Despite the butcher being far above me in Ascension — possibly third stage by now, not just second — none of that mattered. What good is power without a conditioned body? Sure, he knew techniques. Sure, he could kill a normal person barehanded. But when was the last time he'd actually held a sword? Ten years ago? Fifteen?

  There's a world of difference between standing at a butcher's block hacking at meat and honing your combat skills in real fights. If I were facing a genuine practitioner — a Crimson Retribution warrior or someone from the Order of the Infinite Blade where Mia had enlisted — I might've had some real trouble. Not insurmountable, but significant. Looking at this man, though, I felt no threat whatsoever. He was tall and broad, but a body swollen with fat didn't feel truly strong.

  The magistrate led us to the ring — a designated combat zone that every town keeps near its hall. It looked like exactly what it sounded like: a circle. White sand, bordered with stones. Nearby stood a meditation platform with sitting stones, where Dinrim and several prominent townspeople had already settled in. But it didn't stop there. Word about the fight had spread fast, and a crowd was already gathering at a distance.

  Come to watch a baby get beaten?

  Hodas and I took opposite ends of the ring, and I imagined it must've looked comical from the outside. A washed-up warrior squaring off against a seven-year-old. I figured he felt awkward under all those stares too, but there was no backing out now.

  "We have gathered at this ring to resolve a conflict between two warriors walking the path of the Spiral," the senior inspector announced, his voice loud and nearly ceremonial. "I, Hafir Dorman, Senior Inspector of the White Tiger District, Province of the Slumbering Forest, shall serve as witness and judge of this bout. Does either party wish to withdraw?"

  "No."

  "No."

  "Then choose your weapons."

  "Sword."

  "Spear," the butcher said, which surprised me slightly. And it was a mistake — a very stupid one. A spear is meant to keep an opponent at medium range, and in skilled hands it's formidable. But when your opponent is smaller and faster, the choice seemed bizarre.

  Wooden training weapons appeared in Dorman's hands. Apparently the senior inspector kept an entire arsenal of practice arms in his spatial ring.

  "Real ones," I said, shaking my head and making no move to take the wooden sword.

  "Wooden weapons are recommended for duels of this nature. There's no healer of sufficient skill here to provide emergency treatment. If you both agree to live steel, I can't forbid it, but as senior inspector, I do not condone bloodshed."

  "I intend to take his leg. How am I supposed to do that with a wooden sword?" I grinned. The inspector looked at my opponent. The decision was his.

  "I was going to give you a good beating, runt. Maybe break a few things. But since you're so eager to die — so be it!"

  The training weapons vanished, replaced by the real thing. The inspector was notably prepared and immediately handed me a sword suited to my build: short, single-handed.

  I accepted the weapon and quickly assessed it. Not bad. Not perfect, but not bad. Good balance, decent grip. I returned to my position and waited for Hodas to take his spear. He was limping ostentatiously, but I knew it was an act. He didn't usually play it up this much. Or maybe it was from that technique he'd used against me? The one with the lunge. What if he'd strained the leg?

  If so, all the better for me.

  "Are you ready?" the inspector asked. He received two nods, then swept his hand down, signaling the start.

  One step, and I activated combat trance. Full version now — not the crippled version from before. The world immediately slowed. Hodas stepped forward too, raising his spear, wearing a grin that was a little too pleased.

  A heartbeat later, I understood why.

  He launched a charge using some straightforward technique, followed by a direct thrust. Trying to end it in one strike? Stupid. Dodging was effortless, even without a stepping technique. I simply moved aside, shifting my body left, and immediately counterattacked from his blind side. Losing an eye had made this fight dramatically easier for me.

  Steel flashed. My blade nicked his right forearm, carving away a small strip of skin, and Hodas let out a string of colorful curses.

  "You'll pay for that, runt!"

  Three straight thrusts, and I evaded all of them before the spear even reached full extension. Combat meditation plus experience was a devastating combination. This wasn't like before — my first fight with the gatekeeper, then the cultists. Back then I'd been weak even after opening my focus. My body simply hadn't been ready for the power. Things were different now. Over a year of daily training without missing a single session. Tempering myself however I could. Getting used to my currently modest proportions. Drilling stances and techniques that didn't require internal energy — all so that when the new focus was formed, I'd be ready to fight.

  And now I was ready. Even without open power nodes or techniques, I was dangerous.

  For now I stayed defensive, circling Hodas, wearing him down, studying how he moved. And he moved poorly. You could tell he'd once been decent with the weapon — maybe I'd even have enjoyed fighting the old Hodas. But the current one hadn't just rusted. He'd crumbled. Less than a minute in, his breathing was ragged and his rhythm was shot.

  The butcher peppered me with straightforward techniques, the most dangerous being Phantom Spear — where an illusory spear strikes first and the real one follows. With proper mastery, it's lethal. While you dodge the fake, the real one catches you.

  But with each new attack, his movements grew clumsier and more predictable.

  I think that's enough running.

  This time I struck first, which clearly startled him. Hodas instinctively retreated, trying to recover his spear after a missed thrust, but too late. I could've taken his other eye if I'd wanted. I didn't. Not yet.

  "You're an old, fat boar," I said, flicking blood from my blade. I'd opened his cheek. "Maybe you were a decent warrior once. But right now you're just pathetic."

  His hands were shaking. He touched the cut, and I could see the realization dawning — what could have just happened. He could have been blinded. Permanently. Regrowing eyes was possible but cost more than someone like him could ever afford.

  The butcher snarled and lunged into a new attack — a much more creative one this time. Not a straight thrust. He used the spear like a staff, then spun it around himself, forcing me back.

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  "Not bad," I acknowledged. "You do have something after all."

  But like I said, I was done playing defense.

  Two steps forward, and I dropped into the Flowing Water stance, catching the spear tip on my blade. Shifted slightly, guiding the enemy weapon down, breaking his attack — and struck from the blind side, leaving a shallow cut along his right thigh.

  The butcher immediately drove a thrust at my head. Missed.

  "Almost had me," I grinned obnoxiously, stoking his rage. "Try harder."

  I could practically hear his teeth grinding.

  Lunge, lunge, pivot — and then a quick retreat the instant I tried to land another wound. Looked like I wasn't the only one adjusting to the fight. Confirmation came almost immediately when the butcher used a feint and nearly cracked me across the temple with the butt of his spear.

  A leg sweep followed, but neither attack connected. I jumped, crashed down on him from above — but instead of a sword strike, I drove both feet into the shaft, nearly knocking the spear from his hands. Backflip, and simultaneously a flick of the blade that opened his nose.

  He screamed, cursing me in every way he knew. I decided it was time to finish this. I'd picked up too much of the arena showmanship from Ramuil's pits. The better you performed, the more you entertained the lord of the twelfth ring, the bigger your reward. That only applied to champion fighters, of course — not the common meat that died over and over. And apparently that showboat instinct still lived somewhere deep inside me.

  The next exchange brought an unpleasant surprise. Turns out the butcher could project a spirit shield — one of the most basic defensive techniques.

  Why hadn't he used it earlier?

  Forgot? Couldn't react in time?

  My next two attacks just sparked off the barrier that materialized in front of him. There it was — the real difference between us. Despite my experience, he could defend with a technique like that, while I lacked the offensive power to crack it and had to chip away, hunting for gaps. Unlike a veil or the more advanced armor technique, a spirit shield covers an extremely limited area and doesn't protect the whole body. But it's invisible until the moment of impact, and Hodas could shift it anywhere, guarding whatever he needed to.

  "Alright. I'm done playing with you," I said, settling into a more familiar combat stance.

  First Stance of the Bone Executioner: Shattering the Chains.

  One step. Two. Three.

  Hodas attacked, and I met his technique with mine. Shattering the Chains doesn't require power nodes — it's basic, but devastatingly effective. I expelled raw energy a split second before the weapons collided, adding a burst of acceleration. Sparks flew from the clash, and then the shaft couldn't take it. The spear exploded into splinters.

  The crowd, which had inched closer by then, gasped.

  Hodas stumbled back. He tried to keep his footing while I caught the inspector out of the corner of my eye, moving to intervene — either to replace the weapon or call the winner.

  No.

  There was no point swapping weapons. The outcome would be the same. And ending the fight... even if I'd won, I hadn't collected what was owed.

  Another burst forward — much faster this time. Hodas threw up his shield, and though I couldn't see it, I felt the air vibrate.

  First Stance of the Bone Executioner: Reverse Moon Strike.

  For an instant my form blurred as I spun, building additional momentum.

  Reverse Moon Strike was a demonic technique that required energy. Using something like this in front of the inspector was a risk — even though he wasn't from an Order and probably didn't deal with cultists much, handling internal prefectural affairs rather than external threats. Still a risk. So I wrapped the demonic energy in spiral energy. Fused them, one masking the other.

  My sword met the barrier. It resisted for a fraction of a second, then shattered with a sharp crack. I continued the motion. My blade flared — looking more than anything like a crescent moon, which was exactly why I'd given the technique its name — and then I was behind Hodas, flicking blood from the steel.

  "The duel is ov— fin—" I heard the inspector stumble over his words. I'd ended the fight faster than he could announce it.

  I turned slowly and surveyed the screaming butcher. I'd taken his leg — the one that had been healthy — and there was no reattaching it. The Reverse Moon Strike had shredded it into pieces so small that even the greatest healer on the outer rings probably couldn't put them back together. The other leg hadn't fared well either. A glancing hit, but the technique had torn out a generous chunk of flesh and bone. Even after healing, mobility would be miserable.

  I stepped toward the butcher, but the inspector appeared in my path.

  "The duel is over. You've won," he said. "This was not a fight to the death."

  "And I didn't intend to kill him. He owed me a leg. I collected."

  "You went too far, young man. The fact that you're talented — that you've mastered combat arts at such a young age — doesn't give you the right to wield them so recklessly."

  But I paid no attention to the sermon, because I wasn't finished. I still had energy left in my focus, and I had one more piece of unfinished business — which was, at that very moment, stepping off his meditation stone and heading toward us, nostrils flaring.

  "Mr. Dinrim!" I called out loudly. "I have business with you! I challenge you to a duel!"

  "What?" The elderly magistrate practically tripped over his own feet, staring at me in bewilderment.

  "I challenge you to a duel."

  "I have no quarrel with you, boy. What you did to Mr. Hodas is more than enough."

  "Oh, you're deeply mistaken about that, Mr. Dinrim. Since I've started down this road, I see no point in putting off my questions." Besides, I was confident I could beat him. He was one stage above Hodas in Ascension, but in all the time I'd been here, I'd never seen him train. Maybe he'd been strong in his youth, but he probably hadn't touched a weapon in fifteen years.

  "Questions? What are you talking about?"

  "I believe there's been enough bloodshed for today," the inspector insisted.

  "The Eternal called my name! The name of an innocent child!" And at that point, I truly had been one. "You can talk all you want about the will of the Lord of Justice, but where's the justice in it? I'd done nothing wrong! So why did my name come up?"

  "Only the higher powers know that! And the demons never took you, boy — so what's your grievance?" Dinrim scowled, simultaneously shooting uneasy glances at the other authority figure. Why?

  "My grievance is that I don't believe in the Lords' justice."

  "How dare you insult them!" came the angry outcry — not just from Dinrim but from the crowd. But not the senior inspector. His face had become a wax mask, his gaze expressing absolutely nothing. There was something ineffably eerie about it.

  "The Lords may be powerful, but they're warriors just like us — masters of the first step. That doesn't make them gods. I'm more inclined to believe that people like you, Mr. Dinrim, compile a list every year — names of undesirables, people who inconvenience the citizenry. Like Yusuf the drunkard, whom the demons took at last year's Reckoning Day. He was harmless, but he was an eyesore. Ruined the town's aesthetics. So tell me — why did Nathaniel Crane end up on that list?"

  Dinrim bit his tongue and went white. In his eyes I saw not nervousness but primal terror.

  I'd expected another eruption of anger, accusations of lies and heresy. But the old magistrate just stood there. And the senior inspector gave the old man a very strange look.

  Was it true? Was this old man responsible for two hundred years of my suffering?

  If the inspector hadn't been here, I'd have killed both him and the butcher on the spot. But with that man present, I had to be careful. My family was still locked up somewhere, and I wouldn't risk their lives.

  And before Dinrim could say a single word — before he could justify himself, lie, or accuse me of nonsense — he was split in two. From the middle of his chest to the crown of his skull.

  It happened so fast I didn't see the attack. And a heartbeat later, an invisible force crushed every spectator in the area. Simply crumpled them, turning them into chunks of meat with a sickening crunch.

  Something similar happened to the wounded Hodas, except he wasn't just crushed — he was dragged twenty paces, leaving a streak of flesh and blood in his wake.

  What kind of technique was that?! Who had—

  But it was a stupid question. Obviously. The senior inspector, standing with his hands still clasped behind his back. Suddenly his lips — usually so expressionless — stretched into a hideous, unnatural smile, and darkness flooded his eyes, leaving only two points of crimson light.

  An otherworldly wave of power washed over me. Zirgul shot from its scabbard and rocketed toward the target, but the man just smirked and swatted the weapon aside like a fly. Then something pressed me to the ground. Fourth stage? No. Whoever he was, his power lay far beyond the outer rings. Sixth step at minimum.

  Where had a monster like this come from in our backwater? He'd killed everyone present, and I hadn't even seen how.

  "Shh..." The inspector pressed a finger to his lips. "Tsk-tsk-tsk-tsk... And all of this could have been avoided, boy. I offered you the chance to end things with Hodas. But no — you had to keep asking questions. Questions whose answers must not be spoken. If you'd kept your mouth shut, all these people would still be alive."

  "Who... What are you?"

  He just laughed. Emotions were pouring out of him now. The stone-faced government official had become a grinning, bloodthirsty lunatic.

  "Hello, Nathaniel Crane."

  He took a step. I tried to break free of his control zone, but a snail might as well try outrunning a cat. It cost him nothing to catch me, grab me by the throat, and lift me off the ground.

  Zirgul came alive and struck the man in the back, but didn't even break the skin. Like hitting stone.

  "Now we can get properly acquainted."