He went deep inside the Coliseum, breathing in the Apothos-rich air and centering himself. He cleared his mind of every concern and found the iron will that had kept him going through the darkest hours of his life. In less than an hour, Rockheart and his pets, the First Cohort, would come out. That was the reality. Cold hard facts. If he managed to bend the Verdant Ascension to his will, he had a plan to defeat Magmarty. If he failed, not only would he get more pain, he’d also get a beating. Rockheart would never go easy on him.
More and more Apothos flowed into him. Flexing his internal might, Logan condensed his core from the size of a softball to the size of a tennis ball while simultaneously flattening out the brilliant white halo circling his center into a thin line, just as Inga had instructed him to do. But before he could fully incorporate the bloom and unlock its full store of knowledge, he needed to tie the damned knot. He’d learned to walk with a prosthetic. He’d started his own landscaping business. He’d made it profitable with endless hours of work, employee drama, sweaty days, and sleepless nights.
He could do this. Eyes closed, he pushed away his fear and worry. Rockheart was a distant thought and so was the pain and exhaustion rampaging through him. In his mind a picture formed, and he found himself once more among the towering Silverbark spires. Beneath his feet was a narrow path, hidden in the foliage, barely visible if you didn’t know to look for it. Some part of him instinctively knew this was the way forward—the only way forward. He glanced over his shoulder and saw a white edge of light waiting for him.
He licked his nearly nonexistent lips, reached back, and sunk pudgy fingers into the light. It felt like grabbing ahold of a downed power cable. It squirmed in his hand and sent jags of bright pain zigzagging up his arm and through his body. He ignored the discomfort, refusing to drop the line. He turned back toward the path and began to trudge, pulling the line after him, stretching it like a rubber band as he followed the rough trail through the undergrowth. The first few steps were easy enough, but as he rounded the trunk of a particularly tall Silverbark tree, the progress slowed, each step more difficult than the last.
First, it felt like walking through waist-deep water. Hard, but not impossibly so.
After a handful of feet, the water seemed to transform into a quagmire of sticky molasses, resisting him every inch of the way.
He rounded another trunk, this one gnarled and strung with wispy cobwebs, and found himself staring at the beginning of the path once more. He’d transcribed a circle of sorts—more of a figure eight in retrospect—and now he was almost back to where he’d started. Less than three feet away, though the molasses had shifted once more, this time turning into a chest-deep pool of rapidly setting concrete. Every step was agony. Inches crept by at a snail’s pace, but still he pushed.
From far away, a sound tickled at his ears—a gruff voice, barking at him. Logan knew that voice somehow, knew that it mattered and that it meant trouble, but he ignored it, straining the final inch, towing the line of power behind him.
“Mr. Murray!” the voice rumbled again, much louder now. “Don’t you dare ignore me!”
Rockheart. That was Rockheart’s voice.
Logan didn’t care. He stayed focused, pushing, straining, fighting against the resistance. Then, in an eyeblink, the pressure vanished, and he connected one end of white light to the other, completing the circuit. Everything snapped into place around him, and the forest vanished, replaced instead by his burning green-and-gold core. Much smaller now than it had been before, about the size of golf ball. Energy circled his core in a looping arc that looked like an infinity symbol made of blinding light. He had no idea if he’d tied his first knot correctly, but he did know three things without a doubt:
One, he’d shot up not just one rank, but two—Deep Root, Rank 2.
Two, he felt like he could take on the world and win.
Three, he was finally going to put that jerk Magmarty into his place.
Chapter Twenty-One
LOGAN’S EYES SNAPPED open just as Rockheart came slamming down on the ground in front of him. His wings grated as they closed, rustling against the subdued leather doublet covering his chest. Logan could hear the smile in the gargoyle’s voice. “Your lack of respect is noted, Mr. Murray,” he grunted. “But since it seems you’re finally ready to join us, may we begin today’s lesson?”
Logan didn’t answer. He slowly stood, straightening himself to his full, though rather unimpressive, height, and offered the grumpy gargoyle a half smile.
“Sorry, Professor, just preparing for today. I was cultivating deeply.”
“An A for effort. Not that it will make any difference,” Rockheart replied. He pointed toward the shield and dagger on Logan’s chair. “You should get your little pig sticker and trashcan lid ready.”
“No,” Logan said. “Don’t waste my time today, Professor. I don’t want to deal with your dogs for once. I want Magmarty. Right away.”
The First Cohort strode up with Tet-Akhat behind them, reading from her DCG like a teenager with a new phone.
The earth elemental had heard Logan. “Good, Professor. I was getting tired of the hellhounds. Why don’t I fight all of these losers at once?”
An extra bit of fire burned around Chadrigoth’s head. “No, if anyone is going to take on all four of these dweebs, it should be me.”
Marko ran over and slapped the Abyss Lord on the back. He jerked his hand back and blew on a burned finger. “Ouch. Not a dweeb, demon guy. And you are extra charbroiled today. I’d go with a bit more shadow, but then, I like the Umbra, brah.”
Chadrigoth made a fist and a huge iron broadsword, wreathed in fire and smoke, lengthened in his fingers. “I know who I’m going to cut into pieces today. I want the satyr. I want to teach him some manners.” He stomped forward, casually raising the massive sword, preparing to hack Marko in half.
A fine silver blade struck Chadrigoth’s cleaver aside. Inga, both her arms weapons, stood with her wings spread, her knees slightly bent. Her antennae were trained on the demon. “Not today, Prince. Today is about Logan and Magmarty.”
Treacle nodded at Lady Elesiel. “Hi. I guess you’re going to kill me at some point.” He burped up some of his lunch and chewed as if death meant nothing to him.
The undead queen rolled her eyes and folded her arms.
The cat woman continued to read from her grimoire, an ear twitching. She seemed uninterested, all things considered.
Rockheart took control. “Enough! This class will start out with our regular calisthenics. Release the doomhounds!”
The professor dropped his hand. A section of the bleachers rose, and doomhounds came storming out, yipping, yapping, and yelping. Rockheart shot up into the air to watch the ensuing carnage.
Logan darted from the grass and beelined for his chair. The second he was seated, he hit the switch and took off with wheels spinning. Inga soared into the air, wings pumping, kicking up flurries while the rest of the Terrible Twelfth scattered like the dust beneath Inga’s wings.
Pistons whooshing furiously, Logan raced ahead of the slavering doomhounds for the first time.
Marko and Treacle kept pace. Inga flew low.
The minotaur gave Logan the side-eye. “You look better, Logan. Too bad you’re going to be in pieces soon.”