There's something fairly liberating about being a suicide bomber.

I mean, I'm not advocating for it or anything. It's definitely a bad life choice, and trust me, the whole 'forty virgins thing', don't bother. If you're going to spend the rest of eternity fucking, make sure it's with people who know what they're doing. Now I think about it, I wonder if the call to jihad had promised 'forty slappers from Newcastle who know their way around a cock' as an incitement, the whole Middle East thing might have been resolved much quicker.

Was there a point you were seeking to make here, my dear?

Not sure. I think I might have a concussion . . .

That seems pretty likely.

What I was trying to say was that I could imagine being a suicide bomber, when the 'suicide' bit was not a firm requirement, might be a touch addictive.

One moment, I was in the middle of a decently spicy situation, and the next . . . silence.

Well, not 'silence'. What I really mean is that the noise of battle was replaced by a sort of high-pitched whining noise, which suggested I may have blown out my eardrums. I pushed a lot of Qi that way - I really did not have very much left over at all.

I suppose being the centre of a Super Bomber Man-style explosion was pretty energy-expensive.

At an opportune moment, it might be worth discussing the 'less is more' approach to using your techniques. You do not always need to . . . I believe the correct pop culture reference would be 'turn it up to eleven'.

"I get the job done, don't I?" I muttered, looking around at the aftermath of the explosion. I'd certainly got something done, anyway.

Due to their lesser mass, I'd rocketed the majority of the goblins over the hills and far away. Those that had been hit by the fragments of the wood that had flown off me like shrapnel had been . . . shredded.

The silence sat like a malignant toad for a bit longer, and then spearmen started to drag themselves to their feet. There were some pretty crap injuries there too, but most of them seemed to have been caused by teeth, claws and spears rather than shards of flying, supersonic wood. I guess the sheer overwhelming mass of goblins had been a valuable bit of padding.

Before long, we had reestablished some sort of order and were able to work out where things stood. Good news: Lancelot and Arthur had salvaged most of their men, and the spears of Dumnonia numbered twenty-eight, counting the three of us.

That was pretty much where the upside ended.

The men of Powys were gone. Like, totally wiped out. Where they had stood in the column was just a mass of pink paste and bones with scraps of meat hanging off them. It was like they had been a field of corn, and the locusts had eaten their full.

"Anything you can do?" Arthur asked me.

"Think they're a touch beyond healing, mate. I'm good, but if you're looking for anything other than some serious necromancy, you're going to be disappointed."

He looked at me blankly for a moment. "I meant, can you not cremate them or something? We can't leave them like this."

Ah. Yes. That would make a bit more sense. I reached out for the long, thin line of Qi that connected me to Drynwyn. He was, of course, right in the middle of the goo. I pulsed a thought down our connected and was rewarded with a Fucking remembered I was here, did you?

"Dude, it's not my fault. I was stabbed. With a spear."

Do you have any fucking idea how bad it smells down here?

"It's not exactly the Garden of Earthly Delights this end either. You up for doing what you do best?"

There was a pause. I'm a little short of the good stuff right now. Don't suppose you could do a sword a fucking solid, could you?

I switched out my earrings, which were wholly drained and slipped on a couple of rings, which seemed to be about half-full. Maybe the Big M had a point. I did seem to be burning through my Qi at quite a rate since levelling up.

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

I dropped into my Artist's Studio, enjoying the neutral fragrance of the sea after the epic aromatic experience of the battlefield.

"I'm running through Qi pretty quick. Shouldn't the whole-increasing-the-concentration thing and then moving into Harry have given me more to call on?"

Did you notice, my dear, how much devastation that last technique you used caused?

"Sure, I mean, that was the point, wasn't it?"

It was indeed, my dear. But . . . let me explain it to you this way. Not that long ago, your cultivation power was the equivalent of a newborn kitten. Thanks to some spectacular mentoring and no little luck, you grew up to be a common or garden pussy . . .

"Dude!"

Don't worry, I heard it as soon as I said it. Let's switch metaphors. You were a puppy, and then you grew up to be a nice, yappy terrier. Pretty destructive to small rats and generally an irritating presence, nipping at ankles and suchlike."

"Is there a point to this?"

There is, indeed, my dear. In the blink of an eye, you grew from a terrier to a dire wolf, and you're still eating and drinking as a little rat muncher. You have all this extra power and capability, but you're pretty much constantly running on empty."

"I didn't think cultivators needed food?"

Metaphor, my dear. You need to dedicate some significant time to cycling. Because of . . . incidents, you were able to fill up your Ron tanks with fairly cursory meditation. But Harry is a whole different board game. You will still need to spend much less time cultivating each day than anyone else of your level, but it is now the time for you to take this seriously. You cannot keep relying on having a piece of mana stone jewellery to hand every time you bottom out.

That made sense. "So, I'm going to need to carve out some time to 'Om' on every day."

Something like that, my dear. You could also, as I mentioned, dial back a little on giving every technique a hundred per cent. You should be able to have enough subtle control by now to have far greater sensitivity."

"I just hit the technique as hard I can. It's not like I ever reach for them in none life-or-death situations, is it?"

There was a silence. Sorry, my dear. I'm just trying to overcome my pain at one of my apprentices describing 'hitting a technique' as if they are playing some sort of arcade game."

I wisely decided not to point out that was precisely what it felt like.

Since we've concentrated your Qi, it should feel much more solid in your perception. There was something of an excuse to spurt it all out at once at the lower levels, but now that you have more experience, I hope you have developed more control."

"You know, one of my first boyfriends had just that problem."

For the sake of my sanity, can we please not complete that line of thought?"

"No worries. But you're saying I should be less 'letting it all out' and more 'thinking about my grandmother on the toilet'?"

I think Merlin might have gone for a walk at that stage.

I dropped back to reality and connected back up with Drynwyn.

"Okay, mate. Do you mind if I try just dribbling some energy into you? Merlin thinks I'm being a bit gung ho with it."

Couldn't fucking care less as long as I get out of here sharpish.

I wasn't wholly sure how to do what the sword had asked. I was getting reasonably good at pushing and pulling Qi around, but it was something of an all-or-nothing thing. I had a sense of how much Drynwyn needed to be . . . I don't want to say 'full' because that's not quite the right word, but to have as much of my Qi as it could hold.

I remembered that, when fighting the Shriket, the sword had poured stuff back the other way, so I figured I owed it.

But I didn't want to just spaff it down the connection - that's a fucking horrible way to describe it - and wanted to show the Big M that I was progressing.

I held a - metaphorical - handful of my Qi. It was undoubtedly thicker than the liquid I had started with when Merlin brought me back. I tried to drip a tiny quantity of it into my link with Drynwyn but quickly found it all being sucked up.

"Whoa, cool your jets there, D. I'm trying something here."

Sure. Take your fucking time. Did you know the stomach acid of a goblin has enzymes within it that, given enough time, will melt through anything? Absolutely no fucking rush at all. I always wanted to be a dagger.

Ignoring the snark, I gathered another handful and slowly began dribbling it down our connection. The experience was agonisingly frustrating. My instinct was just to let it go, but I understood Big M's point.

I have every advantage in the world right now. My channels were pristine, and after the generosity of the village above the Knockers—I do like that word—I was able to call on reserves of Qi many levels above me.

But I wasn't making the most of these benefits. They were just filling in gaps caused by my not seeking to do things properly. Sooner or later, that was going to catch up with me. What I needed to do was get used to doing things properly so that when I did need to call on the big guns, they would push me over the line.

The face of Aurelius Ambrosius swam into my mind.

I was never going to be able to take on that dude without some serious effort.

Gradually, painfully slowly, I got more of a sense for what I was doing and the urgent pressure to get it done as fast as possible receded.

To be scrupulously fair to you, my dear, that's actually not too bad.

My word. High praise, indeed.

Not being funny here or anything. But it might be working fine your end, but you're being a fucking Qi tease from where I'm at. Just finish me off, for the love of the gods.

I felt like we'd explored about as much sexual innuendo as could be extended from this particular situation, so I dropped in the rest of my Qi.

In seconds, Drynwyn burst into flames, vapourising the remains of Beric's men.

"Thank you," Arthur said. "At least that's one problem dealt with."

I turned to look where he was staring and swore.

To have lost Corys was bad. For Beric to be dead was less than ideal. But to see Lancelot stand over the bloodied body of Mark felt like a step too far.

We were running out of kings.