The residence had emptied the moment Elder Tianlei and his erstwhile disciple had departed, leaving it once more a silent abode. Tunde’s companions remained, their relief at his presence evident despite the lingering hesitance in their gazes. Some had seen his ascent firsthand, while others had only heard of it in hushed whispers, his name slowly becoming something more than that of a mere cultivator.

  Daiki, however, had little time for such concerns. He seemed preoccupied, his attention divided as fellow senior monks from the Luminous Path arrived, their presence heralding the departure of their long-traveling brother. The meeting had been awkward, Daiki introducing them with his usual quiet composure while the monks, clad in simple but immaculate robes, greeted each person with serene smiles. They murmured "Bahataba" with every other sentence, their reverence unwavering, and Tunde could have sworn he saw a telltale twitch of frustration on Zehra’s otherwise impassive features each time they uttered it.

  Soon enough, Daiki prepared to leave, but not before pulling Tunde aside. His fingers tightened around his still-cracked staff; his expression unreadable.

  “The soul takes a long time to heal,” he said quietly.

  Tunde blinked, surprised. “I’m fine,” he replied, though the words felt hollow even to his own ears.

  Daiki merely held his gaze, searching. Then, after a moment, he nodded.

  “In the cultivation world, most walk the path of power for its own sake. Few pursue it to protect others, and even fewer because they are running—from something, toward something, or in the name of vengeance,” the monk said, his voice calm but pointed. “I do not claim to know your past, but the eyes are windows to the soul, Bahataba. And yours… yours tell me that you walk the edge of a blade.”

  Tunde said nothing, though the words settled in his chest like a stone.

  “I have seen you overcome obstacles with sheer will and stubbornness,” Daiki continued. “I only hope—may Bahataba will it—that one day, such strength will be wielded in the protection of the defenseless.”

  A soft smile flickered across Tunde’s lips as he patted Daiki’s shoulder. “I hope so too,” he murmured.

  Daiki bowed. “When we meet again, may it be as friends.”

  Tunde inclined his head in return, watching silently as the monk turned and departed.

  With Daiki gone, Zehra was next. This time, however, the ones sent to retrieve her were familiar—too familiar.

  Tunde felt their presence before he saw them, his head snapping toward the estate’s entrance as two figures strolled in with leisurely confidence. Both were Highlords, men whose names carried weight in entirely different ways. One had once been his enemy. The other had fought him in a sparring pit. Now, they were something akin to allies. Not quite friends—but not foes either.

  Highlord Akero, guardian of Zehra, was as unreadable as ever, his soft blue eyes locking onto his ward as she moved through a set of blade techniques in the courtyard. His robes, a pristine light blue, rippled as he walked, the blade at his waist an ever-present symbol of his authority.

  The other was a stark contrast—a man built like a boulder; his rock-like muscles barely constrained by his robes. His hands rested lazily behind his head, a soft, knowing smile curving his lips.

  Highlord Ujin.

  A force of nature. A cultivator who lived by the sacred creed of strength above all.

  And yet, as the two men approached, Tunde found himself surprisingly calm. Others—lords and even lesser Highlords—would have fumbled over themselves in their presence. But Tunde was no mere lord-realm cultivator. He had seen things far worse than Highlords. He had faced them and survived.

  “Every time I see you, it’s like you’ve taken another step forward,” Ujin remarked, his voice rich with curiosity as he studied Tunde. “Interesting.”

  Tunde gave a soft smile, bowing at the waist, one fist pressed to his palm. “This lord greets the Highlords.”

  Akero’s gaze flickered with something unreadable—first a frown, then a fleeting thought—before he gave a subtle nod.

  Ujin, however, did not immediately respond. He studied Tunde closely, the usual amusement in his features dimming ever so slightly.

  “We heard of what you all faced,” he said finally.

  Tunde remained silent.

  “The path to the peak is littered with bloodshed. This, you know well, don’t you?”

  A fraction of a nod.

  Ujin exhaled, shifting his stance. “Then, on behalf of Clan Acacia, I offer my sincerest apologies for how you were treated at Shimmersteel—and my profound gratitude for protecting our princess.”

  Zehra huffed. “I grew stronger too, you know.”

  Ujin chuckled, while Akero gave an approving nod. Then, the Highlord turned back to Tunde.

  “I also hear you are now a direct student of a main-branch master. Your position is cemented—few can claim to have reached such heights so quickly,” Ujin noted.

  Tunde merely smiled, weary. “The Hegemons have been benevolent to a simple cultivator.”

  Ujin snorted. “Look at you. Already speaking like one of the capital’s elites.” He straightened, cracking his neck. “I’ll be seeing you around, Tunde.”

  Zehra stepped forward then, a gentle breeze stirring her hair. “Don’t die out there.”

  Tunde’s smile softened. “I’ll try my best.”

  She hesitated.

  “I—” she started, then stopped, frowning slightly. Tunde raised an eyebrow.

  With a sigh, she ran a hand through her hair, her void bag shifting open. A coin tumbled into her palm—a shimmering token of frost, glistening in the light. She held it out to him.

  “I doubt we’ll be seeing each other often, since I have to deal with that annoying brat from the Ice Clan. But if you ever need my help, show this to anyone from my clan.”

  Tunde turned the coin over in his fingers, studying its delicate craftsmanship.

  “Strange, isn’t it?” he murmured. “We were once enemies.”

  Before he could say anything more, she stepped forward and hugged him.

  Tunde froze.

  Akero sputtered.

  Ujin laughed.

  “And now we’re friends,” she whispered, before pulling away, cheeks tinged pink.

  Tunde bowed at the waist; his voice quiet. “I thank you, friend.”

  Zehra stiffened, then turned on her heel, stalking away with deliberate speed.

  Ujin’s laughter echoed after her, while Akero shot Tunde a pointed look before following in her wake.

  Tunde watched them disappear into the distance, exhaling slowly.

  One by one, they were leaving. Elyria, Thorne, Joran, Daiki, Zehra… and soon enough, Sera.

  People he had come to know.

  People he had grown to care for.

  And soon, they would all be gone.

  With that thought, he turned and stepped into the quiet depths of the residence.

  The author's content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  ************************

  Sera sat cross-legged within the confines of her room, a deep furrow in her brow as she struggled with meditation. The moment Tunde entered, a smile of amusement tugged at his lips. He leaned against the doorway, watching as her tense shoulders rose and fell in frustration. Her eyes cracked open at his presence, red irises gleaming faintly in the dim light. She huffed.

  “I was meditating,” she muttered, looking away as though his mere presence disrupted her focus.

  Tunde chuckled, stepping further inside and settling onto the bare wooden floor with a practiced ease. The room was sparsely furnished—just a simple wooden bed pushed against the wall. He idly wondered how she, or anyone for that matter, managed to sleep comfortably on such a thing. A lone leather bag sat propped in the corner, the sum of her possessions. Yet what caught his attention wasn’t the spartan nature of the space, but rather Sera herself.

  For the first time since he’d met her, her usually unruly hair had been tamed—smoothened and tied neatly at the back. It lent her an innate elegance he hadn’t noticed before. If not for the crimson glow in her eyes, the telltale mark of her proficiency in slaughter, she might have even passed for serene.

  “I apologize for my intrusion,” he said, watching as she folded her arms.

  “You came to say goodbye?” she asked, her tone neutral, but her fingers clenched ever so slightly where they rested on her lap.

  Tunde smiled. “You say it like it’s a death sentence. Few could ever claim to draw the attention of a master, you know.”

  Instead of responding, Sera frowned deeper, gaze flickering to the floor.

  Tunde cocked his head. “You’re embarrassed about something.”

  Immediately, her red eyes flared, and she shot him a sharp look. He raised his hands in mock surrender, smirking.

  Sera sighed, the tension in her shoulders shifting as her gaze flickered toward the corner of the room. There, propped against the wall, was her sword—Slaughter—wrapped in cloth. Her fists curled subtly as she spoke, her voice softer than before.

  “The duel with the elder’s student,” she began.

  Tunde said nothing, merely waiting.

  “Why did you step in?” she finally asked, her fingers tightening in her lap.

  “Because she decided to cheat,” he answered simply.

  Sera’s gaze snapped to him, searching his expression.

  “Now,” he continued before she could speak, “before you assume I meant you couldn’t handle it, let me be clear—you’re one of the most ruthless and bloodthirsty cultivators I’ve met.”

  Her brow twitched. “Flattery won’t work right now.”

  He chuckled, shaking his head. “If that had been a true duel to the death, I would have fancied your chances. But you weren’t fighting to kill—you were fighting to prove yourself. You were holding back, trying to impress the elder, showing him you were worthy of being his student.”

  Sera remained silent, but her shoulders lost some of their rigidity.

  “But that girl?” Tunde continued. “She wasn’t fighting for that. She was fighting to win, no matter the cost.”

  A flicker of realization crossed her face.

  “The cultivators here,” he went on, “most of them don’t truly know what it means to do anything to survive. They play by rules, conduct themselves in ways they consider ‘civilized.’ That’s why those great sect heirs struggled so much back at Black Rock.” He exhaled, shaking his head. “You were prepared for a fair fight. She wasn’t.”

  Sera’s lips pressed into a thin line, but she no longer looked angry—only contemplative.

  “What I did,” Tunde said, his voice turning gentler, “was spare her life. Because if that attack had failed to kill you, and you retaliated the way I know you would have… well, let’s just say the consequences wouldn’t have been in your favor.”

  She was quiet for a long moment before she asked, hesitant, “You think I don’t have self-control?”

  Tunde sighed, tucking his hands into the folds of his robe.

  “All I’ve heard about Blood Ethra cultivators is that they’re reckless, battle-hungry, and always one step away from being put down like rabid beasts,” he admitted.

  Sera’s jaw tightened.

  “But now, the hegemons have done something unexpected,” Tunde continued. “They’ve given you a teacher—a respected elder of the Talahan Sect, one who walks the path of blood yet hasn’t succumbed to madness. This is your chance, Sera. To learn from the best. To hone yourself into something more.”

  She stared at him, lips slightly parted, before swallowing hard. “And what of my oath to you?” she asked softly.

  Tunde’s smile was quiet. “You can fulfill it by growing strong enough to walk the right path.” His voice was steady, resolute. “Nothing would bring me more joy than that.”

  Sera exhaled sharply, lowering her head. “He says I am to meet him atop a hill. That once I leave, I won’t be seeing you for a long time. Or anyone, for that matter.”

  Something twisted in Tunde’s chest. He had known this was coming, had accepted it as inevitable. And yet, hearing it aloud made it feel all the more real.

  Still, he managed to summon a teasing grin. “Then you’d best get stronger quickly, because I won’t wait for you.”

  Sera let out a small, exasperated laugh, shaking her head.

  Tunde stretched out his hand, fingers clenched in a fist.

  For a moment, she simply stared at it. Then, hesitantly, she raised her own hand and bumped her fist against his.

  In the silence that followed, nothing more needed to be said.

  ***********************************************

  “Is she gone?” Ifa asked as Tunde stepped into the largest room, where the master sat watching the Ethralite meditate.

  Zhu’s form had matured significantly, no longer the small child he had once been. Now, he appeared closer to ten years old, his jade-green hair and eyebrows striking against his youthful features. His aura was distinct—tinged with the essence of jade, but interwoven with the telltale void Ethra that marked his unusual existence.

  “Yes,” Tunde replied as he sat down beside Ifa, his gaze also settling on Zhu.

  The elder stroked his beard, eyes thoughtful as he observed the Ethralite in silence. “He’s come a long way,” he remarked.

  Tunde said nothing, merely nodding in agreement. Together, they let the silence stretch between them, enjoying the unspoken understanding that had formed over time.

  After a moment, Tunde broke it. “The Mistwalkers could be coming.”

  Ifa hummed in acknowledgment. “Indeed. Along with the other so-called orthodox sects.”

  Tunde frowned, shutting his eyes as memories surfaced—faces filled with barely concealed hatred, voices dripping with condescension. “I can still remember the loathing on that Walker’s face when we met at Shimmersteel,” he murmured. “The artificer as well… like they were staring at a piece of property, not a person.”

  Ifa exhaled, shaking his head. “Few envy who we are. Most covet us for what they could gain. But in the case of the Mistwalkers… nothing will satisfy them except the complete eradication of our bloodline.”

  Tunde’s jaw tightened. “What will be your plan, then?” He turned his gaze to Ifa.

  For a brief moment, the elder’s expression shifted—his eyes darkened with something dangerous, something raw. A boiling inferno threatening to break free. But just as quickly as it had appeared, it vanished, leaving behind only a veil of calm.

  “Nothing,” Ifa finally said. “The Walkers would be fools to attack a direct student of a master from the Talahan clan, especially while they are guests here.” He paused, then added, “Then again… even the unorthodox sects of Murim are coming as well.”

  “Murim?” Tunde asked.

  Ifa waved a hand dismissively. “An old term for those of the cultivation world. Ethra was once Qi. The names change, but the nature of power remains the same.”

  Tunde nodded, but his thoughts remained restless. “And yet, if our presence is discovered—truly discovered—it could bring powerful enemies down upon us.”

  “Then it’s a good thing you’re at the precipice of advancement,” Ifa said with a small smile. “Few cultivators would willingly risk their lives against a Highlord.”

  Tunde arched a brow. “And you?”

  Ifa sighed, his gaze distant. “I made a promise to Alana—to protect the last of her line that proved worthy until the right time came to raise the sect again. You’re close, but not close enough. Besides, there are ways to protect you that do not involve staying by your side at all times.”

  Tunde felt something twist in his chest. “You’re leaving?” There was a sharpness to his tone, a twinge of alarm.

  “I have realized one thing during our journey,” Ifa said, meeting his gaze. “You need to explore the world for yourself. To seek out its secrets and understand its vastness. You cannot hold yourself to revenge for the rest of your life, Tunde.”

  Tunde clenched his fists, but Ifa continued, his voice calm yet firm.

  “My purpose is to ensure that no obstacle too great stands in your way. And some obstacles… are best dealt with before they even become aware of your existence.” He exhaled. “Crystalreach is far, but as a master, I will find my way there.”

  Tunde’s grip tightened. His mind went to the one person who still haunted his nightmares. “If they catch you… if she catches you—”

  Ifa nodded, understanding his fear. “One thing I wanted to be sure of was the presence of the Hegemons,” he explained. “Were they sequestered away? Was this world no longer capable of sustaining their power?”

  “And?” Tunde asked.

  Ifa’s expression darkened. “The truth is… I don’t know. Nothing I’ve seen indicates the presence of the Hegemons. Even the Regents seem locked away in whatever domains they hold. The latent authorities I sought to sense—barely there. And this is within reach of the Imperial Palace itself.”

  Tunde frowned. “Even the Ark Towers—?”

  “—are no longer functioning,” Ifa finished. “It’s as if they were abandoned. Something is amiss, Tunde. Something I don’t like. And I won’t sit idly by, doing nothing.”

  Tunde cracked his neck and exhaled. “I might as well use this time to get stronger,” he admitted. “Not like I can do anything about the plans of Hegemons or Regents.”

  Ifa chuckled. “Then take this one along.” He nodded toward Zhu, the Ethralite still deep in meditation, oblivious to their conversation. “It’ll be the two of you against the world.”

  Tunde sighed, producing a medallion from the folds of his robe. He turned it in his fingers before showing it to Ifa, who smirked.

  “The key to the entire capital,” Ifa mused. “Look at you, all lofty now.”

  Tunde returned the smirk. “Coupled with the token Elder Tianlei gave me, I intend to squeeze the Imperial Clan of every resource available to me. Starting with the Knowledge Hall.”

  Ifa nodded approvingly. “Good. But don’t forget—your sect has its own techniques. Some of which you’ve already instinctively incorporated into your fight against the Void Devourer.”

  Tunde crossed his arms. “Learning a few more wouldn’t hurt. Along with anything else I can get my hands on.”

  Ifa chuckled, but his expression turned serious. “This may be too much to ask, but try to learn about formations and talismans. I intended to teach you a few from the sect, but if you gain a general foundation first, it would make my job much easier.”

  Tunde nodded. “I’ll do what I can.”

  Ifa hesitated, then asked, “And Miria?”

  Tunde’s chest felt heavy at the name. “I need to become stronger to be of any real use to her. And I intend to do so.” His voice was firm, but there was something else there—something personal.

  “Besides,” he continued, shifting the topic slightly, “I have a feeling this tournament will unearth secrets. Like why the Phantoms have suddenly turned against the Empire.”

  Ifa’s gaze drifted upward, toward the unseen skies beyond the walls. There was a long silence before he finally spoke.

  “There is a storm coming.” His voice was quiet, almost contemplative. “The Convergence is reaching its peak. And when it does… events of an era-defining scale will unfold. One thing is certain—once it passes, nothing will be the same again.”

  Tunde exhaled; his gaze steady.

  “Good,” he said. “Some things need to be washed away.”