Cade reached the pit in three strides.

  He was filthy. Three tier-tens' worth of gore caked his body — blood, brain matter, fragments of bone and scale plastered across his armor, his face, his hands. The residue of boring through three skulls at supersonic speed.

  Water swirled around him, scouring the filth away. The liquid darkened to a bruised red-brown before he let it splash to the ground.

  Better.

  His tier-ten senses stretched outward, penetrating the tarry darkness below. Fresh spawns—perhaps two hundred tier-zeros, just now clawing their way free of the viscous ground. Only one tier-one waited against the wall this time, shuffling patiently, ready to harvest from the battle.

  Perfect timing.

  He'd stopped the carnage before it could truly start. Before the veterans could fall on the fresh souls, before the tar could drink its first body. Every second he'd agonized over in the mindscape—the practice, the flight testing, the agonizing minutes spent learning to bounce between anima walls while souls died—those seconds were paid for now. He was here. He was ready. And nothing on this world could stop him.

  Trilya and Ulryi approached from the Worldvein, their tier-six bodies moving carefully across the fungal plain. They'd maintained their cover throughout his battle with the tier-tens—two Forged among many, watching the migrant's purification like everyone else. Now they hurried toward him, relief evident in their postures.

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  Trilya's face was bright with something Cade hadn't seen on a Forged face before. Not just relief. Admiration. Wonder. She'd watched him kill three tier-tens in under three seconds, watched the fourth flee rather than face him, and now here he was—calm, unhurried, walking toward the pit like he owned the world.

  "That was—" she started.

  "Later," Cade said, smiling. "Work first."

  The other observers hung back, uncertain. They'd just watched a five-foot-seven migrant slaughter three of the strongest beings on this world in the span of a heartbeat. No one was eager to draw his attention.

  Good. No interference. No complications. Just him and the pit and two hundred souls who didn't have to die today.

  He extended his will downward.

  Water manifested in a flood—not a dramatic effort, not a strain, just a casual flex of tier-ten power. Like turning on a faucet. The same easy motion he'd just used to clean himself, scaled up and sideways. The liquid rose around the tiny combatants, lifting them, suspending them, and then hardening into a solid matrix that locked every Forged in place. Effortless. Trivial. Barely worth thinking about.

  He didn't think about it.

  He was already reaching out with his Oath essence, already feeling for the sparks of genuine suffering among the numbed masses, already sorting the fresh souls from the veterans, already planning how to—

  Cade's body exploded.

  No warning. No pain. One instant he existed; the next, he was an expanding sphere of red mist and bone fragments, his tier-ten form unmade from within.

  The covenant's enforcement clause was very specific: no intentional use of essence abilities in combat on the Crucible.

  Using water to immobilize two hundred beings in the middle of a battle royale was, apparently, combat.

  Cade hadn't even considered it.