used to swing, Suriel saw her vision of the future warp and twist.
[WARNING: Deviation detected], her Presence warned.
The Sword of Makiel landed on the blade of the Scythe. The clash between the two weapons blasted a crater in the central planet of Oasis, and tens of millions died instantly.
Suriel left them to die.
She appeared next to Makiel, adding the defense of her Razor to his Sword. The Scythe still swept down, cracking both their armor.
With Makiel in her arms, Suriel wrenched open the Way.
And fled.
Lindon rose up on his cloud until he was even with the halo of light around Mount Samara. He was still outside the suppression field, but only by a few feet. Any technique he threw into Sacred Valley would be weakened.
But his heart pounded and the skin all over his body tightened as he looked inside and came face-to-face with the Wandering Titan.
In reality, they were still maybe a mile apart. But the Dreadgod was so huge that Lindon felt like it could lean forward and snap him up in its jaws.
Its eyes were swirling clouds of every shade of yellow, and it scanned Mount Samara up and down, as though looking for something.
Far down below, at its feet, the river of fleeing people on the mountain slopes had scattered like ants. Some of them continued running up the mountain to safety, but others scurried any direction that was away from the Titan’s feet.
Even back into Sacred Valley, which had been…broken. Shattered. Churned beyond recognition, like meat in a grinder.
Only three of the four sacred peaks still stood, and the Titan was eyeing this one. Every second the Dreadgod delayed was more lives spared.
And there was only one person here whose techniques could affect a Dreadgod.
“Dross,” Lindon said aloud, “I would be very grateful if you had a battle plan for me.”
[Battle. A battle plan. I’ve got a wonderful strategic retreat plan.]
Lindon was already mentally exhausted just from bringing himself here, but as he understood it, willpower wasn’t like madra. He didn’t have a finite amount that could run out. As long as he could concentrate, he could keep fighting.
He trembled all over. Not only did he feel like a mouse staring up at a lion, but even his spirit shook before the irresistible pressure of the Dreadgod.
And the Titan was being suppressed while he wasn’t.
Still, he drew up his focus. If the heavens were kind, the Titan would turn away and leave entirely. Maybe Lindon wouldn’t have to do anything at all.
Why hasn’t it left the valley already?
[I’ll show you if you promise to take me far, far away from here.] Despite his words, Dross pulled Lindon’s attention to the north, where—even in the fractured mess that remained of Sacred Valley—Lindon could make out shapes. Footprints.
It had walked north, stopped at Mount Yoma, and then headed east again.
Why?
Now it was examining Mount Samara, and Lindon felt an inhalation filled with hunger madra. The Dreadgod was sniffing for something in the mountain.
That wasn’t an attack, and the Titan was still trapped in the suppression field, but Lindon still hoped the act of breathing in wouldn’t be enough to kill the people at the Dreadgod’s feet.
He had the impression that the Titan had been at this for a while, and Lindon fervently hoped that it would continue for even longer. Maybe the bulk of the people beneath him would be able to flee before the Dreadgod had found whatever it was looking for. He might not have to do anything at all.
Slowly, like an old man reaching for his medication, the Titan reached up toward Lindon.
He panicked and shot backwards, but it was clear that the Titan had no interest in Lindon at all. It was grabbing for the circle of light around the peak.
Now was his chance. The collapse of the ring might send madra raining down on the people below…but more personally, Lindon couldn’t bear the thought of the Dreadgod destroying Samara’s ring.
There was too little of Sacred Valley left.
From watching Malice, he hadn’t been able to tell if techniques were weaker if they originated from outside the script or from inside. He would try the former first.
With both hands in front of him, he opened his spirit wide, channeling Blackflame into dragon’s breath. At the same time, he poured his Overlord soulfire into it, which was now a brighter and more vivid silver than the diffuse, colorless flame of an Underlord. On top of all that, he added his will.