Elder Joran stepped through the large jade doors of the jade hall itself, hands folded behind him, his face bearing a soft smile.

  He waved to the disciple guards, rankers so far down the clan rankings that facing them would have been a complete waste of Tunde's time, and produced his medallion as he moved toward a corner rather than straight for the woman seated at the crystal desk, who bowed respectfully at him from a distance.

  The incident that had happened a mere day earlier, when the largest congregation of powers the clan had seen in a long time had gathered together in one spot, was still fresh in their minds.

  All because of one wastelander.

  Joran chuckled to himself as he waved the medallion across the wall. Bright golden inscriptions in a circle revealed themselves as the wall broke in a fine line from the top down the middle and opened, letting him through.

  It amused him how far the clan went to push the narrative of being mysterious with its higher powers, when he knew just how carefree they could be. He should know. He'd been with them for the past five years.

  Passing through as the wall closed up behind him and threw him into perpetual darkness, the elder ignored the absence of sound and light.

  He could see well enough with his affinity, hands folded behind him as the inscriptions lit up again and Joran felt himself being transported through spatial means to another location, an extra room of some sort still within the hall, or at least so he was told.

  It served as a meeting spot for the powers of the clan whenever they wanted to converse, away from prying eyes.

  The wall opened again, revealing a large room.

  Wooden floors were laid with expensive-looking rugs, and a brazier in the middle of the room burned sweet-smelling leaves that gave off the scent of early spring.

  Seated around the flames were three figures, their gazes turning to him all at once. All three glowed with the bloodline trait of all members of Clan Verdan, dark green eyes gleaming in the barely lit room, the windows having been covered with dark cloth.

  Though the room itself wasn't actually within the building, or at least, that was what Joran suspected.

  The windows usually changed view, shifting across the entirety of Jade Peak, showing them the lives of the over ten thousand people who called the city home.

  Jade Peak boasted a modest number of citizens, from the numerous branch families to the merchant houses, the various trades, and even the occasional tourists who thought being close to the wastelands proved their toughness.

  He sat next to Elder Celia, nodding to her as she nodded back, before he addressed the two lord siblings seated across the brazier.

  "I greet the lords of the clan," he said formally.

  Alaric Verdan, lord and right hand of the patriarch, nodded in return. Lirien Verdan, left hand of the patriarch, blinked slowly at him.

  Joran sighed within himself.

  That was as much as he would get from the cold woman. One would naturally take offense from her, but the truth was that Lirien Verdan was a block of solid ice crystal.

  The truly terrifying part would be seeing her full smile. The last person to witness it had been ripped in half with her bare hands.

  There was a reason she was known as the Terror of Jade Peak, the daughter of the monster himself.

  Where Alaric was a methodical killer, precise with a tinge of raw brutality, she was wrath unleashed.

  She was the one the patriarch sent when he wanted to deliver a message, something she had recently gone to do to the Mountain Sects that had begun infringing on Verdan clan territory.

  Rumor was that Alaric had gone to drag her back from her rampage.

  She had gone toe to toe with the lord leaders of the Mountain Sects, slaying two and leaving the rest so broken they had to retreat to their mountains, where lord-level weapons might have killed her had Alaric not interfered.

  Joran believed every word.

  He'd seen her and her spear at work, the weapon crafted by Artificer Iphan when she had broken through to adept rank, a lord-ranked weapon forged with Ethereon, pure high-quality jade crystals, and a tier 4 hydroserpent.

  The dead creature had been imported from the far reaches of the west and had nearly bankrupted the clan.

  Lirien had used it well, bleeding with it, shattering entire clans with it, and making its worth back many times over in the riches of the clan as it stood today.

  The fact that she had chosen to send his student on such a dangerous journey had rung alarms within his mind.

  Yet she was not someone he could move against so casually. Besides, what was the use of making an enemy so deadly?

  Alaric turned to him.

  "Congratulations on getting the wastelander to disciple rank. Your works have begun to bear fruits," he said.

  Joran nodded, taking a deep breath before speaking.

  "And yet," he started, his voice soft and harmless.

  "Lord Lirien might just have sent him and two other disciples to their deaths," he responded, watching the cold gaze of the lady.

  "You were the one who decided to send three disciples into the wastelands," she responded calmly.

  "You had an entire house and more to use. Why did you send three alone?" she asked.

  It was at times like this that Joran was grateful to be physically blind.

  To stare into the gaze of the one also known as the Merciless Spear of Verdan to the Talahan Empire would be numbing. Gratefully accepting the cup of tea from Celia with a nod, he sipped thoughtfully before speaking.

  "Because I didn't want to disappoint you," he responded.

  He noticed the frown on Alaric's face, yet continued as the spear stared at him.

  "Lady Lirien, forgive me," he started.

  "But would it be safe to assume you see something in him? Tunde, my student, I mean," he asked.

  A few seconds later, she gave a slight nod.

  "Maybe," she replied.

  Joran nodded as well.

  "The ruthlessness of his nature when it comes to surviving, subconsciously I mean, it accounts for his lack of aura," Joran replied as Alaric narrowed his gaze.

  "You've been cultivating an assassin," he said calmly.

  Joran smiled, shaking his head.

  "No, far from it actually," he responded.

  "What you see is a man, a child really, seeing as he's not into his first century, but a being who had no sense of self, no ego, until I gave him one," Joran continued.

  "You're describing a null," Celia said softly with a frown.

  "Thankfully not," Joran said with a light chuckle.

  "All Tunde sees when he goes into battle is not the superiority or inferiority of his opponent," Joran said.

  "He sees his very existence on the line, a do-or-die situation, survival of the fittest. And I admit that drew me to him," Joran explained.

  "You were hoping I'd interfere when you brought him to the hall," Lirien said.

  It wasn't a guess. It was a fact.

  "Well, I was thankful you were there," Joran said, nodding.

  "I'd hate to damage the adepts of the clan so close to the surge," he continued.

  The others frowned at him. The weight of his threat was palpable, especially when they considered that he had also implicitly threatened a direct descendant of the clan and his branch.

  "The fact that your student would be facing my grandson doesn't mean I'd have cause to be petty," Lirien replied with a frown that cracked her features.

  Joran shook his head.

  "No, I simply wanted to register a house, my house, or rather the wastelander's house. And yet the others, the adepts I mean," Joran said, "couldn't resist the draw of my student. You know what I mean, don't you, Lords?" he said.

  The two lords stared into the fire calmly as Celia looked curious.

  "Just a disciple, and yet his presence, while relatively weak for someone of his rank, is as sharp as a razor," Lirien said, with a hint of a smile.

  That should have alarmed Joran.

  The clan, the clan even, didn't need two spears, two maniacs of battle. And yet everything pointed to the fact that Tunde was walking that same road, drenched in bloodshed.

  "A double-edged blade," Alaric added with a frown.

  "Is this about his aura?" Celia asked.

  It amused Joran how little Celia understood of lord rank and above, the intricate connection between the presence of a ranker and their aura.

  Most cultivators usually mistook or assumed both to be one, not realizing the vital difference between the two.

  Presence was the general sense of strength or deadliness exuded from a ranker, most times revealing just how dangerous they were.

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  Aura, on the other hand, was dictated by both the ego and affinity of a ranker and could take many shapes, both offensive and defensive.

  A ranker who had an affinity for blades would no doubt feel deadly in both their presence and aura, and would most likely manifest a sword-shaped aura in the later stages of their advancement. It was why the two were so often mistaken for the same thing.

  In Tunde's case, however, both were absent. It was what made him such a deadly opponent to face.

  An average disciple would underestimate him until he got too close.

  The fact that both lords had sensed the danger and uniqueness of the boy, while the other adepts could sense nothing but their natural instincts warning them that the cub before them would one day be a monster, only proved his worth further.

  Joran nodded to Celia.

  "More or less, the absence of it in this case," he said with a chuckle.

  "You still haven't answered my question, Joran," Lirien said.

  "To be honest," Joran started,

  "I never expected you to interfere. But you did, and you sent him on what is proving to be a suicidal mission no matter how many disciples or initiates we sent," he continued.

  "Plus, I have no doubt that the clan wouldn't leave the safety of its mines to mere disciples. No, they were to be scouts, weren't they?" he asked, staring into the unflinching gazes of both lords.

  Alaric folded his hands.

  "For the glory of the clan, some deaths are necessary," he said.

  Joran chuckled, shaking his head. "While ensuring the family branch heads, as well as the grumbling adepts, would be appeased with his death. I must say, a bold move," he replied.

  "And yet, you let him go without any backup," Lirien said.

  "Your orders, not my wishes, Lord Lirien," Joran said.

  "Since when have you listened to orders so easily, Blind Tiger of the Verdan Clan?" she replied.

  Joran shrugged, sipping again, the flavors of the tea spilling across his tongue as he gave a pleasurable sigh.

  "I might be stubborn sometimes," he said as Celia snorted.

  "But I would not undermine the authority of the clan in the face of its lessers," he responded.

  "The disciples around, or the adepts?" Celia asked curiously.

  "Yes," Joran replied with a bright smile.

  "And so I chose to believe that the Merciless Spear of Verdan would not so casually throw young bloods to their deaths. Although judging from what I've heard of the attack on the stronghold, it seems I might require another student soon enough," he said.

  Lirien gave a short laugh. It sounded like broken glass being dragged against rough stone. Joran thought to himself, entirely at random, that he'd rather die to her frown than hear her laughter again.

  "You have so little faith in me," she said.

  "Faith is a rare currency afforded by the Highlords and masters of this world. To believe in faith at any rank lower than that is to be an idiot," he replied.

  "What are you driving at, Joran?" Alaric asked.

  "I grow weary of these games of yours," he added.

  Joran bowed in apology.

  "It was not my intention to waste the time of the lords. I merely wish for them to consider my request," he said.

  He noticed Celia frown, the elder knowing him well enough to brace for something outlandish.

  "Go on. You've amused me enough today to grant your wish," Lirien said.

  "Similar to how you've sent Elyria, the other wastelander, and Thorne, that thing, to go take care of our little problem up north," he started.

  "I simply wish for my student to get a small reward for doing the impossible," he finished.

  Alaric sighed. Lirien laughed softly as both lords realized where he was going.

  "To be clear," he continued.

  "I propose that my disciple, my student, seeing as they're merely decoys and Lady Lirien is no doubt curious about his capabilities in battle," he said, "be allowed to complete this mission on their own or die trying, with no help from me nor Moros, who is no doubt there to ensure things don't get out of hand," he completed.

  "You're asking the impossible," Alaric said immediately.

  "Our intel says the Corespawn who leads the rest is a peak tier 2. You know what that means, don't you?" he continued.

  "Indeed, probably an early adept, or tier 3 if we should use that term," Joran replied.

  "But look at it this way," he said at once.

  "If he dies there, all of this goes away. No more issues for you or the clan," Joran concluded.

  "But if he returns?" Alaric asked.

  "Got you," Joran thought to himself, watching the lord grasp the weight of his own question.

  "Well," Joran started smugly.

  "Not only does the clan get a disciple deadly enough to wipe out an entire horde of Corespawns, as ludicrous as that sounds, but he should prove a sufficient challenge for your grandson. Don't you think, Lady Lirien?" Joran asked, pushing the bait toward the lady, who grinned in a feral manner.

  "You have my attention," she said.

  "Again, what is it you want?" Alaric asked.

  "To resolve the dispute between myself and the clan heads. No doubt, you realize I was never accepted the way Moros was," Joran said.

  Mostly because Moros danced to the tune of the family heads, but Joran didn't voice that. They all knew it.

  "And so, I propose that House Dark Fist moves its base from Jade Peak to the same location the now-destroyed stronghold once occupied, the one that watches over the clan's mines," he said.

  The silence in the room spoke volumes. Celia stared at him as though he had lost his mind.

  Lirien, for once, was too shocked to speak. Alaric turned the proposal over in his thoughts, searching for the prize hidden within the madness.

  "You do realize," Alaric started, "that the wastelands could be the very point from which the surge begins on our side of the continent?" he asked warily.

  Most would consider his plan madness. It was evident from the way the lords stared at him, and even more would think him to be inviting his own death with such a claim. Still, Joran saw the possibilities he'd spent time considering.

  "Indeed," he replied.

  "The first line against the untold horrors that would spill from countless rifts. I assume you think I'm herding them to their deaths?" he asked.

  "Those that would be foolish enough to join your house," Celia replied, still visibly shaken.

  "I do not suffer the weak, and I will not hide the dangers of such an endeavor. And yet, I see no other way to calm the simmering rage between the family heads," Joran said.

  "Not unless the patriarch himself deems to interfere?" he asked, glancing over the rim of his cup at the lords.

  Only the higher echelons of the clan knew what the high lord had been doing for the past year in seclusion.

  Apart from the occasional presence he exuded to show he was quite aware of happenings within the clan, Rowan Verdan had retreated from the public eye a year ago into the inner walls of the Jade Citadel itself.

  Not even his two children, Alaric and Lirien, had been granted access, with only Artificer Iphan himself permitted entry.

  "No," Lirien said simply.

  Joran left it at that.

  "Still, what you ask of us, while ridiculously ambitious yet deceptively simple, tells me you have a hidden agenda," Alaric said.

  "Only to temper my house's disciples in the hottest and most terrible of fires," Joran replied.

  "No doubt the news of the revenant has reached the imperial clan, and no doubt this surge is gearing up to be quite powerful. For the first time in three centuries, the regents have spoken," he said gravely.

  A terrible calm pervaded the room at his words.

  The mere mention of those beings, the true powers of Adamath yet below the divine-like hegemons themselves, brought a feeling of impending doom crashing down on the space.

  "Are the Technocrats still moving on their timeline for that project?" Celia asked.

  "As of now, yes, in time for the surge itself," Alaric responded.

  "Good. So do we have a deal?" Joran asked.

  "Is this about the rifts outside Verdan clan territory?" Lirien asked, cocking her head.

  Joran smiled.

  "Surely, with the amount of danger my student and his teammates are about to face, you do expect them to receive a worthy reward?" he asked.

  Lirien laced her fingers together, glancing at Alaric, who closed his eyes, hands folded in thought.

  "They have three days," he said.

  "Then the clan interferes," he finished.

  "I'll need that in writing, along with the promise that they get to keep all they find out there, so long as it poses no threat to the clan itself," Joran said with a smile.

  Lirien gave a soft laugh.

  "I'll admit, I'm curious to see what sort of ranker returns from the wastelands," she said.

  Joran sipped the tea again, setting the cup down gracefully.

  "My one problem with the clan has always been its underestimation of its lower rankers," Joran said.

  "And now I get to prove my way with a more than willing student. I do so hope your grandson is ready for what returns from that place," Joran said as he rose to his feet.

  Lirien simply grinned, her green eyes alight, saying nothing. Joran wasn't sure if he had just woken the true Spear of the Clan herself. Alaric spoke.

  "Leaving for the wastelands?" he asked.

  "That would defeat the purpose of letting them do their thing. No, I simply wish to let them know their survival is at stake. Should make things a bit more interesting, I believe," Joran said as he moved to leave the room.

  "Joran," Lirien called out.

  Swallowing nervously as the tone of the Merciless Spear bristled with excitement, he turned, keeping his expression calm.

  Her spear was gripped so tightly that the tiny, undecipherable rune inscriptions along its surface glowed.

  "Prove to me he's worthy of what I feel from him, and you have my name," she said.

  Joran steadied himself at the implications, even as Alaric turned sharply toward her and Celia froze.

  To have the name of a lord of Clan Verdan was to have near-infinite resources at his rank. Not even Jashed wielded his own mother's name.

  Not even Celia wielded her father's, Alaric's. Joran bowed low for the first time that day, sincerity in his every word.

  "I will strive for the glory of the clan," he said as he left the room, passing back through into the dark enclosure of the walls as they lit up to carry him to the jade hall proper.

  "The clan and more," he murmured to himself.

  ****

  Tunde sat in a lotus position as the vibrations of the vessel lulled him into a deep state of meditation, breathing calmly as his Ethra flowed through him, his heart pumping to fill his Ethra lines with power.

  The relic hadn't stirred from the moment Vengeance had settled over it. Whatever the artificer had done with the gauntlets, they were working. Still, he missed the presence of that foreign energy coursing through him.

  Debating whether to tell the elder, he took a deep breath and raised one finger, gathering resonance into the tip, feeling the appendage hum with power before dispersing it.

  He stood up calmly, visualizing what he wanted to perform. The dummy before him had been carved from wood supposedly resistant to Ethra due to centuries of perfect cultivation.

  Feeling the build-up of resonance through his Ethra lines, he began the gradual process of pushing it into all four of his limbs, concentrating as the strain of such an effort pushed his Ethra cycling to its limits.

  Breathing calmly, he felt the power ripple through his body. It was in direct opposition to the elder's method of gathering power to a single point, but Tunde had been considering viable ways to expand on that technique.

  It was the only method he had, given that his Ethra was still a mystery. As the power built in all four limbs, the strain mounted steadily, akin to a hot rod fused to his bones growing hotter by the second.

  Still, he endured it. When he finally unleashed it, a palm strike to the midsection of the wooden dummy, a resounding crack and explosion echoed around the room.

  A cleanly shaped handprint carved itself smoothly into the center.

  It hadn't escaped Tunde that his attacks, when infused with his Ethra, seemed to make whatever surface they touched vanish as though it had never existed, obliterating every trace. He was so lost studying the damage that he didn't hear Draven enter.

  "I see why Elder Joran has such faith in you," Draven said as Tunde glanced back in surprise.

  "With an attack like that, the damage you could do on contact, I shudder to think about facing you," he said.

  "Is Elder Moros still in seclusion?" Tunde asked softly, crouching to examine the dummy.

  "Yes, apparently he has no reason to speak to us until we approach our drop point," the large ranker replied.

  Tunde nodded softly, pressing a bare finger against the damage.

  "To be honest, I expected worse. I'd take his silence over anything else," he said.

  Draven stared at him for a moment before speaking again.

  "They say the elder found you wandering as some savage in the wastelands," Draven said after a while.

  "They?" Tunde asked, wincing lightly as he felt the lethargy in his muscles, the strain of spreading resonance through all four limbs taking its toll.

  "Most rankers I knew back when I was an initiate," Draven said, settling onto the wooden floor.

  Sighing, Tunde noticed that Draven wasn't wearing his signature gauntlets.

  "I know that's a lie," Draven continued.

  "Why?" Tunde asked softly, sitting opposite him.

  "Because I've seen the savages of the wastelands, flesh eaters, bandits, servants of the Wasteland King. You don't look like someone who's spent his entire life out there," Draven said.

  Tunde stared at the stone Ethra ranker for a few seconds before speaking.

  "And where do you think I came from?" he asked.

  "To be honest? You don't look like you're from around here. The empire, I mean," Draven replied.

  "I've traveled far from a young age. The Isles of Blades, the heartlands of the empire itself, even the steeps of the great Urai Mountains," he continued.

  "And yet I've never met anyone so odd as you," he finished.

  "Not my color?" Tunde asked with a frown.

  He hadn't met anyone as dark-skinned as himself from the moment he had stepped foot on the continent. No doubt, he and his people were truly native to Crystalreach. Draven shook his head.

  "No, merchants from Cry—" he began, and then it clicked.

  His eyes went wide.

  "Crystalreach?" he asked softly.

  "So I've been told," Tunde replied.

  Draven seemed puzzled by the response.

  "I don't understand," he said.

  "A few weeks ago, I knew nothing about any of this," Tunde said.

  "Ethra, cultivation, rankers, none of it made sense to me. Don't ask how," he said with a soft smile.

  Draven nodded, keeping quiet for a few minutes as Tunde shifted gently, feeling the pain in his limbs ease.

  "And yet somehow you've pushed your way to disciple rank like it was nothing," Draven said.

  "Either the hegemons favor you, or fate looks down on you with benevolence," he finished.

  "My fate has been a joke from the onset," Tunde replied cryptically.

  He sat up and spoke.

  "I grew stronger because I hungered for it. I have nothing left to lose," he said.

  "No family, no relatives, only my life, and I'd wager it to get stronger," he continued.

  "That's your motivation for advancement? Just to get stronger?" Draven asked, bearded face studying Tunde.

  He shrugged.

  "Is there any other reason?" he asked.

  Draven was about to reply when Isolde walked in.

  "Elder Moros requires our presence. We're drawing close," she said.

  Tunde stood wordlessly, nodding at Isolde before the three of them left the confines of the training room to meet Elder Moros.