Tunde left the estate, Zhu still deep in meditation, as he stepped into the vast, crowded streets of the capital’s upper echelons. The opulence was suffocating, each path lined with towering black-stone buildings, banners of ancient houses swaying lazily in the breeze, and ornate carriages pulled by spirit beasts. Yet, despite the grandeur, one fact stood out starkly—he did not belong here.

  His black robes, though provided for him, did little to mask his rough appearance. His untamed hair, dark skin, and sharp, wary gaze drew hushed whispers that slithered through the air like unseen phantoms. He felt the weight of disapproving stares, the barely concealed sneers, the haughty glances from individuals who, by all likelihood, were members of the Talahan clan. Even if most were from diluted branch families, their thinned bloodlines echoing the clan’s once-pure traits, they still carried themselves with an unearned arrogance.

  Tunde sighed silently, his fingers brushing against the medallion hidden within his robe. A symbol of his legitimacy here, yet he doubted it would do much to change perceptions. He had two priorities—the Knowledge Hall and Fierce Thousand Burning Flame Smith, the forge Varis had recommended. However, before he attempted either, there was one pressing issue.

  His appearance.

  If he wanted even a modicum of respect, he needed to at least look the part. Otherwise, he’d find himself shunned or outright ignored by the upstarts prowling these streets. Most were his age, some older, many much younger—but what struck him was the refined Ethra radiating from them. They were of the Lord Realm, yet their cultivation had been carefully nurtured, raised in safety, wrapped in silk and privilege. He doubted many among them had ever spilled blood, despite the ornate weapons strapped to their backs.

  The realization hit him harder than he cared to admit.

  This is exactly what he had explained to Sera.

  These cultivators had been sheltered. Their paths paved by generations before them. Their strength was a gift. His was a consequence.

  Tunde exhaled, pushing the thought aside. He turned his gaze skyward—the day was still young. With a silent prayer to whatever Hegemon might be listening, he crossed the pristine streets, ignoring the shifting gazes of the elites as he moved past the elixir halls that filled the air with potent fragrances. He was tempted to take a look inside, but he remembered Varis' warning—elixirs were shortcuts, and shortcuts dulled the blade.

  His pace quickened as he stopped before a large restaurant, stepping inside. The moment he pulled back the curtain, the lively atmosphere died.

  Silence.

  The young cultivators filling the establishment turned, their conversations cut off as they regarded him with thinly veiled scrutiny. He felt their probing aura, like insects crawling across his skin—an unpleasant sensation that irritated him far more than it should have.

  The restaurant was lavish, every table occupied by disciples from different sects and clans, their robes embroidered with sigils, their badges marking allegiance. It was a gathering of the privileged, the young elites of the empire. And he was an outsider among them.

  Tunde’s gaze shifted to a portly, sweating man behind a large counter, his eyes running Tunde up and down with restrained disgust.

  Sigh.

  He pressed a fist to his palm, offering a soft smile.

  “Greetings, sir.”

  The man’s expression flickered—a momentary flash of forced politeness—as he returned a brief bow.

  “How may we help you, honored lord?”

  Laughter.

  A loud scoff echoed from behind him.

  “Ha! Honored indeed!”

  Tunde shut his eyes, muttering to himself in silent frustration. He didn’t need this. Not today.

  “I need directions,” he said, ignoring the mocking tone behind him. “The nearest clothing establishment?”

  More laughter. This time louder.

  He refused to turn around, keeping his gaze locked on the portly man, who swallowed nervously before answering.

  “O-of course, lord. A few buildings down this way. You can’t miss it.”

  Tunde nodded, but before he could respond, a deep voice cut through the laughter.

  “What rodent found its way into the esteemed district of the great Talahan Clan?”

  Tunde froze.

  Slowly, he turned, coming face-to-face with five figures.

  They were massive.

  Their robes of golden brown were immaculate, their heads shaven, their muscles bulging in a way that would have put even Daiki’s surprising monk-like physique to shame.

  The Iron Fist Sect, the name whispered around the room.

  The room had gone completely still.

  Tunde sighed. Here we go.

  The largest of them stepped forward, Ethereon gauntlets covering his fists.

  Lord-realm weapons. Ornate. Expensive.

  “Apologies,” Tunde said, voice calm, “but are you speaking to me?”

  The monk grinned. “Who else looks like vermin?”

  Tunde’s expression remained neutral, though he could feel the room shifting—the silent encouragement, the anticipation of a fight.

  The portly man hurriedly interjected, bowing. “Please, venerable lords of the Iron Fist Sect, have pity on this poor servant. Take your fight outside, I beg you.”

  Tunde’s eyebrow twitched.

  So even the servant wasn’t above taking sides.

  “I do not wish to disturb your peace,” he said smoothly.

  The large monk stepped closer, poking Tunde’s chest.

  “Then don’t come where your betters stay. Who even let you into this district? Lost on your way to deliver goods?”

  Tunde remained unmoving.

  “Tell me, what sect do you come from?”

  “Black Rock.”

  A pause.

  “…Black Rock? Where is that? The wastelands?”

  Laughter.

  Tunde heard it for what it was—empty, insecure, desperate.

  He sighed. “Yes. The borderlands to the east, to be precise.”

  The laughter stopped.

  The monk blinked, his expression shifting slightly.

  “…So then you’re a—”

  “Wastelander? Yes.”

  Silence.

  The monk’s lip curled. “Then what are you doing here, amid better clans?”

  Tunde smiled. “Funny you should ask that.”

  The monk’s veins bulged as his face reddened, anger rolling off him in waves.

  Tunde could feel the Ethra gathering in the monk’s gauntlet-covered fists. He remained calm. He could end this in the blink of an eye.

  Before the monk could strike, a soft voice spoke from the entrance.

  “Before you embarrass yourself, I would warn you—he’s the Dark Fist.”

  The monk froze.

  Tunde turned, eyes settling on the woman at the door.

  She was Talahan. That much was clear.

  Her milky skin, black-and-white hair, and dark lips stood out against the golden light. The scent of clouds and smoke surrounded her, a presence she was exuding on purpose.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  The portly man fell to his knees.

  “Lady Jing! You grace us with your presence!”

  Tunde remained silent. They locked eyes.

  She carried a black-shafted, silver-bladed spear on her back.

  Her voice was measured.

  “The Dark Fist of Black Rock. Survivor of Jade Peak. Fought against the Wasteland King and lived. A Lord-realm cultivator who stood against the tide.”

  The monk hesitated.

  “…And most of all,” she added, “student of Master Varis of the Talahan Clan.”

  A hush fell across the room.

  Tunde watched as the portly man paled, choking on air.

  Lady Jing stepped closer, her cold gaze assessing him.

  Tunde sighed, muttering a silent prayer to the Hegemons.

  He didn’t need another woman in his life.

  Not after the last ones.

  Her lips curled slightly. “I am Lady Jing, chosen of Lady Rhaelar.”

  Tunde forced a tight smile.

  “Oh, wonderful.” He thought sarcastically to himself.

  *****************************

  From that point on, obtaining the information he required had been a simple matter. The servant had quaked in his boots, looking moments away from passing out, while the other cultivators in the establishment remained notably subdued. Whether that was due to Jing’s sheer presence—which, in Tunde’s opinion, was unbearably haughty—or because of the no-doubt inflated tales of his exploits that must have reached even the factions of the Heartlands and Central Plains, he couldn’t say.

  Either way, it had worked—too well, in fact. Now, he found himself within a vast and extravagant establishment, ferried there by a spirit-beast-drawn carriage, the capital’s preferred mode of elite transportation. The beasts, supposedly the bound spirits of once-sentient creatures, had been enslaved and forced into servitude. Tunde hadn’t known what to think of that. He had encountered true beasts before—fierce, proud, and unyielding. And until recently, he had even considered Zhu to be one, only to later discover that the little glutton was, in fact, something far more powerful: a divine beast.

  Now, standing before a full-length mirror, he barely recognized himself. His rugged appearance had been transformed—his rough hair expertly braided and oiled to his specifications, his frame draped in a robe of midnight black and stark white, the emblem of Clan Talahan emblazoned boldly across the fabric. The only thing that remained untouched was the tattoo of his relic, which he ensured was discreetly hidden beneath the flowing silk.

  Behind him, he could feel Jing’s presence. He turned, catching her blinking impassively at the throngs of women beyond the establishment’s doors—wealthy ladies and young maidens alike, all whispering and gushing over her beauty. The guards were struggling to keep them at bay, looking more flustered by the moment.

  Tunde exhaled sharply. “Not that I’m ungrateful, but why did you help me back there?”

  Jing barely glanced at him; her attention instead fixed on an array of exquisite black nail polishes displayed before her—each small bottle costing two hundred thousand lumens apiece. Tunde, to his dismay, realized that his entire attire, along with the extra robes he had been given, neared a million lumens in total. His heart nearly seized until he reminded himself that he wouldn’t be the one paying. Presenting the medallion, he had expected an immediate transaction, but Jing had merely pushed it away, her disapproving gaze silencing the establishment’s owner before greed could take root.

  Then, with an air of finality, she had presented her own medallion. The transformation was instant. The woman, who had been reserved and calculating, became all too accommodating, her demeanor shifting to one of eager servitude.

  Now, Jing wrinkled her nose at the polishes, glanced at her already-blackened nails, and shrugged before finally turning to him.

  “Because,” she said, “apart from the fact that you would have torn through that Iron Fist Sect idiot without breaking a sweat, their sect has proven... useful to the clan. It would be a shame to cause unnecessary trouble for them.”

  Tunde frowned. “How did you know where I was?”

  Jing raised a brow. “Because Lady Rhaelar instructed me to keep an eye on you—seeing as your master, quite frankly, threw you to the wolves.”

  Tunde crossed his arms. “Esteemed Master Varis already warned me of the dangers.”

  Jing let out a dry snort. “Oh, I’m sure he did—likely in his usual fashion of vague, ominous warnings that leave out all the details.”

  Tunde narrowed his eyes. “What does that mean?”

  She folded her arms beneath her chest, and he immediately averted his gaze, catching the smirk that curled at her lips.

  “It means that while those outside the clan have only heard rumors of you and seek to test themselves against you—like that Iron Fist fool—the cultivators within the clan know what you’re capable of.” She leaned in slightly, tapping his chest with a single black-lacquered nail. “Master Varis has been boasting, quite openly, about how you surpass most of the spoiled brats of the clan itself.”

  Tunde stiffened, alarm flashing across his features.

  Jing nodded, her eyes glinting with amusement. “That’s right. While the main branch doesn’t have any young cultivators for you to worry about, the branch families?” She gave a short laugh. “They have plenty. And now, they have their sights set on you.”

  Tunde exhaled slowly. “So unless I intend to stay locked away until the competition starts, I’ll be fighting at every corner of the capital.”

  “Exactly.” Jing’s grin widened.

  “Won’t that draw the ire of the master?” he asked.

  She shrugged. “Depends on how it plays out. As long as they don’t kill you or cause injuries that could affect your performance in the Banquet of Power—which is what they’ve started calling the tournament—the master will be hard-pressed to interfere.”

  Understanding dawned in his eyes. “They want to prove they’re better than me.”

  Jing tapped his chest with her palm again, this time pressing slightly. “Oh my, are all wastelanders built like steel?”

  Tunde grasped her wrist gently and pushed her hand away.

  “Tsk. You’re no fun,” she muttered before continuing. “But yes, that’s their goal. And there are a lot of them.”

  His expression remained unreadable as he considered her words. Then, carefully, he asked, “And you? What’s your stake in all this?”

  Jing chuckled, crossing her arms again. “Well, let’s just say you and I aren’t so different. The only difference is that they know better than to mess with me.” Her voice carried an unmistakable edge of confidence. “Lady Rhaelar decided I should stick with you for now—at least until you’ve put enough people in their place to be left alone. Consider me your shadow whenever you step outside the master’s protection.”

  She bared her pearly white teeth in a grin.

  Tunde mulled over her words, choosing his next response carefully.

  “Oh, and before you start saying something about how you’re fine on your own,” Jing interjected, “just know that your master is fully aware—and he agreed to it. So you might as well consider my presence a trial of your capabilities.”

  “Then you should have allowed me to start with the Iron Fist Sect cultivator,” Tunde said, his tone dry.

  Jing waved her hand dismissively, as if the mere suggestion was beneath her. “That blockhead? No, that would be like an adult beating on a puppy.” She shook her head in mock disapproval. “The hierarchy places factions like the Iron Fist Sect directly under the Talahan Clan. They're beneath you. And from what I’ve heard, the great clans wouldn’t dare mess with you after what you pulled off in the borderlands.”

  Tunde’s expression twitched. “He even spoke of that?” he asked, already dreading the answer.

  Jing nodded, grinning. “Oh yes. I told you, he’s been boasting—loudly. So, to be clear, you can’t touch the great sects either. Your targets—rather, your opponents—are the branch families. They’re the ones who’ll be coming after you.”

  Tunde folded his arms. “I’m not going after them unless they attack me first.”

  Jing rolled her eyes. “You won’t have to worry about that. If I’m right—and I usually am—they’re already planning your first ambush.” She smiled coyly, her black-painted nails tapping against her forearm.

  Tunde studied her, suspicion creeping into his voice. “You sound like you’re looking forward to it.”

  Jing’s smile widened. “You, my dear wastelander, have no idea.”

  Something about the way she said it made Tunde’s gaze harden. It wasn’t just the casual amusement in her voice—it was the way she called him that word. Wastelander.

  His voice dropped, firm and controlled. “You will not call me that. Respectfully.”

  Jing’s smile didn’t falter. If anything, it stretched into something more knowing. “Oh, I like you.”

  Tunde prayed she didn’t mean that literally.

  *******************************

  Done with their business at the establishment, Tunde and Jing stepped out onto the bustling street. The midday sun hung high, casting long shadows as Jing turned to him, her expression playful.

  "So, where to next?" she asked.

  Reluctantly, he told her of his trip to the Fierce Thousand Burning Flame Smith.

  "Impressive. Already looking for a new weapon?" she teased.

  Tunde knew he couldn't openly access his void space in front of her, so he simply nodded to himself before answering. "My current weapon, while still durable, won’t withstand the strain of the combat style I intend to use going forward. Might as well start planning for a new one."

  Jing hummed, tilting her head. "And your master did mention that particular smithy is the most expensive forge in the entire empire, yes? Also, they take orders years in advance, correct?"

  Tunde’s frown was all the answer she needed. She shook her head, amused.

  "Then again," she mused, tapping her chin, "seeing as you intend to flash that medallion of yours around, you might just get something out of them."

  Tunde glanced at her. "Who owns the forge?"

  Jing’s expression shifted, a flicker of something unreadable passing through her gaze before she smirked. "Ah, that... I'm under specific orders not to disclose to you. But rest assured, using your master’s name should get you quite the audience."

  That was strange. What was so secretive that they couldn’t afford to tell him?

  Before he could press the matter further, a faint buzzing noise filled the air. His instincts flared as blue inscriptions ignited all around them, intricate sigils weaving into existence like a net.

  Jing sighed dramatically. "And so it begins," she murmured, mock sadness in her eyes.

  Tunde tensed, his senses sharpening as figures emerged from the surrounding buildings, stepping from their hiding spots like specters. Their movements were measured, deliberate. They had been lying in wait.

  Without hesitation, Tunde reached for his void bag, opening his void space just enough to pull his naginata free before shutting it again in one fluid motion. The gathered figures glared at him, their imperial robes pristine, their weapons glowing with refined auras—lord realm weapons. Young, younger than him by the looks of it, but well-equipped.

  And then they parted.

  A larger figure stepped forward, landing atop a nearby roof with a controlled ease that belied his size. A broad-shouldered youth, likely in his early twenties, with black, oiled hair slicked back, pristine robes, and a practiced calmness that only barely concealed his arrogance. A massive blade was strapped to his back, the ornate hilt gleaming with gold and silver filigree.

  Jing let out a low whistle. "Wow. Coming from you, Hayu, this is quite the turnout."

  Tunde glanced up at the rooftop. "Is there a reason he’s all the way up there?"

  "Style. Intimidation. Hegemons only know," Jing whispered back.

  Hayu's voice was cold, laced with warning. "You should leave while you still can."

  Jing shook her head, a dangerous glint in her eyes. "You know better than to threaten me, Hayu," she said, her voice carrying just enough lethality to make the gathered cultivators shift uneasily.

  Hayu unsheathed his massive blade. The length of it was made from pure Ethereon, the hilt a masterwork of craftsmanship. A flicker of hesitation passed through his expression as he spoke.

  "You would go against the Burning Sword branch of the clan?" he asked, though his voice quivered slightly.

  Jing chuckled, stepping aside. "Oh no, far from it. And on that note, I’ll leave you to whatever brilliant plan you think you're executing." She patted Tunde on the shoulder before casually moving out of the way.

  Tunde exhaled through his nose, shifting his naginata into a loose grip as Hayu’s blade ignited with dark, almost black flames.

  "I strongly advise you not to start something you cannot finish," Tunde said evenly.

  Hayu sneered. "Quiet, wasteland filth, I—"

  He never finished.

  Tunde’s void step shattered the distance between them in an instant. Before Hayu could even react, a barely imbued punch crashed into his face with brutal precision. The impact sent him hurtling backward like a ragdoll, smashing through the building behind him with a deafening crack of wood and stone. He lay in a heap at the bottom of the wreckage, blood pooling from his broken jaw, teeth scattered across the dirt. His body twitched slightly—alive, but ruined.

  Tunde exhaled, rolling his shoulders. "Don’t call me that," he said simply.

  The remaining cultivators stood frozen in horror.

  Straightening to his full height, Tunde leveled his naginata at them, voice calm, steady.

  "Now... who’s next?"

  They moved as one.