The Golden Roc reached godhood in maturity. After a century-cycle each Roc ascended to a higher plane, but not before leaving offspring behind. Zhang was not wrong to call it a creature loved by the universe; in that egg lay a hint of the divine.

It wouldn’t only sharply raise cultivation. It’d also purify his body and add a fire affinity to his Vigor Physique’s innate death affinities, meaning it’d supercharge all fire-aspect techniques. It’d drastically enhance his talent: that spark of the divine would bend qi-flows to his will, more than doubling his cycling speeds. Best of all was its regenerative use. Dorian couldn’t assimilate the Golden Roc bloodline within—it’d clash with his own—but he could make use of the blood, laden with potent, creative energies, to help heal his wounded soul.

In other words, at minimum it’d shave months off of this run. With the way things were going lately, it might even save this run and give him a nice boost besides.

Dorian gritted his teeth. It was hard to think under this blasted pressure, but he hadn’t a doubt he could win this Trial. He was wounded, but his soul was also qualitatively different from these mortals. It was simply a question of pain tolerance for him: it’d hurt as nine hells, but he’d get it. By nature he was a risk-taker, he knew; his judgment was often skewed by foolhardiness. Which was why he tried to modulate the overpowering instinct to run forward and snatch the thing with reason.

As Zhang raised his hands, ready to signal the start, Dorian was stuck in a dilemma. Thoughts raced through his mind. First was the obvious. To beat out the rest of the field would put him in a spotlight, at a time when being known could very well spell serious trouble. Pearl, and the god he hid, would likely see him as just some mortal with a supernal endowment of soul-force.

Or. He might make a leap of logic and come to suspect that this strong-souled creature might also have the soul capacity to fashion and execute long-ranging surveillance Techniques…

The decision was made for Dorian almost as soon as Zhang said, “Begin!”

All of them struggled forth in an instant. Yalta’s nose was scrunched in concentration; Narong’s face was a tallymark frown. They moved like they trudged through a swamp. Every inch was a battle. Groans resounded, muscles clenched, teeth gritted.

For everyone, that is, except for Young Master Xiamen. Kono looked around with his big, dark-rimmed eyes, blinking in confusion. And then started to stroll.

Dorian stared, incredulous. It was like the boy existed in a different space than the rest of them. He met no resistance; he might’ve been taking a casual afternoon stroll. Even Zhang looked taken aback. His bushy white brows jumped up.

In mere seconds Kono had crossed a quarter of the distance. “How… is… he… doing… that?” groaned Kaya. She’d scarcely moved a foot beyond the starting line and she was already sweating up a puddle.

A third of the way. Dorian warred with himself. Go for it, or not? He was running out of time. Halfway. If Kono went any farther he wouldn’t have a chance to catch up, all-out effort or not.

He felt like he was in the first Trial all over again. He was behind, struck by some out-of-nowhere chance occurrence. And yet again this strange little creature was the cause of it. A spike of pain ripped through Dorian’s skull, and the same decision he’d made in the First Trial settled at the bottom of his mind.

Screw it. He was done laying low. Whatever dangers there were were illusory; the Egg was real. Qualifying for the Tournament was real. Worst-case, the run finished. Perhaps that rogue god even got a clean shot off on him. He stopped caring.

This run was cursed from the start. The only posture he could take was to go for it, risks be damned. He ran.

In contrast to Kono’s leisurely walk, he must’ve looked like a drunkard stumbling out of a bar. But instead of slumping and falling he kept stumbling, carrying on his momentum and loosing a strained scream. It wasn’t faked and it helped his case. If there was a hot nail being driven into his head before, it now felt like a musclebound blacksmith was pounding at it with a hammer. Dorian had pushed himself enough to know where the exact limit between consciousness and unconsciousness lay. Now he shoved himself to the boundary and straddled it for all he was worth.

Kono barely registered him until he was barreling by; Dorian saw the boy’s eyes widen as he passed. That was nearly enough to tip him over, but he forced his limbs underneath him and kept up the stumble-sprint. The pain worsened as he got closer; he had to slow down some to keep from passing out. Everything else—the crowd, the others, the pedestal, the ground—faded out. There was a haze of mind-bending, reality-warping pain, and in its center, the eye of the storm, was his target.

He gave it one last lunge and gasped as a his eyes blanked all-white for a second. His hands closed around something round. It felt like holding onto a fireball. A warmth flowered in his chest. Yes.

He opened his eyes and saw a stretched image of himself staring back from the egg’s glossy surface. For a second the world swam, black spots fizzing into his vision. He’d pushed himself too far. He couldn’t hold the egg much longer. His mind was starting to curl in on itself. His Interspatial Ring had been left in one of Hu’s chests for safekeeping—competitors weren’t allowed them in Trials. Delay any longer and he might have greedy hands, Rust’s or Tuketu’s alike, snatching for it. All the while his soul ached something fierce, taxed to its limit by this last stunt.

He made a snap-judgment, brought it to his lips, and swallowed it whole. Then he opened his eyes and saw Zhang’s saucer eyes, his mouth hanging slightly open. Then the man collected himself and mouthed words—Your winner, and the first qualifier of the Tournament—Io of Rust Tribe! He heard none of it. All that existed was a distant ringing in his ears and a new, frenzied glut of qi which overflowed his gut, stretching up his throat, and his world wiped out again, swamped by a wall of sheer qi. He started cycling it immediately.

The first level of the Vigor Realm was the purification of Bone. Qi gushed down his body like flood-rains down a dry riverbed; carefully he directed them to each of his bones in turn, supercharging them with qi. Filling them so fully that impurities were forced from his body. It was a task which took all of his mind. A slip-up here could mean these energies ran wild. The amount he was working with strained his skin as it flowed through him, raising hairline fractures on the surface of his body—if he let it run wild it might tear a literal hole through him as it left him. So all there was to do was endure and resist until it mellowed to a manageable point.

Dimly, in the corner of his mind, he was aware of how strange this all must seem. He rushed up, took the prize, swallowed it whole, and as far as he knew hadn’t moved an inch after. This was why cultivators went into closed-door cultivation; when they shifted this deep into cultivation the outside world faded. But now was neither the time nor place for such a trance. Straining, he cracked open his eyes.

Everyone stared at him. Thousands, under banners of green and yellow, donning leather and wispy silks and tattered rags alike, all utterly befuddled. To his right Zhang said a phrase which flew past his ringing ears. He wiped at his eyes, flicking off sweat he hadn’t known was there. His whole body was soaked.

“What?” said Dorian, frowning.

“I merely told you congratulations,” Zhang said with a politician’s smile. “An impressive, if curious, victory. I understand—you may be too preoccupied to hear it.” The sounds came to Dorian as though underwater. Most of his attention was still split on assimilating the qi.

He saw Zhang fish out one token. “This,” Zhang intoned, “is your entrance token to the Tournament. One moment.”

Then he traced a nail along Dorian’s palm. Blood gurgled up. Before Dorian could react he’d pressed the token in it. A resonance hummed in his soul: a new bond. Stepping back, Zhang nodded. “Present it at the Azcan Oasis in three weeks’ time.”

Then Zhang raised his hand, and the crowd let out a wall of noise; he saw heads turning to each other, brows raised, arms folded and incredulous looks. A wall of cheers and shouts and whispers struck Dorian. Dorian looked to the Rust Tribe section and saw children hopping up and down. He saw Rust at the fringe; even he couldn’t hide his shock. Did Dorian detect in that gaze a hint of fear, even? They locked eyes and Rust’s emotions vanished in an instant. The man nodded stiffly.

Zhang was making the rounds now, distributing tokens to the sixteen competitors nearest to Dorian. Kono was first to make it—though he didn’t even look at Zhang as the man handed him his token. Instead his eyes were fixed on Dorian, unblinking. Young Masters Yalta, Narong, and Zhaopai all got tokens.So did Pearl. Each got a wide smattering of applause and cheers, especially from their sections. And to Dorian’s pleasant surprise, Kaya squeaked in at fifteenth. She looked like she could scarcely believe it.

At the end of it all, Zhang came back to Dorian’s side by the pedestal in full master-of-ceremonies mode.

“That concludes this year’s Festival Trials!” He boomed. “A final congratulations to all who’ve made it this far. We shall follow your journeys at the Tournament. Good day! Before we disperse—to the winner of the Trial of the Soul.”

Now he wheeled to Dorian, eyes shining. “Have you anything to say to us in your triumphant hour?”

What does he expect of me, some rousing speech? A few thoughts to give hope to people in these trying times, perhaps?

When Dorian shrugged, Zhang beamed. “Excellent.” Zhang held a charm in his hand to Dorian’s face. As Dorian cleared his throat, he heard the sound echo across the dunes, magnified severalfold. Great.

“Come down to Hu’s Superb Elixirs this afternoon!” He roared. “Exclusive, exotic elixirs! The best of the best—they helped me win all my Trials! Today’s our last-day sale! Discounts on ALL our super-strength healing elixirs!! Don’t miss it!”

Then he handed the charm back to Zhang, who now looked distinctly constipated, nodded with a smile, and waddled off.