Warcry would have done it. He would have taken the forfeit loss for his lad. But Stumpy had done her maths proper: Takeshi wanted Selk.

  The championship bout was on.

  From the moment Warcry knelt to pray in his locker room that night, he knew this tournament was his. He nearly couldn’t contain his flames. Victory rampaged through his muscles, pounded like war drums in his skull.

  When his name was called, he watched himself walk to the cage as if he floated high overhead. He hovered outside his body, but at the same time, he felt perfectly primed and in control of every muscle, every breath. Never before had he experienced something like that, but he’d heard about it from old IFC warriors. They spoke of it as a portent preceding the singular fight they looked back on for the rest of their lives. An omen that they were about to experience the perfect confluence of a lifetime of training and spur of the moment warrior instinct.

  Warcry saw himself bow to the official, then to Gleurah. They took their fighting stances. On the opposite side of the official, Gleurah’s Shapeshifting Creature Spirit surged, prepping a change to some unstoppably powerful beast.

  Familiar tranquility washed over Warcry. The world disappeared but for him and his opponent. He came alive truly and fully in the moment, balancing on the knife’s edge of live or die.

  Eons passed as the official inhaled to shout. His hand began a sluggish descent.

  As if he’d already seen the fight play out, the Warcry watching from overhead knew the orca’s first move, felt the trajectory of his opponent’s body.

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  “Fight!”

  Warcry blazed through the air. His knee cracked that changing jaw as the orca darted forward. The impact whipped Gleurah’s still-morphing head around. Before he even hit the ground, Warcry leapt on the half-transformed, instantly unconscious beast, raining fire on the misshapen head with both fists.

  The official ripped him off the unconscious Gleurah. Shoved Warcry’s gloved hand into the air and spun him around for everyone to see.

  The roar of the crowd broke through to Warcry then, dragged him back into his body. The cage beneath his feet—the entire kokugikan even—shuddered with their acknowledgement of what he’d done.

  It was the fight of his life, and he knew it. If he lived a thousand years, he’d never replicate the perfection of that single flawless moment.

  Of course, that wouldn’t stop him from trying.

  ***

  After the championship ceremonies and coronation had concluded, and the press, agog over the new intergalactic record Warcry had just set, had been shooed from the locker room, the door opened again.

  The Emperor of the Eight-Legged Dragons sauntered in accompanied by the new Monarch of Selk herself.

  Warcry hung the towel he’d wiped down with over his neck and knelt beside Kest before the towering Varanusko. They kowtowed to the Big Five Emperor who had tried to kill their lad the night previous and who thought he owned one invincible planetary monarch and one comeback of the millennium champ.

  “Is very good, Burning Hatred cultivator,” Takeshi said after giving leave for them to sit up. “Even without other meat roach smash ’em up brother to aid you, you show your worth. Dragons do not regret their investment.”

  “Told you I lived to serve, didn’t I,” Warcry said, adding an, “Almighty Emperor,” as late-days as was safe with a Ketsu ranked cultivator.

  “Now that the Dragons have their civilized inner planet, Esteemed Emperor,” Kest said in a cool, businesslike tone, “there’s the matter of that information you promised in exchange for the crown.”

  The Emperor’s scaly, lipless mouth turned up in a yellow-fanged grin. “Nothing pleases Takeshi more. Where would Metal Head Monarch like to begin?”

  “Oh, I won’t be running this interview.” Kest nodded to the big man in the haori stepping out of hiding from the showers. “Councilman Iye Skal will. He’s an Investigative Delving Spirit, so he’ll be asking the questions.”

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