132. All That Power (II) (Patreon)

[Bloodline Density]

[17% -> 19%]

[Core Saturation]

[5% -> 11%]

At last, the Tear’s gifts were slowing. What was a torrent was now a stream, and fast winnowing to a trickle. But before it petered out it bestowed upon Dorian one last gift.

[Bloodline Density]

[19% -> 21%]

[Level-Up!]

[Bloodline Technique: Serpent’s Senses] Lv. 0 -> 1

There it was. If the Oasis Lord was to be believed, this marvelous little Technique would let him slow subjective time to a truly astonishing degree.

This, plus that new shadow manipulation Technique—whatever that was—plus his burgeoning Earth Realm core, meant the Dorian who now opened his eyes was not merely stronger than the Dorian who’d sat down to meditate. He was nearly a different creature entirely. Now, there might not be a being in the Oasis who could touch him!

Not a human being, in any case. Whatever lay coiled in the depths of the Sinkhole was yet to be determined…

Hmm.

With his new Bloodline Essence coursing through his veins Dorian felt his Bloodline more clearly and viscerally than ever. In the distance he could sense Resonances glowing weakly all around: other Bloodline Scales stashed away by various noble families. But there was a Bloodline Resonance that cast a long shadow over them all: a fathomless aura rising from the depths of the Sinkhole…

It seemed to hum in tune with the Tear. Fascinating. An investigation for another time.

For now, Dorian eyed the Tear. Nothing else seemed forthcoming. That was that.

He opened his eyes an gazed out at a new world of color. The darks seemed darker, bringing out new gloomy textures in the shadows pooling over the sands; the lights were lighter, and as he glanced up at the fixtures above he could see each tiny white fiber of light-qi sizzling. As he glanced about he could make out every scuff and scratch on the metal stands. What he noticed most was the sheer precision of his senses: it wasn’t merely that he could hear farther than ever. He could also pinpoint where in exact space each sound came from. In the distance, hidden in the tunnels, there was a heartbeat approaching. Fifty steps away. Forty-five. Thirty. Ten…

These were all but appetizers to the Serpent’s Senses, of course! He got up slowly, like a lazy cat stretching after a long nap. Soon—as soon as he got a chance—he had to get some testing done on all these wonderful new toys…

“You’re awake.” The owner of the heartbeat, a bearded man wearing Tournament official’s robes, bowed to him. He seemed rather unkempt for his station—he was missing a finger, and his teeth were yellowed and his breath reeked something rancid. Even his hair was straggly and oily.

“May I congratulate you once more on your victory? It was quite the marvel. Everywhere I go I hear chattering about that final maneuver. A masterstroke, truly.”

“Why, thank you.”

“Of course. May I escort you to the exit?”

Only now did Dorian realize how late it’d gotten. The sky was washed with dull orange. Dusk. He really should be heading back.

A thought did cross the back of his mind—is this guy really a Tournament official? He seemed like he’d been dragged out of a sewer… But hey. Who was he to judge a man by his choice of hygiene?

“Lead the way!”

***

The path they went down was not where Dorian had come in. In fact this went through a maze of corridors, emerging at a dingy exit at the butt end of the arena. It seemed to be an exit for maintenance workers—one hidden from polite view.

Dorian smirked. Yeah. Thought so.

Outside that door were a half-dozen heartbeats. Tense, fast heartbeats, spread out in a tight semicircle.

“Good day, sir,” said the so-called official softly. He’d shifted to put himself behind Dorian and the door. Prepping to lock it when Dorian stepped out, no doubt.

Dorian could guess what this was about.

He’d come anyways because he frankly didn’t care.

They’ve gone through all the trouble of setting up this trap. The least I can do is step into it!

“How’s your boss doing, by the way?” he said offhandedly.

The man frowned. “Pardon?”

“You know, the Rat-King. Is his eye okay?”

The man froze. Horror crept over his features. He schooled himself as fast as he could, but the damage was done. “I am but a humble servant of the governor, sir. I’m afraid—I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

“Oh, relax.” Dorian snorted. “I’ll cooperate! See?”

He grabbed the handle, yanked open the door, and stepped out.

As predicted, it was promptly rammed shut behind him.

He’d emerged in a loading zone where workers might shuttle to and fro, hauling everything from construction to condiments into the belly of the arena. But right now it was deserted—save for a ring of mean-looking men with their mean-looking knives, that was.

And also one blond boy who looked distinctly uncomfortable.

“Pebble?” said Dorian. He raised a brow as he scanned the tightening circle of men. “Oh, come on. This is beneath you.”

“I’m really sorry about this!” cried Pebble. He shuffled his feet. “Gah! But orders are orders…erm. I—I’ll have to make a serious go of killing you. It’s nothing personal, I swear!”

He nodded to the men beside him. “These fine gentlemen are the Rat’s Fang. They’re the best fighters the Mischief’s got—they’re all well in the Earth Realm, and handy with moon-knives besides.” Pebble bit his lip. “And I’ll have to join in on the action too, I think…”

Glittering silvery claws burst out where his nails had been. He winced. “I am sorry it’s got to end this way, but, well. Erm. How about this—if you’ll stick your neck out I can make it quick as can be! I’m really very good at popping people’s heads off. I’ve had a lot of practice, you see—it’s easier than bottle-caps for me! It’ll be painless. Promise!”

“A generous offer,” mused Dorian. He squinted at the horizon, where the setting sun cast its waning light over the skyline, crisscrossing the grounds with the long shadows of street buildings. All of the men—Pebble included—had shadows. “I must say, though. To ambush me in particular, you’ve picked a poor time of day.”

“Right. Yes! Your shadow tricks. You are very strong, but, I mean…We are seven men, and you can only come at one of us at once,” said Pebble. “I don’t think it’ll work out well for you, if I might be a little blunt…” He paused, looking hopeful. “Could you maybe just not resist? Pretty please?”

“Hmm.” Dorian scratched his chin. As it happened, he was rather keen to try out his new Techniques anyways. A happy coincidence. “I’m afraid I can’t do that,” he sighed.

“Ah.” Pebble looked sad. “Well. We’ll be coming at you then, okay?”

“Okay.”

Pebble paused, brows furrowing. “No hard feelings?”

“None whatsoever.”

“Great!” Pebble beamed. He nodded to his men. “Kill him, please!”

The Fang crouched as one, ready to pounce.

Then Dorian raised a hand, eyeing the swathes of shadows draped across the land. He felt a certain kinship to them—as though they were tied to his mind by some invisible rope, and all he had to do was tug.

[Blacken the Sky]!

The darkness answered Dorian’s call.

One by one shadows fled their makers, stripped from buildings and stalls and even the Rat-Fang themselves, racing to pool at Dorian’s feet. The members of the Rat Fang flinched back, hissing, as shadows streamed in from all directions, joining the widening black swamp. The drain on Dorian’s reserves was monstrous. It was a lucky thing his reserves were monstrous to match.

The Fang knew as well as he did what it meant. The space of shadow was his domain! To step within was to gamble with their lives; they all scrambled back, gasping. They’d seen what he’d done to their boss, after all…

Curious how with his newly honed senses, Dorian picked up on such subtle things: the tangy scent of sweat on palms, the quickening of breaths, of hearts, a trembling of the eyes. The delicious smell of fear. He licked his lips. “Well? Who’s first?”

“Fools!” growled a scarred Rat. His face was hard, yet still pale. “It’s but a trick of the light! Charge the fucker!”

Then the Javelin rose lazily from the shadows at Dorian’s feet like the head of some massive snake. It settled above his head, where the fine point of its tip—still flecked with the Rat-King’s blood—hung still and silent in the air.

None of them volunteered. Dorian sighed.

His qi was down to three-quarters now, in the space of mere heartbeats! “I’m not chasing down all of you,” he said. “You’ll have to come to me.”

He frowned. “Is it the shadows that’s got you all hung up? Here! I’ll make the choice easy.”

The Stadium cast a shadow so large it covered vast swathes of the street.

Dorian grabbed at as much as he could, and yanked.

Instantly all of them were enveloped in a huge domain of darkness. They were all up to their ankles in the stuff, a swathe of blackness that stretched far down either end of the street, smothering the whole of the loading zone. No escape. The Rats looked to one another in horror.

Then, screeching and hissing, they leapt for Dorian’s throat.

Which was lucky, since this little trick by itself vanished nearly a third of Dorian’s qi!

If they’d all scattered in different directions tracking them one-by-one might’ve been a hassle. How nice of these Mischief elites to present themselves to me one by one, in one tight-knit group! He’d been anticipating some drawn-out blood feud between him and the Rat-King’s forces, full of sniping and assassination attempts and all kinds of messy nonsense. Instead…

[Serpent’s Senses]!

Six blurs of motion took on sudden definition. Their arms, thrusting out, could’ve been moving through oil. Their bodies all hung in mid-air, their heads drifting toward Dorian like angry, snarling balloons. He easily twirled around, tracking their trajectories in his mind. Balloons of flesh and blood—that’s all those plump heads were!

Dorian thrust all of the rest of his qi into his Fang, charging it to its maximum speed and power. Then, carefully, quickly, he strung his needle through that loop of balloons. One by one they went pop-pop-pop-pop-pop!

Ah…

He grinned, basking in the shower of blood and brain matter, in the sight of six bodies going limp at once, knives falling from nerveless fingers. They made a lovely thump-thump-thump-thump-thump as they slouched into the sands.

Dorian surveyed his handiwork with satisfaction.

There was still one Mischief fighter left.

Pebble. He—perhaps sensing the danger—was the sole Rat who’d held back. He blinked two huge eyes at Dorian. "...Huh." 

For once he seemed at a loss for words.