Blake marched back to the inn as quickly as he could, keeping his head down. It only seemed to draw more attention. By now, the entire town had heard about him and who he was, and they could piece together that the guy with fiend horns was probably the guy who had humiliated Heron.

  He took a side street instead of the main thoroughfare, hoping it might help, but nothing changed.

  The only difference was that it made it easier for the Path Paladins to stop him and pull him aside.

  At first, he only felt a hand on his shoulder, tugging him away behind a closed market stall, out of sight. Then he registered both of the Path Paladins standing in front of him, dressed in the same robes as before. The older one had grabbed him and pulled him aside, and the younger one stood between the booths, a hand on the hilt of his rune-covered octagonal baton.

  Blake reached for his staff. His muscles twitched, ready to run. He remembered the warning Wind-Eyes had given him, and this was a bad position to be in.

  But the older Paladin pulled down his hood again. “Do not be afraid, young thrall. You are in the company of peacekeepers.”

  “But I’m—”

  “We come with a warning,” the Paladin said. “You may have prolonged the inevitable death-march of your sect, but they will not survive forever, and the Green Bears’ ambition knows no bounds. Heron will twist words and play all manner of tricks on you. He does not even have to lie well. No one else in this region will dare oppose him.”

  “Yeah,” Blake said. “I think I got that. Thanks for the warning.” He turned, trying to leave, but the Paladin tightened his grip, wrenching Blake back around to face him.

  “We do not think you are the kind to die with your sect, though. Which means trouble for us—a half-fiend cultivator wandering the wilds, hiding his techniques, all while mysteriously reforging a near-perfect skeleton. You need to be more careful about what you allow to show in public.”

  “What, I didn’t know about any modesty laws—”

  The Paladin tightened his grip again.

  “Sorry,” hissed Blake. “Who are you guys?”

  “We are here with purpose,” the Paladin said. “I am Brother Reccán, and this is my apprentice.”

  “Can you tell me your purpose or anything like that?” Blake asked. “Or are we just going to be all mysterious about it?”

  “I cannot deal in specifics. We are here as escorts to a powerful individual who would prefer to remain hidden. But as Path Paladins, we are charged with seeking out signs of the Dark Surge and quelling them.”

  “Am I a sign?”

  “Not yet. However, I must admit that we are suspicious.”

  Blake sighed. “Okay, well, I promise I haven’t made any pacts with dark lords or any of that kind of thing. I swear to you, if there was a way to get the fiend-y-ness out of me, I’d jump at it in an instant.” He paused. “But why do you guys even care? Or— Wait, is this to threaten me? Then why help me in the first place?”

  “No, my boy,” Reccán said. “I have never seen a fiend-blended Man live as long as you have.”

  “Is that why you helped me? Curiosity?”

  “We’re no friends of the Green Bears,” Reccán’s apprentice snapped. “There was nothing more satisfying than putting them in their place.”

  Reccán held up his fingers, signalling his apprentice to be silent. “It would have been a massive waste to let Silverbeard kill you. One could say we were just keeping the peace, protecting an innocent life—as is our main charge.”

  “What is the Dark Surge, anyway?” Blake asked. “And, hey, you guys actually believe it exists?”

  “It is a being of immense corrupting power,” Reccán replied. “Perhaps I break with my peers, and the Council of Elders certainly would not agree, but I do believe the Dark Surge exists, trying to twist the galaxy into another war.”

  “...Right.” That didn’t really explain anything, but Blake also didn’t want to be here any longer than he had to be. “Okay, well, I’ll keep my head down. No offence, but I hope I don’t see you guys again.”

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  “The same to you, young thrall,” said Reccán. He tapped Blake’s forehead. “You should remember: your mind and soul are that of a man. Not of a fiend. Do not let the fiend infect your soul, but do not fear yourself.” He released his grip on Blake’s shoulder and bowed. “To your health.”

  Blake nodded, just trying to get away, but he bowed his head. “Yeah, uh, to your health.”

  Before the Paladins could trap him in another lengthy conversation, he rushed away, retreating to the inn.

  ~ ~ ~

  The rest of the Trade passed in silence. It wasn’t really silence, but it felt like it. Blake reviewed the Body Tempering manual whenever he had a chance, just in case there was anything there he needed, even if Ethbin protested and promised that once Blake found more resources to begin reforging his muscles, he wouldn’t need the guide (or ‘that slop’).

  Blake worked his shift, though most people tended to avoid him and barter with the other Hunters—even if they cut harder bargains. He only got the people who were truly desperate for good trades, because apparently he’d earned a bit of a reputation for being softer and easier to negotiate down.

  Froskur and Iver were awfully quiet, and though Blake wanted to try to help, he wasn’t sure what he could say. Konuth had traded his life for Blake’s.

  All Blake could do was promise himself that it wouldn’t be in vain.

  And when the second week came to a close, he helped pack up the storage rings. Most of the pelts and monster loot they’d gathered from the Mists had sold, and instead, they filled the rings with hacksilver and other loot. Sometimes, the other workers had managed to trade a few pelts for a nice enchanted axe or a beautiful sword covered in golden filigree.

  It was far easier to absorb objects into a storage ring than to remove them, Blake learned. He just had to trigger the ring with its forward function with his antithetical Honour, and it would work.

  Not all rune-line functions are reversible, Ethbin had said. But you’re lucky storage rings are meant to run forward and reverse.

  Once they’d packed up everything, Ulfreld ordered the representatives from their pavilion to depart at first light, escaping the rush of crowds that would surely be trying to leave Mergewatch at the end of the Trade. Blake made sure he had everything he had brought, then he returned the book to Ulfreld so he didn’t have to carry it in his backpack.

  As they walked out and away from Mergewatch, Blake slipped Ethbin’s ring onto his finger and whispered, “Hey, so when do I get my own storage ring? I don’t want to carry everything around in my backpack forever.”

  No, you don’t, Ethbin replied. This ring can function as a storage space, but it will require you to reach the first stage of Core Formation to form the connection properly, and I don’t want to burden you with that yet. You must focus on Body Tempering. You have three months, and even you will need all of that time.

  “You’re sure?”

  Don’t get cocky. Tempering is more difficult than any other stage. Most cultivators spend their entire lives in it. The skilled pass it in a few years, and prodigies in a single year. You have three months.

  Blake grimaced. “Right.”

  It truly was a losing proposal.

  “But if I hadn’t made it—”

  Indeed, you have been backed into a corner.

  Sighing, Blake said, “Well…I guess I’ve gotta take some risks. But if I can make it out alive, the reward has to be worth it.”

  The hunters walked away from Mergewatch at an incredible pace. Blake had to half-jog and half-walk to keep up. Once they were out of sight of the city, they slowed slightly, but not by a lot. There were a few hunters who patted Blake on the back—and most of them were a higher stage of Body Tempering than him.

  “You gave us a new lease on life, Junior Brother,” one said. “Thank you.”

  Blake only nodded, trying to be receptive to the praise, but he just didn’t know how to respond. After the third or fourth time, he found himself slowly tearing up. He hadn’t really been praised ever since the Integration.

  But it didn’t last long. He glanced over at Froskur and Iver, who both stayed quiet and looked away from him.

  Blake didn’t know how to get them back on his side, and he wasn’t sure if he could. But he’d have to make it up to them somehow.

  The hunters retraced their path over the course of a few days, walking back through the mountains. Every so often, River peered through the bushes, staring at Blake and probably looking for snacks. He didn’t have anything to give her, and he gave her a few stern glances, making sure she knew to stay hidden.

  Every night, there were a few distant, shrill roars from the mists. None of the hunters could place what sort of beast it came from. But they all stayed on their guard.

  It was during the day, as they were leaving the mountain pass, that something found them. At first, Sclera pointed out a massive shape lumbering through the fog at the edge of the merge-mists. It didn’t look like it was following them at first, and it probably wasn’t. Just walking alongside them. But after a few minutes, it abruptly changed course.

  It was a spiker, panic in its eyes. A three-storey-tall gorilla with a row of spikes down its back, almost the same as the one Blake saw in his early mist-roving days. But this time, it had panic in its eyes. It was running from something.

  The hunters walked along a ledge, and Blake hung near the back, close to Froskur and Iver. The ridge of rock hung over an abrupt fall, and they should have been well above the spiker, but it raced forward, ramming haphazardly into the supporting shelf below and weakening the ridge’s foundations. There was a hollow crack, and stone splintered.

  “Get back!” a hunter yelled, pushing Blake and a few others back along the trail, splitting the group in two. “It’s going to bring the whole ridge down!”