Harumi’s first attack—perhaps it was a technique, perhaps not—came too fast for Tunde to tell. In the space of a single heartbeat, the cultivator had crossed the distance between them, his arm lashing out in a deadly arc.

  Tunde reacted on instinct, his imbuement technique—Joran’s Wrath—flaring to life. A layer of void energy wrapped around his skin, forming a protective shroud against the incoming blow. Yet, the moment Harumi’s strike landed, Tunde felt an unexpected, chilling sensation. It wasn’t a crude, forceful attack, nor did it carry any extractable energy he could leech. Instead, it was a pure, refined cut—one that sliced past his defenses with an almost surgical precision.

  A single bead of blood welled up on his skin before he widened the gap between them, flickering backward in a blur of movement. His breath was steady, but his mind churned with wary calculation.

  There had been no obvious trace of Ethra or Aura in Harumi’s attack—nothing Tunde could perceive with his normal senses. Yet, his Ethra Sight told a different story. Power was present, subtly woven into Harumi’s movements, hidden beneath the surface like a blade cloaked in shadow. But how? The man held no weapon.

  “It is not enough that you merely learn the way of your concept,” Shen’s voice rang out, smooth and measured, as if he were a patient teacher guiding an unruly student.

  “You must embody it—become one with the very essence of your affinities.”

  As if to prove his master’s words, Harumi moved again.

  This time, Tunde was ready. His arm swung forward, Silent Edge forming in the space between them—an almost perfect fusion of Ethra and Aura compressed into a cutting force. The technique should have cleaved through Harumi’s guard. And yet—

  Clang!

  Harumi’s bare hands met the strike, parrying with the same effortless precision. His movements were smooth, fluid, yet eerily controlled, as if he were following a script that had already been written. Worse still, he seemed to anticipate Tunde’s counters before they even fully formed.

  The battle was nearly silent—only the soft whispers of their movements filling the space between each impact. No grand bursts of power, no overwhelming waves of energy. Just skill, honed through generations.

  Tunde’s mind raced. His Ethra Sight revealed countless possibilities—dozens of ways Harumi could attack, various techniques he might use. He could predict them all. But the moment he adjusted; Harumi adjusted in turn. It was like fighting a reflection of himself, one that always seemed a step ahead.

  “The concept of the Gale Blade is one reserved for the most stoic yet flexible of our descendants,” Shen continued, voice laced with pride.

  “And yet, my nephew there has, by all means, perfected the first stage—Unwavering Movements.”

  Tunde felt frustration creep in, an irritation that gnawed at his core. The master’s words rang true, but they were only fragments of understanding, pieces of a puzzle that refused to come together.

  Dodging another strike, he barely avoided a glancing blow—yet still, pain flared as a thin red line appeared across his shoulder. His body healed it in an instant, sealing the wound before a single drop could hit the ground. But the damage had been done.

  What am I missing?

  He was thinking too much.

  The Void Devourer—his concept—was supposed to be the end of all things. A technique that absorbed, that negated, that reduced all else to nothingness. But did he truly understand what that meant?

  Another exchange—this time, Void Forge manifested at his side, spears of void Ethra forming and launching forward in an instant. Harumi reacted just as fast, summoning light green blades of wind that met them mid-air.

  The resulting explosion forced them apart.

  Shen clapped his hands, delighted.

  “Beautiful! To think you could counter Severance before it could fully manifest—” Shen laughed, shaking his head. “Did you see that, Harumi? Battle instincts!”

  Harumi, however, looked visibly perplexed, his brows furrowed as he studied Tunde. Almost as if he had expected this fight to already be over.

  “Tsk. Would be a shame to leave this battle of geniuses unfinished, wouldn’t it?” Shen mused.

  Harumi snorted, rolling his shoulders.

  “Genius?” he scoffed, his expression hardening. “All he has done is prove why the cultivators of the Borderlands are called cowards.”

  Tunde’s gaze remained steady.

  “All you do is hide behind your imbuement techniques, layering yourself in protection instead of fighting head-on. Even your projection attack had no feeling of lethality.” Harumi’s lips curled in contempt. “You’re holding back. Scared?”

  Tunde met his gaze without flinching.

  “I simply follow the venerable master’s orders,” he said smoothly. “A spar. Nothing more.”

  Shen erupted into laughter.

  Harumi’s expression turned to ice.

  “Uncle,” Harumi said sharply, tone now razor-edged with intent.

  Shen’s laughter faded as he turned a keen eye toward his nephew.

  “I will willingly give away one of my void rings filled with this month’s treasures—including those high-grade healing elixirs—if you allow this spar to take its natural course.”

  Shen’s amusement vanished.

  “You want to use weapons,” he said, his voice now unreadable.

  Harumi nodded.

  “All injuries I incur will be mine to bear alone. This, I swear on the Zao clan name.”

  Shen stroked his beard, considering, before glancing at Tunde.

  “And you?”

  Tunde’s expression remained impassive.

  “If the venerable elder swears not to harm me, nor anyone connected to me, should anything happen to his nephew—then I will accept the honored Zao lord’s request.”

  Shen’s eyebrows rose.

  “By the Hegemons… the wastelander actually believes he’ll win.”

  Tunde could feel Harumi’s gaze burning into him.

  “The Zao clan has suffered too many insults today,” Harumi declared, voice thick with unyielding pride. “I will redeem it. And I will show you a taste of what true mastery is.”

  Shen snapped his fingers.

  A sword materialized in mid-air, flipping end over end before landing neatly in Tunde’s palm.

  The moment he touched it, something in his soul stirred.

  Power pulsed through the weapon’s hilt, whispering to him—calling to him. It was a finely forged thing, etched with intricate carvings in a language he didn’t recognize. Yet, what he felt sent a deep, thrilling shiver down his spine.

  It was speaking to him.

  It wanted to be used.

  “That blade belonged to an Asura I killed decades ago, back when I was an ordinary Highlord,” Shen mused. “Good times.”

  Ordinary Highlord. As if such a thing existed.

  Shen’s gaze flickered between them.

  “Should you be able to tame its bloodlust, perhaps I might consider forging something similar for you,” he added. “Assuming, of course, you survive Harumi and the heirloom he wields.”

  Harumi lifted his own blade—a double-edged weapon with faint green light rippling across its edges. His grip was firm. His stance, unshaken.

  Tunde looked down at his sword, unwilling to ask for its name. Names held power, and if this weapon had once belonged to an Asura, speaking its name could mean awakening something he wasn’t ready for.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  Instead, he shut his eyes.

  Become one with the void.

  He wasn’t sure he truly understood what that meant.

  But he understood the first step.

  He stopped thinking.

  Tunde opened his eyes. Raised the blade.

  Shen smiled.

  “Begin.”

  They moved. And the storm of techniques began.

  Harumi Zao was the epitome of what a cultivator should aspire to be—refined, disciplined, and lethal in his precision. His first technique, a masterfully honed fusion of aura and Ethra, embodied the very essence of severance, each strike a manifestation of surgical sharpness. His blade thrummed with power, a consequence of his imbuement technique, Tempest, which Shen had once described as the perfect symphony of control and destruction.

  The air around the blade rippled violently, vibrating at an unnatural frequency, as if it sought to carve through reality itself. Both techniques resonated in harmony, drawing deeply from the concept of the Gale Blade, the pinnacle of swift and unrelenting offense.

  Tunde, on the other hand, appeared overwhelmed. Harumi attacked from all directions, his movements an unbroken flow of calculated aggression. Yet, within the storm, Tunde’s Asura Blade devoured his Void Ethra hungrily, its insatiable nature fueling his desperate defense. He moved with cold efficiency, his Ethra Sight drinking in the battlefield, analyzing every minute shift in Harumi’s stance, the subtle giveaways of his next strike. But it was not enough.

  Harumi raised a hand, and a glowing projection of translucent blades formed above him. Dozens—perhaps hundreds—of razor-sharp constructs hovered for an instant before launching toward Tunde in a seamless, cascading assault.

  Tunde’s void realm flared to life, consuming most of the spectral blades into nothingness, yet the remaining few slashed toward him with unrelenting speed. He twisted through them, smashing aside what he could, his feet skimming the ground as he surged forward, determined to close the distance. He had been aiming for the thousand-year cold steel bands shackling Harumi’s arms—a fool’s errand now, an afterthought. What mattered more was the revelation unfolding before him.

  This battle wasn’t about victory anymore. It was about refinement. About something deeper than raw power.

  With a sharp exhale, Tunde did the unthinkable. He shut off his Ethra Sight.

  It was suicide.

  The battlefield grew sharper in its deadliness, the world roaring back to life with untamed intensity. The strikes he had evaded before now found their mark, slicing into flesh, carving pain deep into his bones. Yet, through the agony, his senses awakened. His instincts sharpened. His understanding deepened.

  Harumi wasn’t just attacking. He was restricting him, shaping the battle to his own rhythm, his strikes seamlessly reading and predicting every movement. Tunde realized, then, the difference between himself and a true cultivator—not in strength, but in the fluidity of mastery. The grace of refinement.

  All he had ever known was the killing stroke. Every battle had been a means to an end. Death had always been the only objective.

  But this? This was something else entirely.

  Death—the end of all things.

  Void—the abyss that consumed all things.

  A fire ignited in Tunde’s core, a revelation that burned cold and absolute. His blade rose as Harumi lunged, but something was different.

  The world paled.

  His arms trembled, his body turned to ice.

  Harumi’s movements slowed, or perhaps it was Tunde who was seeing them differently—stretched, elongated, caught between moments. The air itself seemed to thin, drained of warmth and vibrancy. The void deepened. The abyss whispered.

  A darkness bled into existence around him—smoky, formless wisps coalescing into a terrible shape. A shadow wolf, massive and ethereal, loomed behind him, its presence sinking into the blade in his hands. A hunger that was not his own settled within him, something vast and terrible.

  Harumi’s eyes widened. Shock. Alarm.

  The Zao cultivator’s Ethra flared, his aura surging to its peak, instinct screaming that anything less than his full power would mean total annihilation.

  And then—

  "ENOUGH!"

  The Master’s voice rang out like a divine decree.

  Everything shattered.

  The forge died. The world snapped back into color. Tunde gasped as the void was ripped from him, his body suddenly weak, his blade trembling in his grip. The Asura Blade, once a thing of dark beauty, now lay silent in his hands—lifeless, hollow, as if something essential had been leeched from it.

  He blinked the blood from his eyes, using a torn sleeve to wipe it away. His gaze lifted, catching sight of Jing and the Highlord. The former looked deathly pale, while the latter bore an expression of sheer disbelief.

  Across the room, the heavy clang of iron rang out as Harumi unshackled the bands from his arms. He was staring—not at a rival, not even at an opponent, but at something more dangerous. A barely leashed predator.

  "That was… interesting," Shen murmured.

  Tunde turned to face the Master, who stretched out a hand.

  "You won’t be needing that blade any longer."

  Tunde hesitated. He looked down at the weapon in his grip, once a symbol of power, now a hollow remnant of what it had been. He said nothing as he placed the blade into the Master’s waiting hand.

  Shen turned his gaze toward Harumi. "Harumi." A single command.

  Tunde watched as the lord-realm cultivator reached for the ring on his finger.

  "No." The word left Tunde’s lips before he even realized it.

  Harumi froze.

  Tunde exhaled, his throat dry, his body aching. He inclined his head slightly in apology. "I do not wish to offend the honored Zao clan." His voice was hoarse, each word measured. "I seek only the weapon the honored Master would craft for me. This one is unworthy of anything else."

  A brief silence.

  Shen chuckled. "You are mistaken."

  Tunde’s brow furrowed as the Master continued.

  "I craft a blade for you not because you think you passed my first test. You failed that, by the way." Shen smirked. "Handing me the naginata your friend forged for you? That was never the point."

  Tunde stiffened.

  "Nor is it because you ‘defeated’ Harumi—who now understands that the skies of the cultivation world are as vast as its oceans."

  Shen leveled a look at him, pointing the lifeless Asura Blade in his direction.

  "No. I am crafting this blade for you because of the favor you offered my old friend on that island."

  Tunde’s breath hitched. His mind reeled.

  "The… Soul Saint?" he whispered.

  Shen nodded. "So accept the ring. Anything less would be an insult to the Zao clan."

  Tunde swallowed, nodding slowly.

  Harumi said nothing as he tossed the ring toward him.

  Tunde caught it, slipping it onto his finger without hesitation.

  No words passed between them.

  Without another glance, he turned and left the chamber. Jing followed behind, her steps quiet, her presence unreadable.

  And yet, Tunde could feel it—something had shifted. The void had called to him, and for the briefest moment, he had answered.

  ******************

  Shen raised a single finger, silencing Harumi with a simple gesture. He waited, listening, until he was certain that Tunde and Jing had left not just the room but the entire premises. Only then did he allow himself to speak.

  “Marvelous… Is that what they make in the borderlands?” he mused aloud, almost to himself.

  Harumi’s throat felt dry, but he forced himself to speak. “What is he?” There was the faintest tremor in his voice.

  Shen glanced at him, eyes sharp with amusement. “Interesting choice of words, don’t you think?” He turned his gaze to his nephew, who stood rigid, his normally composed demeanor shaken.

  “You saw what he did, how he did it,” Harumi pressed, his grip unconsciously tightening. “That—what even was that?”

  Shen let his gaze drop to the Asura blade in his hands, his expression unreadable.

  “I never could rid this weapon of its taint,” he said at last, running a hand over the length of the darkened blade. “Infused it with my Ethra, my aura, even my essence flames and authority, but the stain of blood was too deep. It had already consumed too many souls before I was able to put a stop to its wielder’s path of death.”

  With a flick of his wrist, Shen raised the blade and thrust it into the forge, the flames roaring back to life as if answering his will.

  “And yet, somehow, some Highlord was able to do what I could not.” He spoke in a whisper now, the words barely audible over the crackling fire. “Just what exactly did you bring back from the wastelands, Varis?”

  Harumi stiffened at that. “Highlord?” he echoed, eyes darting between his uncle and the glowing forge.

  Shen glanced at him, then gave a half-shrug.

  “Only in name. His body refuses to advance—or perhaps he is the one refusing. But make no mistake, for all intents and purposes, he fought as one. A Highlord… with bad techniques and lethally honed battle instincts to compensate.”

  Harumi swallowed hard, memories of the battle still fresh in his mind. He could still feel the echoes of it in his bones, the terrifying moment when everything had begun to pale, when Tunde had raised his blade and something other had answered.

  “Then how?” Harumi pressed, frustration seeping into his voice. “How did he do that? How did he—”

  “Break it?” Shen cut in smoothly, his voice as innocent as if he had no idea what Harumi was talking about.

  Harumi gritted his teeth. He knew his uncle understood. He could feel the lesson coming, and he braced himself for it, knowing it would wound his pride but also knowing he could not afford to shy away.

  “How did he break my Song of Blades?” he asked, voice quiet but firm.

  Shen exhaled, a slow, measured breath. “Ah, The Song of Blades… A tune only heard by those who have grown close to their weapon, who have glimpsed but a whisper of the mystical realm of Saints. That song?”

  Harumi gave a stiff nod.

  Shen’s smile widened, though there was no warmth in it.

  “So if I understand correctly, you, Harumi Zao—favored of the Zao Clan’s matriarch and master, sole student of the Gale Blade style, inheritor of the family’s Razor, and a supposedly soon-to-be Saint of the Blade in the far future—are telling me that you were bested by a mere potential Highlord from the wastelands with nothing but raw grit and a will to survive?”

  Harumi felt the weight of the words press down on him, shame sinking into his bones. His knees hit the floor, his head bowed.

  “I have failed you,” he admitted.

  Shen studied him for a long moment before nodding. “Good. It is good that you understand that.” His voice was calm, measured. “But perhaps your failure was not in the way you assume.”

  Harumi looked up at him, eyes clouded with confusion. “I don’t understand.”

  “And I do not expect you to—not yet,” Shen replied. “But allow me to enlighten you.” He let the moment hang, let the lesson sink in before he spoke again.

  “You were inches away from witnessing something that should not exist—something that should never be. That boy, Tunde… he was on the cusp of stepping into Heaven’s Crucible, of tapping into something primal, something more deadly than I have felt in a long, long time.”

  Harumi’s breath caught, his mind flashing back to that moment—the sudden, eerie shift in the air, the cold seeping into his limbs, the way the world itself had seemed to dim.

  Shen nodded, reading his expression perfectly.

  “Yes. I stopped it,” he confirmed. “To you, it was a matter of honor. A spar between two cultivators. To him? It was nothing more than an exercise—a way to hone his techniques. You thought he was your training dummy.” Shen chuckled, low and humorless. “Poor boy. It was the other way around.”

  Harumi’s eyes widened in horror.

  “Isn’t that right, Varis?”

  Harumi’s head snapped up at the sound of that name, only now realizing that another presence had entered the room. He turned, his heart pounding as his gaze landed on the looming figure standing just behind him.

  Varis. The Master of Clan Talahan.

  Harumi shrank back instinctively, his fingers tightening around Razor’s hilt as if it could protect him.

  Varis spared him a glance, then spoke without so much as a shift in his stance.

  “Leave us.”

  Harumi did not hesitate. He bowed hastily and vanished from the room.

  Silence stretched between the two masters, the forge casting flickering shadows over their faces. Shen exhaled heavily.

  “He’s your… hmm… nephew, is he not?” The Master’s voice was casual, though there was an unmistakable weight to it. “The family line does get rather confusing at times.”

  Varis gave him a dry look. “We have need to talk, Father.”

  Shen’s expression did not shift.

  “Yes,” he murmured, voice unreadable. “About why you thought it wise to bring a Seeker into the capital itself.”