a bitch.

A weirdly anticlimactic end—but a win nonetheless, so Dorian couldn’t complain. All he could think of as he watched Hento writhe was, what a waste of talent. What kind of ludicrously measly pain tolerance was this?!

…In hindsight, exactly the sort of pain tolerance he should’ve expected from someone like Hento…

Tuketu had a tortured look on his face. It looked stuck between amusement and rage, and for a moment it see-sawed between the two. The balance tipped.

Laughter, full-throated, belly-shaking laughter. It continued like that for a good twenty seconds; everyone stood there awkwardly, unsure what to do. At last he seemed to recover himself.

Hento had gotten to his knees shakily. His eyes were reddened, but fine. He almost fell over again once Tuketu marched over with murder in the hard lines of his face.

“I should gut you where you stand,” breathed Tuketu. He was still smiling. His eyes were doing the opposite of smiling.

Hento gulped. He stumbled back. He opened his mouth. He closed his mouth.

“You sure had me fooled,” snorted Tuketu. “For an instant, I thought you had grown a spine.”

He patted Hento on the back. Or, rather, he clubbed Hento on the back; Hento doubled over, coughing, after each strike.

“You owe our young friend here your robes,” he said softly. “I expect you to hand-deliver them once this is over.”

Hento nodded slowly, sniffling. He seemed hollowed-out.

Dorian glanced up expectantly, eyeing the ring on Tuketu’s hand. But Tuketu seemed not to notice his gaze.

“And you, Io—what a performance! You’ve shown me, and the rest of your Chosen brethren, what a warrior should be!”

Dorian nodded from his knees. Seeing his predicament, Tuketu raised a hand to his head.

“I’m a fool. Of course; you remain injured. Have this.”

He magicked out a healing pill from his ring and dropped it in Dorian’s hand. Dorian swallowed it in a gulp. The ring?

But Tuketu had turned back to Hento, and it was like he was a whole different person.

“If it were not for young Io’s mercy you would be a Chosen no longer,” he snapped. If Hento’s head could hang lower it would hit the ground. Tuketu paused.

“Well. You made an effort. It’s progress.” Hento perked up like a puppy at the last word. Likely, it was the first positive thing he’d ever gotten from the man. He looked shocked.

Nodding, Tuketu kept on. “We can’t hope to fix your nature in a day. You’ve taken a first step. Next time, I expect a leap.”

Hento’s head nodded the way a butterfly’s wings fluttered.

The qi pill must’ve been high-grade; warmth spread to all of Dorian’s limbs, washing off the frozen sensations. In mere seconds, he felt strong enough to hobble up to a knee.

Just as Tuketu turned back to the rest of the Chosen.

“A worthy opener bout to dueling day,” he intoned. “Next up—“

“Excuse me,” said Dorian sweetly. “Aren’t we forgetting something?”

Tuketu turned around with a weighty slowness. “Pardon?” he said, raising an eyebrow.

“That ring,” said Dorian. He blinked innocently. “Isn’t it mine now?”

Time Elapsed: 1 day, 7 hours