"This power—"
Locke gripped the Grafting Knife. It was only an ordinary Second-Ring Magic Artifact, but hidden within it was the witch's Spiritual Breath, the secret source of her vitality.
That vitality flowed toward him, a great river pouring into a narrow stream.
In that instant, his Magic Pressure surged with activity and even showed signs of rising. But the Spiritual Breath was not his, so he could not absorb it. His Magic Pressure could not increase permanently.
The Withered Vine Ancestor saw this and gave Locke a puzzled look.
"Why are you just standing there, Augustine? What are you thinking now?"
He took a step forward, then froze. Until then, he had been unable to see the powerful Spiritual Breath flowing from the Grafting Knife in Locke's hand. He stepped closer, and suddenly felt its vastness. He saw a river of metal-aspected Spiritual Breath.
And the sheer amount of it—
The Withered Vine Ancestor realized something at once. "What is this? How can there be so much Spiritual Breath? It's like a river. Why does it look so much like—the Cold Sky River?"
A golden current of Spiritual Breath, as vast as the Cold Sky River, now stretched between them.
The Withered Vine Ancestor looked toward the magic carriage and swallowed.
"Could she be a high-ring witch?"
With Spiritual Breath this powerful, she could almost only be a high-ring Breeder. How else could she possess such an immense reserve of vitality?
The Withered Vine Ancestor summoned three withered vines and sent them at Locke. Locke swung Mister's Power, shaping it into an axe. It struck the vines, and they snapped.
The vines fell to the ground. Though severed, they crawled across it like venomous snakes, rushing toward Locke's feet.
The Withered Vine Ancestor chanted a spell. His words echoed