Tunde moved silently through the streets of the forging district, weaving past the towering buildings of metal and smoke. The clang of hammers and the hiss of steam filled the air, yet none of it reached him—not truly. His thoughts drowned out the world around him. Beside him, Jing walked in uncharacteristic silence. For once, the ever-amused student of his master’s sister had no teasing remarks, no smug glances.

  For once, Tunde realized, she regarded him with something close to respect.

  It should have meant something to him. Instead, he found himself lost in the echoes of the battle that had just transpired, replaying every moment, every movement, in his mind. His gaze drifted down to the void ring on his finger, its dark gem glinting subtly in the dim light. He shuddered. They—or rather, he—had resorted to using his aura to traverse the vast sprawl of the capital, moving swiftly back toward the palace. Yet, despite her usual penchant for questions, Jing had not voiced a single one. He knew she had them—dozens of them.

  One, above all, would have been how he had managed to fight on par with a Scion—an elite of a powerful clan.

  He appreciated the space she gave him.

  After some time, he halted—not from exhaustion, but to allow his mind to catch up to his movements. His robes stirred in the cool breeze, the wind whispering through the narrow streets. Beside him, Jing stopped as well, her storm-gray eyes watching him with an intensity he had only ever seen when she fought.

  Tunde turned to her, his expression unreadable.

  "Can you be frank with me?" he asked.

  Jing hesitated for a fraction of a second before nodding.

  "Why did your master really send you after me?" he continued, his voice quiet yet unwavering. "What does the clan truly think of me?"

  Jing exhaled softly, crossing her arms over her chest. The wind pulled at the tightly bound strands of her hair, but she remained still.

  "An oddity," she admitted. "You must know that you’re the first cultivator in recorded memory to come from so far beyond the empire’s heartlands."

  Tunde listened, saying nothing.

  "The borderlands—the wastelands—are mere stories to most of us. Tales from traveling merchants and wandering adventurers, places spoken of but never truly understood. And then, Master Varis arrives… with you. Claiming that a warrior from the fringes of civilization was strong enough to rival the best the imperial clan had to offer."

  She studied his expression, searching for a reaction. There was none.

  "At first, I doubted you," she admitted. "I thought, surely, you would be strong… but your technique was unrefined. Barely worthy of a true cultivator from the central plains, let alone the imperial heartlands."

  A small, self-deprecating smile flickered across her lips.

  "But then I saw you fight Harumi." Her voice grew quieter. "I watched how you adapted—how, even when he gained the upper hand, you still fought like a man with nothing to lose. And I realized… if that had been a true battle to the death, you would have dragged him down with you. Or left him wishing he had died quickly."

  She swallowed, a flicker of something uneasy passing over her face.

  "And that was before I saw you do… whatever it was you did toward the end of that fight."

  Her fingers curled slightly. "Are you even a Lord?" she blurted out.

  Tunde exhaled slowly, his fingers tightening around the void ring.

  "What did it feel like?" he asked. "That technique I used?"

  Jing opened her mouth, hesitated, then closed it. She looked away briefly before steeling her gaze.

  "It…" She struggled for words. "It felt like nothing was left to fight for."

  She looked at him, eyes shadowed.

  "Like fighting was pointless. Like I was staring at death itself, and there was nothing beyond it."

  Her voice dropped to a whisper. "It felt like—"

  "Silence."

  Tunde finished the sentence for her. His expression was unreadable, but something dark flickered behind his eyes.

  "An empty silence."

  Jing nodded, wordlessly.

  For a moment, neither spoke.

  Then, she let out a quiet breath and shook her head. "Now I understand why Lady Rhaelar wanted me watching you."

  Tunde frowned. "What do you mean?"

  Jing hesitated before offering a small, cryptic smile. "This banquet… it will be filled with the rising stars of the cultivation world. The next generation of powers—both orthodox and unorthodox." Her gaze sharpened. "And it seems, by all means, that she’s saying I should watch you."

  Tunde's frown deepened. "I still don’t understand what you’re getting at."

  Jing chuckled lightly. "It doesn’t matter." She exhaled, rolling her shoulders. "I have training to do. Your fight showed me I still have a long way to go."

  She turned slightly, stretching her arms.

  "No more protecting me?" Tunde asked dryly, trying for a joke.

  Jing smirked. She stepped forward, closing the distance between them in an instant.

  Her storm-gray eyes locked onto his.

  "No."

  Her voice was quiet, almost a whisper. "No one in their right mind would go up against my wastelander."

  Tunde raised an eyebrow. "My?"

  Jing’s laugh was sudden, bright—a sharp contrast to the weight of their conversation. She hopped back, grinning.

  "Train hard, Tunde." She turned, aura flaring. "Don’t disappoint me at the banquet."

  Then, with a burst of movement, she was gone, vanishing into the sky.

  Tunde stood there for a moment, watching her leave.

  Then he blinked.

  "The Talahan clan definitely raises cultivators with slight mental issues," he muttered.

  A moment later, he realized something else.

  For the first time, he hadn’t been angry when she called him a wastelander.

  **************************

  Varis produced an ornate, finely carved chair from his void ring—a master-crafted relic, a gift from a revered artisan of the Hundred Spirit Forests. A woman dozens of times his age, yet somehow, in that maddened head of hers, she had convinced herself he was the perfect match for her. Not that he had ever bothered to give her a response. He suspected she might even be lurking somewhere within the capital now, her student in tow, both aiming for the banquet as well.

  “A seeker, you say?” he mused, watching as his father frowned.

  Shen Zao. The fabled Flowing Sword. A secluded saint. The hidden power of the illustrious Zao clan. It was rarely spoken of, but his father was one of the few Saints of Bloodfire—an existence that neared the level of a Paragon, surpassing it in certain ways yet bound by unique restrictions. The nature of saints was an enigma. Their power, drawn from something they simply called songs, defied conventional paths of cultivation. It was the same mystifying force his sister claimed she was close to grasping for herself, teetering on the edge of sainthood.

  This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Varis, however, had no patience for such things. He believed in raw strength—Ethra and aura, the tangible forces that dictated supremacy. And for anything those two couldn’t crush, his authority and essence flames would finish the job. Maybe all four at once. Perhaps it was this ruthless, pragmatic mindset that made his mother adore him so much. They were of the same thinking, much to his father’s chagrin.

  “Don’t play coy with me,” Shen muttered, his gaze shifting momentarily toward the forge. A brief flare of heat and light illuminated a blade resting atop an anvil.

  Varis frowned, unable to place it at first—until something clicked.

  “Is that…?” He left the question hanging.

  Shen nodded. “Indeed. Courtesy of your student.”

  Varis turned to him sharply. “He removed the taint?”

  “Stripped it clean of any lingering marks—simply by channeling his aura.” Shen’s voice was measured, but there was a weight behind his words. “Do you understand what kind of weapon you’re training?”

  Varis exhaled, then wordlessly produced a large gourd of wine, the sweet, intoxicating aroma of fermented flame berries filling the air. His father’s favorite. He had come prepared.

  Shen scoffed. “Getting me drunk won’t loosen my tongue.”

  “Can’t a son share a drink with his old man?” Varis replied, pouring his father a generous bowl.

  Shen eyed him dubiously before accepting the offering.

  “So. A seeker, is he?” Varis pressed.

  Shen gave him a puzzled look. “You had no idea?”

  Varis shrugged. “I had my suspicions. His strength. His versatility. His ability to improvise. And that elusive Ethra of his—I still can’t name it, but it rivals the power of Destruction Ethra.”

  He paused, swirling the liquid in his own cup. “But I thought the Walkers wiped them out centuries ago.”

  “Supposedly.” Shen leaned back. “But you should know by now—nothing is ever truly wiped out.”

  Varis sighed. “If this is where you start with your cryptic implications, I should warn you—I haven’t a damned clue what you’re trying to say.”

  Shen shook his head, exasperated. “All those years forcing you to study in the Great Knowledge Halls… wasted.”

  “The scrolls were excellent for practicing imbuement and projection techniques,” Varis countered.

  Shen chuckled. “I still remember your mother’s thunderous rage when she found out what you had done. Priceless scrolls, burned to cinders.”

  Varis winced. “Ah, yes. And then she tanned my hide and locked me in the halls for days, making me rewrite them by hand—under the watchful eyes of that mean old keeper of knowledge.”

  “She was distraught afterward,” Shen added with amusement. “Kept wondering if she had gone too far. You should’ve seen her then—some of the best days of my life, mind you.”

  Varis raised an eyebrow. “Because your son was imprisoned?”

  “That, and the fact that she came to me for comfort.” Shen waggled his brows suggestively.

  Varis groaned. “Father, please.”

  Shen laughed, clapping him on the shoulder. “Look at you now. A master, just like your old man. I’m proud of you. Both you and Rhaelar.”

  Varis nodded, refilling his father’s bowl.

  Shen’s expression darkened slightly. “Crystalreach was once one of the most peaceful continents in our world,” he said, almost wistfully.

  With a snap of his fingers, Varis let his aura settle around the chamber, ensuring their conversation remained private.

  Shen continued, unbothered. “Before the terms ‘orthodox’ and ‘unorthodox’… before cultivation became a battlefield of ideology… the Abyssal Seekers stood at the pinnacle.”

  Varis said nothing, listening intently.

  “Their ability to open pathways into other realms was unparalleled. They were sought after, hired by the very factions that would later turn on them.”

  “I know the tale,” Varis interjected, his voice level. “They attempted to unravel the bonds between Adamath and the other realms. The orthodox sects intervened—wiped them out before they could finish. But not before the damage was done. The pathways were sealed, and the strain of those seals led to the surges—the violent floods of power that still shake the world today.”

  Shen nodded. “Yes. That is indeed the known tale.”

  Varis narrowed his eyes. “Known? Are you saying there’s another version?”

  Shen sighed, leaving his bowl to float mid-air, his aura holding it effortlessly in place. “Sometimes, I hate being a saint. So many unspoken rules.”

  Then, shaking his head, he refocused. “My point, Varis, is that the Walkers will no doubt come to investigate. We invited them, after all. I’m not sure you’re prepared for that.”

  Varis scoffed. “Even they wouldn’t be foolish enough to cause trouble here.”

  “Perhaps not. But they are known as the true assassins of Adamath for a reason. And their regent… you do not want to make an enemy of her.”

  Varis was silent for a moment. Then, he asked, “So what would you have me do? Cut him off?”

  Shen shook his head. “Don’t be stupid. One does not throw away a sharp blade simply because it might cut its wielder.”

  Varis sipped his drink, deep in thought. “Uncle seems to be taking the clan in a direction none of us understand.”

  “Varis—”

  “You know I’m right,” Varis interrupted. “Mother watches the Technocracy with suspicion, yet he invites them to the banquet. The Arks no longer function, yet we are ordered to leave them standing. Elder Tianlei reports that the Asuras are rousing in the far west. We both know they only stir when they smell blood on the wind. And yet… he invited them as well.”

  Shen exhaled. “What is your point?”

  Varis leaned forward. “My point, Father, is that something is coming. A storm we cannot yet predict. And it cannot be a coincidence that I met one of the last Seekers. That the clan suddenly boasts more masters than ever. That the rate of advancements across the continent—and Adamath as a whole—is accelerating.”

  “A culling,” Shen murmured.

  Varis nodded grimly. “Resources are growing scarce. The sects, clans, and schools are eyeing one another. The unorthodox factions are at each other’s throats. The cults expand unchecked, their so-called hegemons looming. Grandfather refuses to emerge from seclusion. And we—we are hosting a tournament.”

  He exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “Oh. And let’s not forget the new faction of flesh binders.”

  Shen smirked. “That was quite a lot to get off your chest. Feeling better?”

  Varis smirked back. “I’m doing my part. I’m raising independent powers for the Talahan clan. Tunde. Sera and Elder Tianlei. Black Rock to hold the Wastelands at bay. A rock against the coming storm.”

  “And Tunde as your blade at the throats of your enemies,” Shen murmured.

  “Yes.”

  Shen’s gaze was heavy. “And if he turns against you?”

  Varis met his father’s eyes.

  “Then another Asura will be put down.”

  Silence fell between them as they drank.

  ********************

  "We’re no more than exalted prisoners," the tall, pale figure murmured, his sickly skin nearly translucent under the dull glow of the formation barrier. He traced his fingertips across its shimmering surface, feeling the resistance hum against his touch. A cage—elegant, sprawling, and deceptively accommodating—but a cage nonetheless.

  Tall, needle-like spires loomed within the district, casting jagged shadows over the courtyards and walkways below. This was where the unorthodox factions and other "guests" of the Talahan clan had been placed—those too dangerous to ignore yet too valuable to refuse outright. They had been given luxury, entertainment, and comforts worthy of their status. But they were also watched, their every move scrutinized.

  A silent, seething insult.

  Oaths had been sworn—on their very souls—promising no harm to the clan or their fellow guests. And yet, even with their words bound by power, their hosts had erected a prison around them. The figure sighed, tapping the barrier once more, watching as ripples spread across its surface like disturbed water.

  "Was it all you imagined it would be?"

  A smooth, lilting voice drifted behind him, breaking his thoughts. He didn’t turn immediately, his deep, sickly-green eyes narrowing slightly as he gazed into the distance.

  "Your return to the Empire, I mean," she continued.

  Slowly, he shifted his gaze to her, wary of his words.

  Inscriptions, dark and sinuous, coiled across his skin like living things, pulsing with inky light. They moved of their own accord, whispering in tongues only he could hear. They were alive. They had been for a long time.

  "I never came to the capital," he replied softly, his voice edged with something unreadable—old memories, perhaps, long buried and unwanted.

  "Either way, you now represent the Bone King," she said lightly. "An early Highlord, a position of prestige."

  The man turned fully then, inclining his head slightly, studying her with the same detached curiosity he reserved for all things dangerous.

  "I serve at your behest, Master Sabri," he intoned.

  She smiled, pleased, though there was something predatory behind it.

  A sudden, thunderous explosion erupted from the lower levels of the spire, the force rattling the very air.

  Sabri barely blinked.

  The pale man, however, flicked his gaze downward, peering from the pinnacle of the spire where they stood. His lips pressed into a thin line as he observed the chaos below.

  "The technocrats?" Sabri asked, distaste curling in her voice.

  "No," the man murmured. "It seems the Asuras are... behaving as they usually do."

  A chuckle escaped her. "Ah. It seems they heard of your presence."

  His jaw tightened.

  "You informed them," he accused, his voice betraying no emotion.

  Sabri’s grin widened. "You did fine work crafting that blade from the bones of an Asura. It would be such a waste not to let them see the results."

  The inscriptions on his skin pulsed, heating.

  For a brief moment, the air around him darkened, as if shadows had been pulled inward, drawn by his growing agitation. Sabri merely watched, amusement dancing in her gaze, almost as if daring him to lash out.

  He exhaled. Slowly.

  Then, he sealed the feeling away, locking it deep in the abyss of his mind—where the rest of them screamed. Dozens upon dozens of them.

  "I await your orders," he said at last, his voice quiet, controlled.

  Sabri's amusement never wavered.

  "We cannot afford to paint the Revenants in a bad light—not yet. Not until we get what we want," she said, tapping a finger against her lips thoughtfully. "So, make them attack first. Let the dogs of the Talahan clan descend upon those barbarians from the western reaches."

  The man bowed slightly, acknowledging the command.

  "Oh, and Thorne?"

  He halted mid-step.

  Sabri’s voice was sweet, almost teasing.

  "I heard one of your former companions is within the capital," she mused. "Take care not to go back to your vomit."

  A flicker of something passed through Thorne’s eyes—there and gone in an instant.

  His fingers brushed against the hilt of the ornate grey-and-white blade at his waist. Dark green veins of raw undeath Ethra pulsed within it, like a still-beating heart.

  He said nothing.

  Then, without hesitation, he stepped off the edge of the spire—falling into the grounds below.

  Sabri simply laughed.