Reaper(Cradle #10)(68)

One spirit—a water Remnant with minor sword aspects—is the first to fly into the air. It’s only about Highgold in density, and it resembles a six-foot praying mantis. At first.

In seconds, it folds like paper as it is packed into the box. It sounds disgusting, like meat and bone being crushed and folded, but this device doesn’t need to be pleasant to use.

Most importantly, the dead matter and binding are perfectly preserved. And the box still has plenty of capacity left.

Lindon broke away from the memory. His head still hurt a little from even that momentary thought about the bone, but his thoughts spun as Dross helped him sort out the memories.

As with most dream tablets, there were plenty of thoughts behind the memory itself, lending the scene context. Lindon could tell how much better this device was at catching and compressing Remnants, and how it could wait for centuries with no loss. There had been an idea at the back of the creator’s mind: this would be the perfect way to seal a Monarch-level Remnant. It could even have applications for those attempting to advance to Herald.

He expected this to become a much sought-after treasure, and Lindon completely agreed. It wasn’t as glamorous as a weapon, but he thought Reigan Shen would pay the worth of several cities for a Soulsmithing tool of this level.

Maybe he was the one who had looted this room.

He moved to another dream tablet as Yerin was pulled away from it. She had a troubled look on her face. “This is your ancestor, Eithan?”

Eithan ran a hand over his head as though wishing for longer hair. “The first of my House, yes.”

“I’d pick you over him six times out of five.”

Eithan blinked. “That may have been the kindest thing anyone has ever said to me.”

“Don’t let it swell your head,” she muttered.

“This inspires me to compose a poem!”

“Can I pay you to stop?”

“There once was a man from Iceflower…”

Lindon reached out for the dream tablet and let the memory overcome him before he had to listen to Eithan’s poem.

The enemy is desperate. He’s already bloody and beaten, low on madra, as he has been tormented and kept on the edge of defeat for days now. He raises his axe and swings with a roar, squeezing the last of his madra and soulfire into an echo Forger technique. Phantom axes swing along with them.

Ozmanthus looks down on him in disdain. There is barely any willpower remaining in this technique.

He reaches out with his madra—pure destruction, as befits the Hollow King—and reaches into the Forger technique. With his soulfire art, he weaves destruction aura as well, drawn from all around him.

It takes him a moment of concentration to synchronize his control of madra and aura together, but he dismantles the technique. Before the Forged axe-blades reach him, they dissolve into essence.

He is displeased. With his skill in Soulsmithing, he should be able to separate madra much more quickly than this.

The prisoner tosses his axe to the ground and drops onto his heels.

“Kill me,” the man says through a raspy throat.

Ozmanthus gives him a razor-edged smile. “You tried to kill me. You put my children in danger. Why should I show you mercy?”

“Your death would have been clean.”

“What a comfort that is to me.”

Ozmanthus began a Forger technique of his own, and shimmering black stars hung in the air over his prisoner’s head. The Hollow King’s Crown.

“Cycle,” he ordered. “Restore your madra. Give me practice, and then I will give you mercy.”

The memory skipped ahead after that, and he demonstrated his dismantling technique twice more—once on the prisoner’s Striker technique, and then again on the man’s Remnant.

Lindon committed it to memory, and Dross assured him that with some alterations, they should be able to develop a version of it themselves. Lindon suspected he might actually be better at it than Ozmanthus Arelius had been, at least at the point that dream tablet was recorded. He had three compatible madra types that could be used to take apart the techniques of others, and pure madra was better at taking apart spiritual energy than destruction madra was.

But despite the gains he had made through the memory, he was left with a sick feeling.

The man had an arrogance that permeated his every thought. He was the best, and he knew it. The prisoner really had tried to assassinate him, so Lindon didn’t feel much pity for him. But neither was he comfortable with the Arelius Patriarch’s callous disregard.

Eithan turned to him, having noticed that Lindon had finished. He didn’t say anything, but Lindon got the impression he was waiting.

“I didn’t realize the Path of the Hollow King was a destruction Path,” Lindon said. That was the safest topic.

“It was less difficult than you might think to adapt it to pure madra. Many of the lesser aspects and fundamental principles were complementary.”

“Apologies, but why bother?”

Pure madra had its advantages—Lindon was proof enough of that—but Eithan would have had a far easier time training a destruction Path. At least destruction aura existed.

Eithan busied himself with his clothes, not meeting Lindon’s eyes. “No offense intended to the Path of Black Flame, but I found myself…less than comfortable with destruction madra. I have seen the Patriarch’s memories myself. His experiences were enough to cause me to develop a distaste.”