So many segments of the arena were hysterical, some from rage, others from shock, and even more from excitement. That had been one of the more thrilling fights Meeka had seen in this year's trials. Around him, spectators were still chanting “Blight-eater, Blight-eater!”

  It’d been years since that moniker had been ascribed to anyone. The commentators argued over the sound enchantments that broadcast their voices all over the arena.

  Most of the floating projections had moved on to display other eye-catching fights. But Meeka’s eyes were glued to Herb Mask as he walked away after shrugging off so many attacks from what was—in Meeka’s opinion—the second most terrifying weapon in the history of the trials.

  “Such exceptional, absolutely exceptional defenses he must have. Legacy spells, I’m sure. But to execute them so seamlessly and mid-combat at that,” said Gerpshan. He was an acclaimed commentator and had last participated in the trials nearly forty years ago.

  “No way he’s walking away from that one,” said Kulios, another commentator. “I remember you bowing out a few decades back after taking two hits from Blight. Wasn’t—”

  “Hold it, Kulios! That’s the Corona Witch herself talking.”

  Meek watched with awe as Tantasio told Herb Mask that the adverse effects from Blight might kill him. She was one of the oldest participants in the trial. Nearly a hundred and twenty years old. Meeka had been watching recordings of her fights since he could walk.

  Herb Mask let out a low rumble and said that he’d be fine.

  “You heard it!” Gerspshan roared. “He’s immune!”

  “No, this is it for him,” Kulios insisted. “Body-enhancer or not. Legacy spells can only do so much.”

  “Herb Mask!” someone nearby screamed. “Immune to adversity.”

  “Son of adversity!” someone else cried.

  Those around him took up the chant. “Son of adversity!”

  Gerpshan laughed over the enchantments. “That is the voice of sincere onlookers! Herb Mask, Blight-eater, Son of adversity!”

  Meeka joined in the chant. It was always so exciting to personally witness the making of a legend.

  ***

  Makelan’s workshop was very warm, and Hera-Lienixur Ereshta’al was swathed in four thick layers of traditional East Vedul robes, but she wasn’t inconvenienced in the slightest. Temperature had stopped being a concern for her centuries ago.

  “I am so, so sorry about the heat, Eshtr,” Makelan said to her as he dabbed sweat from his brow. He was a tall, keen, young man in his seventies, whom she’d taken on as a disciple some decades ago.

  She waved him off. “Subverting cooling wards to feed into complex isolators is a rite of passage.” She adjusted the configuration of the magnification scripts as she peered into a heavily warded and sealed receptacle in the center of the room. Its transparent sides were crawling with tiny writhing forms.

  Makelan sidled up to her, his aura restrained. “We found these specimens in their carcasses, Eshtr.”

  The specimens in question were worm-like, made entirely of metal, almost invisible to the naked eye, and rather energetic.

  She hemmed. “Growing within the creatures’ bones, you said?”

  “Yes, Eshtr. Days after, in fact.”

  “Interesting,” she muttered, not all that much interested. The specimens lacked auras, which implied they weren’t alive in the typical sense, but—

  Senju, her assistant, barged into the workshop. “Hera! Her—urk!” She recoiled from the room, leaping out of it. “Ancestors! It’s a live furnace in here.”

  Hera-Lienixur formed a Senju-shaped bubble of cool air around the younger woman. Even peak Attuners with the highest affinities would suffer in these temperatures. All the more so if they were a Dream-guardian like Senju was.

  “Thank you!” Senju said, stepping gingerly into the workshop. The floor sizzled softly beneath her. She nodded to Makelan. “Hello, Magister.”

  “Just Mak is fine, Senju,” he said with a frustrated huff.

  Hera-Lienixur returned her attention to the receptacle. “What did you come in here screaming my name for?”

  “The Patronage trials, Hera. You need to watch today’s contest. There’ve been some very unusual developments.”

  “With… Stormsong?” she asked, looking up. Just last week, she’d had a short chat with her creation in the Astral Realm. It hadn’t had anything interesting to say about its current wielder.

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  “Someone drew Stormsong,” Senju said.

  “Oh,” Hera-Lienixur said, a little disappointed. “I hope they don’t push themselves too hard then.” The last child who had activated the primary enchantments had gotten himself killed. She’d designed Stormsong to be wielded by one person alone. It wasn’t just about the bloodli—

  “Hera, they haven’t activated the enchantments. They only unsheathed the sword. Many times.”

  Hera-Lienixur blinked in surprise.

  “Shouldn’t… that be impossible?” Makelan asked.

  Senju nodded emphatically.

  “Show me,” Hera-Lienixur said.

  ***

  The healing bay was a large hall with pristine white walls, ceiling, and floors; there were several doors on the far end. Healers and healing auxiliaries rushed about, talking over each other and working in teams. Injured participants lay bandaged in cots or were being attended to by healers using all manner of equipment. It was an organized chaos that Caen was familiar with.

  He was carried to a cot by healing auxiliaries, while a healer behind him described his condition. Caen used absorption to slowly work on the necrotic clumps, supplementing it with Blood-healing spells. He could see movement in the corners of his vision, and frequent surges of panic kept gripping his heart. Without resilience or Dream-guarding, he couldn't fight the spectral afflictions from the third trial. He worked through the panic, occasionally casting soothe spells on himself to try to calm his nerves. It barely helped.

  “I forbid you from dying soon after I let you unsheathe me,” Stormsong said, floating beside Caen.

  “Don’t worry, Stormsong. If I had to die to an awakened weapon, it’d be you.”

  “Hmph!”

  They placed him on a comfortable bed, and an auxiliary politely asked him to deactivate his weapon. He complied.

  “We need you to issue your consent for us to take off your mask and armor,” An aged, tired-looking healer said. “We might also need information on whatever legacy spells you used to withstand those attacks. You’ll need to undergo extensive scans and extraction procedures to prevent further necrotic damage.”

  “I’m sworn to secrecy concerning the spells,” Caen forced out through gritted teeth. “And the mask must stay on no matter what, but I’ll give you limited access to my crucial points.”

  He was heavily clothed underneath his armor anyway, and he'd wrapped thin vines around the portions of his armor that had been damaged by Fahptis’s and Anomis’s attacks. He paired absorption with Flora magic and started moving Chasma away from his breastplate. It was slow, as he used his own Flora affinity.

  “Please, do not be difficult,” the healer implored. “Limited access to a few crucial points will help, but we will need much more than that if we are to heal you as promptly and efficiently as possible. Your identity is not worth your life.”

  Skin-to-skin contact was ideal for Blood-healing spells, but a few layers of obstruction wouldn’t pose too much of a hindrance. Still, it pained Caen to be the sort of patient that other healers complained about. But to him, there wasn’t even any room for consideration. He shook his head. “I will take that chance.”

  With Blood-healing, Caen could tell how critical his condition was; he was certain that he would not die. Without absorption and resilience, he’d be dead already, or very well on his way.

  “It will take us much longer to cure you, then,” she said. “Every healer capable of remote extraction and reconstruction is very busy right now. We do not prioritize those who refuse emergency teleportation. To manage your pain, we will administer gaseous palliatives through the holes in your mask. This will induce sleep, but—”

  “No,” Caen said. “I have to stay awake through this.” He had already cast many spells on himself to manage the pain.

  She sighed in barely suppressed irritation. “Then you will have to endure quite a bit of suffering for several hours. There is no audience here to impress. Are you certain of your decision?”

  “Yes, Healer. Thank you.”

  “Where are you giving us access to?”

  He tapped his breastplate, which Chasma was still crawling away from.

  “There’s no time to unbuckle all that. We’ll cut it open.”

  The next few hours went by quickly. Caen focused on his healing spells and absorption. He couldn’t split his mind right now, so he had to move his attention between these, while keeping an eye on whatever the healers were doing. This was so much harder to do with the spectral affliction. He kept his actions to a minimum when a Percipient healer showed up to assist in the extraction and reconstruction procedures; no telling what the woman would see in his aura.

  The necrosis had spread over his skin, causing lesions and ulcers to appear there. The healers were more focused on the internal tissue damage, however, and so was Caen.

  The hours wore on like this. He’d already made a quick hop into the Astral to tell Vai that he was fine. Caen kept casting sleeping abeyance on himself to stave off exhaustion. It took some maneuvering, but they managed to inject him with a liquid solution that caused his hunger to abate, though not entirely. Various portions of his armor were rusting over and had grown so brittle that an unempowered strike would cause it to crumble. His clothes there were falling apart as well.

  Healers came and left. There were so many other participants in critical conditions, and a worrying number of them had dismembered body parts. He kept an eye out for Anomis, but didn’t see him.

  Between the tireless efforts of the healers and absorption, most of the necrotic clumps had been so significantly reduced that they barely registered to his scans anymore.

  “You sustained severe tissue damage,” an auxiliary told him, and Caen nodded along as if any of this was news. “The necrosis has been stalled, but you will still need further attention. Your treatment will continue tomorrow after your body has had time to eat, rest, and recover.”

  Caen had already manipulated Chasma to cover up the tear they’d made in his breastplate. Resilience was currently paired with Blood-healing, managing both the necrosis and spectral afflictions. “I’ll be taking my leave now,” he said.

  “I would earnestly advise against that. The extraction isn't complete, and reconstruction would take days due to your deprioritization and the limited availability of healers skilled in remote techniques. Leaving now might prolong your recovery time by days. You’d likely be unfit to participate in the final trial.”

  “It’s okay. I feel better already,” Caen said, rising from the cot. He channeled a thin trickle of mana into Stormsong, and the awakened sword rose to hover beside him. “Thank you very much for your care. Which one’s the exit door?”

  It was 11 at night. Both his bag of holding and Anomis’s had stayed firmly tethered to his waist by vines. Chasma was hungry, and Caen had corpses to redeem.