Glade’s first fight took place the next day. He stepped out into the arena when the gates opened, letting the daylight wash across his face.

They were near the end of the first bracket, and this was one of the last fights in the first round. He drew his sword and held it up to the light, but as soon as he began walking across the arena, a chunk of the Shattered Moon’s crust shifted across the sun, blocking all natural light. Only the golden projections of their forms hovered above the arena, illuminating the sand and the contestants.

Glade approached a tall elven man with a pair of battle axes. Elves weren’t naturally immortal, but they were naturally long-lived, and when they were God-heirs, they tended to live even longer.

He was fighting an opponent with decades more experience than the other contestants, and that would have to count for something. Against him, though.

But he was an elf, a full-blooded elf as best Glade could see—he had pointy ears that stuck straight out the side of his head and perfect olive skin—and that meant he was on an illusion-based Path.

He was a descendant of Kalawen, Goddess of Love. Aside from an especially handsome appearance, he’d conjure illusions and strike at his opponent’s soul while they were distracted.

Especially effective against a sword-user, who conceivably wouldn’t have any aura or area-of-effect attacks to test illusions en-masse. They’d done this on purpose.

“Be careful,” Glade whispered to the swordwyrm, which hovered just behind him. “He will create illusions.”

“Brelond,” Karmion announced. “Sponsored by Kalawen, on the Path of the Mistaxe.”

At that, the crowd let off a roaring cheer. Candles lit up all across the stands, illuminating the audience even in the midday darkness.

From Glade’s pre-match research, Brelond had been a relatively popular figure amongst the citizens of the Elderworlds for his help in crushing a rebellion and dealing with a Ko-Ganall, and stories about him had circulated around the galaxy in droves.

“Glade Charl Arvitir,” Karmion continued. “Sponsered by King Tallerion, using the Path of the Autumn Edge.”

The crowd fell silent. The swordwyrm leaned closer to Glade, and in its soft, metallic voice, it said, “They don’t like sword-friend.”

“I would not expect them to.” Glade held his sword out to his side, then spun it once and bent his knees. He was ready.

A trumpet blared, Karmion’s enhanced voice cut off, and the fight began.

Immediately, ten illusions sprang up around Glade, all a perfect replica of Brelond—down to the flowing sleeveless robes and long blonde hair. But Glade kept his gaze pinned to the one Brelond who’d been standing in place before the fight began.

All the illusory Brelonds, and the one real one, converged at once. Glade pounced at the real Brelond, but the God-heir had to have been expecting it. Purple illusion-aspect Arcara swirled up his arms, Bracing himself, and he swung his axes with the strength of a charging horse.

Glade blocked and parried each swipe, ignoring the illusions even when they converged on him. As long as he kept focussed, the illusions couldn’t affect him.

But Brelond maintained his pressure. He attacked hard and fast, pushing Glade back across the arena. Glade defended every swipe precisely and expertly. The swordwyrm dipped in to help, deflecting every second axe swipe and relieving pressure from Glade. They didn’t show an opening, and Brelond wouldn’t land a finishing blow.

But the elven man did land a kick. Glade spun, sliding backward and creating a puff of sand. He skidded to a halt, swordwyrm at his side, and stared at the ten images of Brelond.

For just a second, he’d lost sight of the real elf. It could’ve been any of them, now.

He charged at the same elf in front of him, hoping Brelond hadn’t had time to switch places, but his sword swished right through the illusion with no resistance.

Illusions were a manipulation of the soul—perfect for a God-heir from the Goddess of Love. They wouldn’t appear to anyone except the victim. Everyone else would just be seeing him slashing at empty air.

An image of Brelond charged at him, but he slipped to the side, letting the axe flash past his face. It might not have been real, but he couldn’t take that chance with his life—and the tournament—on the line.

“Test them,” Glade whispered to the swordwyrm. If he had a broad, sweeping attack, he could test them all at once, but this was meant to be a terrible match up for him.

The swordwyrm swished in a circle around him, orbiting like a planet around a star. It hacked through illusions. Each one made an effort to dodge the blade, like a God-heir might, with all their capabilities and speed. It hit some, and they disintegrated, falling out of Glade’s perception.

He whirled his sword in a defensive pattern, creating a cage of steel around himself as he backed away. The illusions moved to encircle him, and he needed to protect against all angles.

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With his spare hand, he opened his pouch of metal filings and shavings and drew them out with a Reach technique. They flashed through the air and whipped past an illusion, slicing off a chunk of its shoulder. It disintegrated.

As quickly as he and the swordwyrm tested them, though, more sprang up, forming a perfect, enclosing circle around him, and it took all his effort to keep them at bay.

If he didn’t change tactics, he’d lose. They’d encroach on him, then the real Brelond would defeat him.

Illusions preyed on the soul. He could resist them if he had a soul-Bracing technique, but he didn’t. The best he could do was internal Warding, but that wouldn’t affect his soul.

But what would a Bracing technique for the soul do? Improve his willpower, his ability to cycle?

He could focus and direct his willpower whenever he wanted.

He switched from a combat-focussed cycling pattern to a purification-focussed pattern. He didn’t have any elixirs to integrate or spare mana to use, but it was the most willpower intensive, and it’d automatically draw out more from his soul—push it to its limit.

All of the illusions dimmed except one. That was the real Brelond.

But Glade couldn’t let the elf know that he’d seen through the technique. He charged at a misty, half-formed illusion beside Brelond. The elf had spent all his time practicing illusions, and had dedicated no effort to training his martial skills—not to the extent that Glade had.

Even with Glade using a purification cycling pattern, he could exert more power through sheer skill with a sword.

And he could do it faster.

He lunged, aiming for the illusion beside Brelond. As expected, the real Brelond didn’t react—not until it was too late.

Glade turned his sword to the side and sliced toward the elf, aiming for the neck. Brelond raised his axes, but he was too slow, and instead of blocking, he trapped Glade’s sword in a terrible position.

“With a flick of my wrist, you are dead,” Glade whispered. “Give up.”

“H—how?” Brelond scrunched his eyebrows. He cycled furiously, pouring more Arcara into the illusions, but Glade didn’t let the real one out of his sight. An illusion charged at him from behind, swinging its axe, but it passed straight through Glade with no volume, mass, or impact.

The swordwyrm danced around still, slicing up illusions without a care, but Glade had already won.

“I won’t lose to you, Velaydian!” Brelond spat, then tipped his wrist forward, trying to slash Glade with one of his axes.

Glade ripped his sword to the side, slashing Brelond’s throat and dodging the spurt of blood. The elf’s body fell limp to the ground, unmoving, but for good measure—and to lessen the suffering—Glade drove his sword through the man’s heart.

The crowd was mostly silent, aside from a few scattered jeers and murmuring. Someone shouted praise from the Velaydian tower, but it barely reached the arena bottom.

Glade flicked the blood off his sword and beckoned the swordwyrm closer. “Good work, bud.”

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Vayra knew why Glade had been slashing at empty air, dodging things that didn’t exist, and all around looking like a desperate fool, but it didn’t make it any less…jarring.

Still, she clung to the railing of a perch in the Velaydian observation tower, overlooking the whole scene with confusion and awe.

He’d gotten so much stronger, still, and even if his well of mana was comparatively tiny, and his spirit strained beyond belief, he was still miles ahead of anyone else in the Order of balance.

But if he couldn’t defeat the illusions, it would all be over.

When he reached his opponent, relief and pride swelled in her. And though she didn’t relish the thought of killing that elf, she couldn’t deny her relief that it had only been one round. Glade might not have had enough mana to make it through a second round.

“He knows what to do,” Nathariel said, standing behind her.

Still, there was no window, only a wooden railing separating her from the arena miles below. She used a standard Bracing technique on her throat and voicebox, then clapped and hollered, “Good work, Glade! Good job!”

It didn’t travel far, but it was better than nothing.

For the next few minutes, the guards cleaned out the arena, sweeping the sand dragging away the elf’s body.

Then the next contestants entered.

Vayra swallowed down an instinctive fear when Myrrir stepped into the arena. He was only a distant red and bronze speck, but her reforged, enhanced vision still picked him out. A sunlight projection of him appeared moments later, towering above the arena—and hovering at eye level for the watchers in the tower.

She clenched her teeth and kept watching, even as Karmion introduced Myrrir and his opponent—some human woman using a plant-based Path.

Myrrir, who’d chased her halfway across the galaxy, and Myrrir, who’d impaled her with a Shadowthorn and severed two of her limbs.

She watched the fight closely, hoping that, at any moment, he might be eliminated. With each impact, her heart swelled, but the woman never gained the upper hand. Myrrir forced her to surrender once, and Vayra cursed under her breath.

During the intermission between the fights, Glade arrived at their level of the tower. He plunked a hat onto his head and approached the railing. “Is everything alright, Vayra?”

“It’s Myrrir,” she said.

The next round of Myrrir’s fight proceeded the same as the first. The plant-manipulating woman got close, her vines reaching out of the ground and ensnaring Myrrir’s ankles, but the little green bands weren’t enough to take him down.

Glade muttered, “I thought, being a manipulator of plants, she might have been Ameena.”

“Who?”

“Myr friend from Harvest Sanctuary.”

“This one’s a human, though,” Vayra said—and just in time for Myrrir to force the woman to surrender a second time. He was progressing to the next round with them.

‘Will you be able to face him?’ Phasoné asked. ‘Can you win if you face him?’

“I might have to.” Vayra shook her head and pushed away from the railing. “It’s time.”