The next day arrived with a fanfare of energy; the skies alive with the hum of a modified skyvessel soaring overhead. It carried with it an enormous shimmering Ethra screen projection, its radiant glow piercing through the morning mist as it displayed the grand announcement:

  "The Banquet of Power begins! Let all participants make their way to the Great Valley for the opening ceremonies!"

  Tunde, having spent the entire night in deep meditation, barely reacted to the commotion. His body, taut like a coiled spring, pulsed with restrained power, every fiber of his being straining against the threshold of the Highlord realm. He was close—so dangerously close that a single misstep, a single loss of control, might push him over the edge into a breakthrough. And yet, he held himself back.

  The decision had come to him in the quiet hours of the night, as he sat cross-legged in his chamber, his mind sinking into the void. The cool night breeze had whispered against his bare skin, grounding him, sharpening his focus. He had obtained Varis’s blessing—had been given leave to break through—but instinct told him to wait. The banquet loomed ahead, a battlefield where monsters in human form would clash, and his ascension at the wrong moment could spell disaster. He needed to be ready. Completely ready.

  Yet, despite his efforts, no sudden enlightenment had struck him in the night. No miraculous understanding of the void had unveiled itself. Tunde was no serial genius. He had clawed his way forward with blood, sweat, and luck—hard-earned victories that carried their own weight. Some ascenders waltzed through realms as if guided by destiny. He, on the other hand, was a man who fought for every inch.

  As he rose and dressed for the day, his mind mulled over the banquet's summons. This was it—the moment they had come to the capital for. His fingers moved absently to his side, reaching for the familiar weight of his naginata—only to find it missing. He frowned. The weapon had always rested within his void space, a constant presence, yet now it felt... distant. Unreachable.

  His gaze dropped to the ring still wrapped around his finger—the one he had taken from Harumi. It remained unopened. A silent, waiting thing.

  A soft rustle of fabric interrupted his thoughts.

  “I greet the venerable lord.”

  Tunde turned to find a slender woman standing before him, her hands tucked into the folds of her robes as she bowed. Her smile was warm, welcoming.

  Over time, his unorthodox habit of treating the servants with the same respect they showed him had won their loyalty in ways he hadn’t expected. His pool was always warm, infused with vibrant life Ethra. His meals arrived fresh and rich in flavor. His robes remained spotless, his quarters meticulously cleaned. It wasn’t the tasks themselves but the manner in which they were done—the renewed devotion, the subtle care. He hadn’t needed to ask for these things; they simply happened.

  “Your ride to the Great Valley awaits, along with your true beast,” the woman said, stepping aside.

  Tunde’s gaze lifted, and there, standing behind her, was Zhu.

  The Ethralite cut an impressive figure, draped in a deep green robe that complemented the luminous glow of his eyes. His long, ethereal hair fell in smooth strands, and as he strode forward, the gathered female servants giggled and whispered among themselves, unabashed in their admiration.

  The maid sighed, shaking her head in exasperation. “Apologies, Lord Tunde. It seems the female servants have taken quite a liking to him. I shall berate them accordingly.”

  Tunde snorted in amusement, watching as Zhu carefully extricated himself from their midst with a look of mild exasperation.

  “No need,” Tunde replied, smirking. “If anything, he seems to be enjoying the attention.”

  Zhu approached and bowed at the waist.

  “I greet Big Brother.”

  Tunde’s eyes narrowed. “Let me guess—Ifa instructed you to say that?”

  Zhu winced, glancing around as if wary of the elder lurking in the shadows, ready to enforce his will.

  “You don’t have to call me that if you’re not comfortable with it,” Tunde added. “You’re older than me by centuries, after all.”

  For a brief second, the light in Zhu’s expression flickered. The ever-present cheerfulness wavered, revealing something deeper—something he quickly masked.

  “I am me,” Zhu replied simply, forcing his usual brightness.

  Tunde understood immediately. He placed a firm hand on Zhu’s shoulder.

  “Yes, you are.”

  Zhu nodded, the unspoken weight of their words passing between them.

  “So, the banquet?” Zhu asked, his tone shifting to something lighter.

  “Indeed,” Tunde said. “It’s time to accomplish what we came here for.”

  Their transport awaited.

  A magnificent black-and-gold construct, sleek and oval, tethered to two colossal burning horses of pure black flame. The creatures’ eyes crackled with lightning, their hooves hovering just above the ground, distorting the air with heat.

  A man in Talahan clan robes—an adept cultivator—stood before them, his stance polished and deferential. His black hair bore a single white streak, a clear mark of his imperial bloodline.

  “I greet the venerable lords,” the adept said, bowing slightly. “A gift from Master Varis and the clan, to his student and chosen representatives.”

  Tunde’s brows knit together. Representatives?

  “Representatives?” he echoed, exchanging a glance with Zhu, who looked just as surprised.

  “Yes, venerable Highlord. You and the Lord Realm true beast.”

  Tunde’s mind turned over the words carefully. So Varis had orchestrated more than he had let on. He hadn’t simply endorsed Tunde—he had maneuvered Zhu into a position of power as well.

  Tunde remained silent, merely nodding as he stepped into the carriage alongside Zhu. The spectral horses of flame surged forward, carrying them skyward, the capital sprawling beneath them like a living map of light and shadow.

  For a while, neither spoke.

  Then Zhu broke the silence.

  “You didn’t see it coming.”

  Tunde exhaled, his frown deepening. “No. No, I didn’t.”

  “Makes you wonder,” Zhu mused, his expression thoughtful. “What other surprises does the master have planned for you?”

  Tunde glanced at him. “You’re not the least bit bothered?”

  Zhu grinned, his pearly white teeth flashing in the dim carriage light.

  “Truth be told, I secretly wanted to participate.” He leaned back, stretching. “If the venerable master has provided a way for me to do so, then I’ll gladly take it.”

  Tunde studied him for a moment, then nodded.

  “Then let’s hope those are the last surprises he has in store for us.”

  Zhu chuckled, but Tunde’s mind remained troubled.

  Somehow, he doubted that.

  *******************************

  The Great Valley was twice the size of the entirety of Jade Peak, stretching from one end he could see to the other he couldn’t, a vast expanse of carved stone and polished earth—all of it constructed mere days before their arrival. As Tunde stepped down from the carriage, Zhu in tow, the frigid bite of the early morning winds gradually faded, the sun creeping higher into the sky and bathing the valley in warmth. He marveled at the sheer scale of it all, his gaze sweeping over the literal sea of bodies seated within chairs carved into the valley’s walls.

  Beside him, Zhu whistled low, his usual air of nonchalance briefly replaced by genuine awe. Even Tunde, who had seen his fair share of wonders, found himself breathless.

  The valley itself was shaped like the half-formed crater of an unfinished volcano, its massive interior hollowed out and reinforced with metals, precious stones, and intricate engravings. Each tier was segmented into layers, and Tunde quickly deduced that seating was arranged according to importance or position. The bottommost level was a vast, nearly smoothened expanse of rock, refined yet left rugged enough to suggest its purpose. Even without being told, Tunde knew—this was where the battles would take place.

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  Activating Ethra Sight, he saw what lay beneath—a complex web of formations, their patterns ever-shifting, like a vast puzzle rearranging itself in real-time. A living mechanism. The formations danced beneath the surface, responding to invisible flows of power. A subtle reminder, one that sent a silent warning to him—he needed to deepen his understanding of formation arts soon. Something told him it would prove critical in the tournament.

  Factions filled the valley, their banners billowing high, painted in bold colors, some etched with runes that shimmered in the light. The sheer number of people that had arrived so quickly made Tunde wonder just how they had organized themselves with such speed. He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling as he adjusted his stance, while beside him, Zhu merely smiled.

  “Now this is what I call an event,” Zhu remarked, his voice nearly swallowed by the thunderous roar of the gathered cultivators.

  Tunde smirked, shaking his head.

  “How many of these have you even been to?” he asked, amusement clear in his tone.

  Zhu laughed, tilting his head as if genuinely considering the question.

  “My first, actually. Hard to top this one going forward.”

  Before Tunde could reply, movement at the far end of the valley drew his attention. From within the tunnel leading into the grand space, a Highlord emerged.

  The man was tall, his head cleanly shaven, his form draped in the rich gold and black colors of Talahan. Large golden earrings dangled from his ears, catching the light as he moved with an effortless grace that belied his immense power. The mere act of stepping forward sent ripples through the crowd, their voices dying down in quiet recognition of his authority.

  Tunde remained still, keeping his aura carefully shrouded, locked at the level of a mid-tier Lord. Even now, he could feel the delicate touch of powerful cultivators in the crowd, their auras stretching out like invisible tendrils, probing for information. They were testing, assessing, weighing the threats around them. Zhu, either unaware or unbothered, simply stood beside him, observing the unfolding scene.

  The Highlord’s voice carried effortlessly, his words amplified through the weight of his Ethra.

  “Welcome, all. You are the first batch of cultivators to arrive at the venue. This proves your understanding of just how important this tournament is—both to your factions and to yourselves.”

  A hush settled over the crowd.

  “The Talahan Clan appreciates this dedication,” he continued, “and in recognition of your efforts, you shall be rewarded—each of you shall receive an Ethra Pill, containing ten years’ worth of refined Ethra.”

  A wave of shock rolled through the gathered cultivators, followed immediately by murmurs of appreciation, disbelief, and excitement.

  Zhu’s eyes flickered toward Tunde, their connection, once dormant, now vibrant with unspoken thoughts.

  “That should push most—if not all—of them to the brink of Highlord Realm, maybe even beyond,” Zhu noted, voice tinged with intrigue.

  Tunde, however, wasn’t convinced. “And they’re just handing it out for free?” he asked, brow furrowing slightly.

  As the pills floated down, each carried with pinpoint precision by Lord Realm servants, Tunde watched closely. The Ethra-infused spheres were placed directly into the hands of the intended cultivators, yet—none came their way.

  Then, a shift.

  The Highlord’s deep voice rang out again, this time in Ethereal Whisper, a technique that allowed his words to reach only them.

  “Contestants Tunde and Zhu… you are not meant to stand among such rabble. None of the important factions are. Follow her.”

  Tunde’s gaze flickered to a female servant, standing poised nearby. She met his eyes and nodded once, a silent command. Without hesitation, she turned and began moving through the crowd.

  Tunde and Zhu followed.

  The throngs of cultivators around them took no notice, too absorbed in their own excitement over the Ethra Pills. As they slipped through the golden gates, their path diverted from the main tunnel, the one that no doubt led directly to the arena. Instead, the servant took an immediate left, leading them deeper into the valley’s hidden corridors.

  Tunde broke the silence first.

  “Apologies, but surely the clan understands that by handing out those pills, most of those cultivators will advance to Highlord Realm?”

  The servant glanced at him, a small smile tugging at her lips.

  “You overestimate their Ethra refining arts,” she said smoothly. “Most of those out there come from the weaker, scattered clans, sects, and schools. They may be their factions' brightest stars, but their refining techniques… are flawed.”

  Tunde’s brow furrowed. “So they won’t reach Highlord?”

  “A few might,” she admitted with a shrug. “But most will fail. Their bodies will reject such a concentrated surge of Ethra. To them, reaching Highlord Realm is already a miracle.”

  Zhu tilted his head, thoughtful.

  “There are real monsters among them, though,” he pointed out.

  The servant nodded.

  “Indeed. And those will go far. Some might even gather enough resources to smoothen their path to the peak of Highlord Realm… perhaps even higher.”

  Tunde’s pace slowed, his gaze sharpening.

  “That’s possible?”

  She laughed lightly.

  “The heavens and hegemons know best. Nothing should surprise you in the world of cultivation any longer.”

  Tunde exhaled, his thoughts racing.

  Something told him—this tournament was going to be far more dangerous than he had anticipated.

  **********************

  Within the walls of the valley stood a grand palace, a section clearly reserved for the imperial clan. Tunde suspected there were other separate quarters designated for factions the Talahan clan deemed worthy, though he had little time to dwell on the thought as the towering black and gold doors swung open before him and Zhu. A wave of deep, cloying incense washed over them as they stepped inside. The scent was intoxicating, thick with power, and threaded with something almost predatory, as if it sought to weigh down those who entered uninvited.

  The chamber itself was lavish beyond anything Tunde had ever seen, an overwhelming display of wealth and status. Ornately carved furniture lined the room, polished to a mirror sheen, the edges inlaid with precious metals. A massive table stretched across the space, heaped with an obscene abundance of food—delicacies from across the empire and beyond. Sweet-smelling Ethra-infused wine gourds gleamed in the soft glow of the hanging lanterns, their scent mingling with the incense in a heady blend.

  But it wasn’t the luxury that set Tunde on edge. It was the people.

  Cultivators stood at the corners of the room, their gazes unreadable, their presence far too still. The Talahan clan’s own warriors mingled with the familiar silhouettes of the Whispering Phantom Sect, their auras tightly controlled, yet brimming with quiet menace. Tunde’s muscles tensed, his instincts screaming at him to be on guard.

  A voice rang out, smooth and knowing.

  "At ease, Tunde. Those phantoms belong to the clan directly," Varis’s voice carried across the chamber, calm yet edged with amusement. "Though, I must say, it is surprising you can see them so clearly."

  Tunde’s head snapped up in surprise. He hadn't realized he had been tracking them so easily. He glanced around again, this time noticing the faint distortions in the air where the hidden assassins stood. A whisper of unease curled in his chest—either his senses were sharpening beyond what they should, or the phantoms weren’t as skilled as they believed.

  Up ahead, he recognized several figures, some more intimately than others, and yet, as soon as his eyes settled on them, his body moved on instinct.

  He dropped to one knee.

  "I greet the Master and the esteemed members of Clan Talahan," he declared, his voice ringing out with measured deference.

  A sharp, lilting laugh broke the silence.

  "Esteemed members? Hear that, brother?" The familiar voice of Lady Rhaelar cut through the air, her amusement clear. "I’m impressed."

  "Rhaelar, where are your manners?" Another voice joined hers, feminine, silken—yet carrying the weight of a blade poised to strike.

  Tunde barely had time to register the difference before Varis’s voice followed.

  "Raise your head, Tunde. You stand before the main branch of the clan."

  Tunde obeyed, his movements slow and deliberate. As his gaze lifted, a fresh wave of realization settled over him.

  Power.

  Raw, searing power suffused the very air of the chamber. His shrouding had dampened his senses before—a necessary precaution he had taken upon entering—but now that his perception was unobstructed, the sheer weight of their presence pressed against him like a suffocating tide.

  Varis stood to the side, his expression unreadable, though Tunde caught the flicker of something beneath it. Disappointment, perhaps, at his reluctance to ascend beyond Lord Realm.

  To Varis’s right, his elder sister, Master Rhaelar, stood grinning, her posture relaxed, yet her gaze keen. The resemblance between her and their father was unmistakable now that they stood side by side, sharing the same sharp, assessing glint in their eyes.

  Jing stood near her master, arms folded behind her, maintaining a rigid posture. She acknowledged him with a single nod, her gaze slow as it raked over him—evaluating, appraising, almost possessive. He suppressed the instinctive revulsion that curled in his gut.

  Beyond them, Shen Zao sat, his expression impassive, the aura of a Saint barely restrained within him. Beside him, a woman with hair split between white and black reclined gracefully, her presence a paradox of ice and fire. Even while reigning in their power, the two radiated an overwhelming force, an effortless authority that made the air itself feel sharper.

  A voice, smooth and measured, finally cut through the tension.

  "These are your contestants?" The woman’s question was almost dismissive.

  Tunde’s gaze locked onto her, and an odd certainty settled in his bones. She was Varis’s mother. He didn’t need confirmation. Perhaps it was the way her hand, deceptively delicate but undoubtedly strong enough to crush a Highlord’s skull, rested lightly atop Shen Zao’s. Or perhaps it was the piercing, judgmental look in her eyes—a look Varis had inherited.

  "A wastelander and a true beast," she continued, her tone cool.

  Tunde didn’t so much as flinch. A master of her level could call him dirt if she wished—he had endured worse. For now, at least.

  "A wastelander that tore apart a branch family of the clan, fought Father’s precious nephew to a standstill, and survived two wars that claimed thousands of lives," Varis countered smoothly.

  "And the true beast is equally formidable—or so I hear."

  "Little Jing here has taken a liking to our wastelander," Rhaelar mused, patting Jing on the shoulder.

  Jing didn’t react beyond a slight twitch of her lips, her expression unreadable.

  "Is that so?" Shen Zao finally spoke, amusement flickering in his eyes. "Perhaps such a talented cultivator would consider joining the imperial clan a great honor?"

  Tunde felt his body go cold.

  His gaze flickered to Jing, noting the quiet anticipation in her eyes. A chill ran through him, not of fear, but of a sharp, simmering fury. His essence flames surged within him, steadying his mind, his body, his spirit. It quelled the rational voice in his head that whispered for him to tread carefully.

  "Apologies," he started, voice edged with steel.

  "Tunde is spoken for by another," Varis interjected smoothly.

  "Ah, yes," Rhaelar chimed in, her grin widening. "The girl taken by the phantoms, is that not so?"

  Tunde met Varis’s gaze. The warning there was clear—blatant, even.

  His false bravado faded, a realization dawning on him. He had nearly overstepped. He had nearly made enemies of the clan.

  "Besides," Varis continued, his voice shifting back to neutral, "that is not why we have called them here."

  "True," Varis’s mother conceded. "Forgive us, young lords. We have heard much about you both. We merely wished to see what drew our son to you."

  "Be that as it may," Shen Zao interjected, all trace of amusement gone, "you, your true beast, Jing, and Harumi represent the main branch faction."

  The room stilled.

  "And it is for that reason that we have called you here—to become acquainted, and to watch the opening festivities away from the eyes of the other factions."

  Tunde gave a slow nod, casting a glance at Zhu, who had remained deathly silent throughout. His friend’s body was rigid, his fists clenched at his sides.

  A loud voice broke through the tension as a section of the wall shimmered and peeled away, revealing the Grand Canyon and the arena below.

  "It’s about to begin," Rhaelar said, excitement threading her tone.

  Tunde turned to Zhu, the two rising in unison as they moved to the seats facing the massive glass observatory.

  "They never said my name," Zhu’s voice echoed in their link, tightly controlled, but betraying the simmering rage beneath.

  Tunde met his gaze, his own eyes flint-cold. He placed a firm hand on Zhu’s shoulder.

  "Then we make them acknowledge you."

  Zhu exhaled slowly, his fury sharpening into something far more dangerous.

  Determination.

  Below them, the first match was called.