The massive arena at the bottom of the valley trembled as Tunde watched the formations below begin to shift. Intricate circles of inscriptions moved like living things, reshaping the battlefield into a rugged mountain range. The crowd roared in excitement, the air thick with anticipation as the sky above split open with the blare of trumpets. A figure descended from the clouds, wreathed in golden light.

  Dressed in robes of near-blinding white and gold, his black hair oiled back to perfection, the man bore an unnerving presence. His teeth were pearly white, his irises gleaming like polished ivory—an unnatural sight that set Tunde on edge. With his arms outstretched, he spoke, his voice rippling with Ethra, reverberating across the arena.

  “Cultivators all, welcome to the first-ever tournament of its kind! The Banquet of Power!”

  The crowd erupted in response; their cheers so intense that even the formation barrier—meant to protect spectators from the chaos of the arena—shuddered under the force of their enthusiasm. Ethra crackled in the air, charged with collective fervor.

  “This grand event is graciously hosted by the great imperial clan of Talahan—the burning flames of the Bloodfire Continent! The protectors of half its people, the defenders of the just!” The announcer’s voice swelled with reverence.

  “Please, show your respect to the exalted cultivator who made this all possible—the sole heir to the patriarch of the clan himself, the ever-burning inferno, the peak paragon, Clan Head Jaito Talahan!”

  As the announcer gestured, Tunde stiffened.

  For an instant—so brief it was almost imperceptible—he felt it. A flash of power. No, not power. Something beyond that. It wasn’t even a presence in the conventional sense. It was, and then it wasn’t. A ripple of reality itself. His breath hitched, his body freezing on instinct as his mind struggled to comprehend what he had just brushed against. It was like standing at the edge of an abyss—one that gazed back with neither malice nor intent, but a sheer, overwhelming existence that made his very being shrink.

  Then, as quickly as it came, it vanished.

  Tunde’s head snapped upward, his wide eyes locking onto the ceiling, where above it, he was sure the paragon was. A paragon. A living paragon was here.

  Swallowing hard, he forced himself to take slow, deliberate breaths, cycling his Ethra to steady his frayed nerves. What he had just felt defied every understanding he had of cultivation. It was strange yet familiar, terrifying yet… compelling. His instincts screamed at him to run—to flee—but before he could dwell further, the announcer’s voice dragged him back to the present.

  “Thank you, honored Paragon,” the man said with a deep bow before straightening.

  “Dozens of factions have sent their most promising cultivators to vie for the title of Heavenly Prodigy!”

  The crowd roared again, voices rising like a tidal wave of excitement.

  “Now, before the tournament begins tomorrow, the orthodox and unorthodox factions have agreed to a preliminary spar! A friendly match to set the stage!”

  Tunde sat up. His instincts prickled, a feeling of familiarity creeping in even before the announcer spoke the next words.

  “On my left, representing the orthodox factions—hailing from the Cult of the Heralds! The rising star and peak lord cultivator, student of the honored Master of the Sword Enclave, Kael Ironedge—Rhyn!”

  Tunde’s breath hitched.

  He turned to Varis, whose lips curled into that infuriatingly amused expression. The master had known. Even before Tunde’s gaze snapped back to the arena, he already felt the weight of realization settle in his chest.

  A figure in black and red robes strode into the transformed battlefield.

  Rhyn Verdan.

  Once the brightest star of a proud clan—now nothing but ashes and memory. The last living heir, as far as Tunde knew. And yet… as he stared at the man standing below, he found himself unable to recognize him.

  Rhyn had changed.

  The stoic, cold expression was gone. His black hair was now cropped short, his skin deeply tanned—evidence of relentless training under the merciless sun of Adamath. His movements were different, too. Sharper. Coiled like a serpent ready to strike.

  But more than his altered appearance, it was who he had become that unsettled Tunde.

  In barely a year, Rhyn had done what took others a lifetime—he had drawn the attention of a master. A true master.

  Tunde gritted his teeth.

  Who was he kidding? Of course, Rhyn had always been exceptional. Back then, he had simply been the underdog, the one Rhyn had barely noticed—until it was too late. Until the fall of his house. Until the destruction of everything he once had.

  His gaze traced the scar running from Rhyn’s right eyebrow down to just beyond his lower eyelid—a mark that refused to heal. A testament to the hell he had survived.

  A hand on his armrest tightened.

  Beside him, Zhu leaned in slightly. “Someone you knew?”

  Tunde’s voice was quiet. “A long time ago.”

  The crowd roared once more as the announcer continued.

  “And from the Central Plains—the heir to the rising Twisting Blade Sect! Student of the honored master of the Twisting Blade—Sorei!”

  A tall, lithe figure emerged—cream-colored skin, dark hair tied in a tight bun, her white robes emblazoned with the image of a twisted blade. Unlike Rhyn, she greeted the crowd with enthusiasm, waving as cheers erupted around her.

  “A reminder—this is a friendly spar,” the announcer cautioned. “Whosoever surrenders first, loses. Loss of limb is tolerated. And, of course, as our Paragon has graciously assured us, even immediate death can be reversed… though let’s not test that, shall we?”

  The crowd chuckled—nervously.

  Tunde narrowed his eyes. Was that true? Could a Paragon truly reverse death itself? The Soul Saint had done something similar to him once, but this…?

  “Are both contestants ready?”

  Sorei gave an eager nod.

  Rhyn merely tilted his head, one hand resting on the mundane-looking blade at his waist.

  The announcer raised his hand. “Begin!”

  Sorei moved first.

  A flash of silver—the coiled metal at her waist lashed out, revealing itself as a flexible blade. Impressive. It struck like a serpent, guided by seamless fusions of Ethra, aura, and essence flame. Her dominion expanded, a realm of shifting, spectral blades appearing in an instant.

  Tunde’s Ethra Sight flared, analyzing her technique. Sloppy. Wasteful. Or was she holding back?

  His gaze flicked to Rhyn, waiting. Would he defend? Retreat? What would he—

  A tremor rippled through the air.

  Rhyn drew his blade.

  A single motion.

  A single, chilling motion.

  Sorei’s body jerked—then froze.

  A thin line of red bloomed across her throat. Her sword slackened. She staggered, eyes wide, her mouth opening to speak—only for blood to spill over her lips. Deep lacerations tore open across her entire body in the blink of an eye.

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  The valley fell silent.

  A green glow enveloped Sorei as healers rushed to her side, her limp body lifted by gentle currents of aura.

  Rhyn exhaled, frowned at his own hands, and turned away—walking toward the exit without a second glance.

  The announcer found his voice at last.

  “C-Cultivators one and all! The winner of the duel—Rhyn of the Heralds!”

  Thunderous applause shook the valley.

  Tunde remained still, watching Rhyn’s retreating back.

  A figure he no longer recognized.

  Varis turned to him. “Do you understand now?”

  Tunde’s jaw clenched. His gaze drifted back to the arena.

  “…I have work to do.”

  ******************************

  "That was authority," Elyria murmured from the secluded viewing box she shared with her master.

  The private space afforded them a clear yet detached perspective of the grand event below. Elyria’s master, however, seemed more captivated by the lavish platter of exotic dishes arranged before her than the spectacle itself. She picked at the selection with an air of childish curiosity, her sharp gaze drifting only occasionally toward the arena.

  "Of course it was. A brutal thing, really," Sarika replied, finally sparing the event a brief glance. Her tone carried neither admiration nor disapproval—just a simple observation, as though authority itself were a tool, neither good nor evil.

  "It’s like trying to force a true beast core into the body of a sentient construct. Hard. Stupid. A waste of time." She tapped a lacquered nail against her goblet, letting the thought settle before adding, "But if done right..." She left the words hanging, a challenge for Elyria to finish the thought herself.

  Elyria, however, had already turned her attention elsewhere.

  "Rhyn has changed," she noted, eyes fixed on the arena below. The bright bloom of illusionary projections painted the battlefield in vivid color, replaying the history of the Talahan clan for the assembled crowd. In the midst of it all stood a towering construct, its mechanical limbs whirring with the precision of Technocratic engineering as it wove a tale of war, loss, and dominion.

  "Surviving the complete annihilation of your clan and then being placed under the iron grip of the Heralds—especially the Ironedge—would change anyone." Sarika’s voice was cool, matter-of-fact. "You should be glad I found you first."

  Elyria glanced back at her master.

  Master Sarika was not just a name within the Technocracy; she was one of the leading voices of the Harmonizers, a faction within the artificer cult dedicated to achieving true fusion between man and machine. More than that, she was the ruler of an entire district city—one of the massive spires of the Technocracy, an empire that had long since merged with the cult’s ideals.

  It had been Sarika who had taken in a half-dead Elyria, a girl who had barely survived the horrors of the boundary between the Talahan Empire and the Technocracy. Whatever the master had seen in her that day, Elyria still didn’t know. But Sarika had seen something.

  And that was enough.

  She had taken Elyria under her wing, despite the furious protestations of her many disciples—each of whom had been forced to accept the outsider only after she had fought, bled, and clawed for every scrap of knowledge Sarika had deigned to offer.

  In time, Sarika had shattered Elyria’s understanding of her own path, only to reveal that it had never been flawed to begin with. Instead, she had refined it—merging Elyria’s concept with the greater affinity of the Technocracy, an affinity reserved solely for members of the cult.

  The same affinity she had sensed in Rhyn. Or, rather, the Heralds' twisted version of it.

  Now, Elyria was no longer just an outcast. She was the Rust Tyrant.

  Her path of Living Metal was unlike anything her homeland would have ever allowed, an abomination in the eyes of those who still clung to tradition. Her metal arm was no mere prosthetic—it was a living, sentient entity, its infant consciousness entwined with her own. Sarika had overseen its cultivation from the moment Elyria had been taken in, guiding its development with meticulous care.

  Dark brown and etched with intricate personal runes of her own creation, it was, in essence, a soulbound weapon. A weapon that would only grow stronger, more human, with each rank of advancement she climbed. Already, its metal veins were creeping into her flesh, fusing seamlessly with the Rustforged Iron Body, the tempering art Sarika had bestowed upon her.

  Elyria was on the verge of becoming something more—a near-invulnerable fusion of metal and flesh.

  A perfect embodiment of the Harmonizers’ ultimate goal.

  And all of it had simply been a matter of what she was, of where she had come from.

  Sarika studied her with a knowing glance, amusement flickering in her golden eyes.

  "Ah, I see now," she mused. "You're wondering if the rumors are true."

  Elyria stiffened.

  "What rumors?"

  Sarika sighed theatrically, setting down the bird thigh she had been sampling and fixing Elyria with a look that was equal parts indulgent and exasperated.

  "Sometimes, I swear you young ones think that just because I’ve lived for countless centuries, I must be nothing but beauty and jaded wisdom." She shook her head. "I assure you, I am neither blind nor senile. I know the look of love when I see it, even in my favorite test subject."

  Elyria raised an eyebrow.

  "You mean student."

  Sarika waved a hand dismissively.

  "Same thing." She took another bite, chewed thoughtfully, then pressed on. "But I’m right, aren’t I?"

  "No. Not love. Just... concern," Elyria said, biting her lip.

  Sarika leaned back, resting her chin against her hand as she studied her disciple.

  "I hate to be the one to say this, but if he truly is the student of a master of the imperial clan—and not just any master, but one of the main branch—then you and I both know that whatever you had before?" She gestured vaguely. "That can’t remain the same."

  Elyria turned back to the glass panel, staring down at the arena with a tight expression.

  "This war with the Empire... Tunde isn’t like them. He won’t join them," she said firmly.

  Sarika chuckled; her laughter rich with amusement.

  "You’d be surprised what people will do when the realms of advancement are laid before them." She gestured at the illusionary construct below, the grand retelling of Talahan history. "Especially when they have access to all the resources of a clan like that."

  She took another bite of her meal and let out a soft groan of pleasure, clearly savoring the rare indulgence. The Technocracy rarely partook in such luxuries—Sarika’s district least of all. Every inch of her domain was dedicated to necessity, progress, efficiency. Food was processed in towering complexes, reduced to nutrient-dense rations. It was a subtle reminder, an unspoken nudge. Fill your void rings while you can. Before we return to bland sustenance.

  Still, Elyria wasn’t done.

  "We made promises," she murmured.

  "Promises?" Sarika’s lips quirked upward. "Even ones made by that traitor who joined the Revenants?"

  Elyria frowned.

  "Thorne was different. He was always prideful. Always bitter. He never saw the hypocrisy in his own actions."

  Sarika nodded approvingly. "Good. At least you still have your senses when it comes to that one."

  Elyria’s reunion with Thorne had been... jarring.

  The man she had known was gone.

  The brief moment they had seen each other before being separated into different districts had made that clear. The thing she had seen in his place was not just an cultivator. He was a cultivator steeped in the forbidden arts of the Revenants.

  He was something else entirely.

  And she knew—knew—that when Tunde saw him again, something inside him would break.

  That was why she needed to see Tunde first.

  To warn him.

  Yes. That was the reason. Only that. What else could it be?

  Sarika hummed in amusement.

  "Your heart rate just spiked, dearest student," she said, blinking innocently. "I wonder... whoever could be on your mind?"

  Elyria turned away with a grumble, refusing to dignify the question with an answer.

  Sarika just laughed.

  **********************

  Tunde’s first course of action was to report everything he had seen to Ifa. The elder listened in silence, rubbing his beard thoughtfully as he nodded, his aura forming an impenetrable barrier around them to shield their conversation from any prying ears—including Zhu, who still managed to lean in curiously.

  “The authority of a Herald… he has been given the Affinity of War,” Ifa murmured.

  Tunde frowned. “Affinity of War?”

  “More like a concept,” Ifa corrected. “For example, you embodied the cosmic concept of the seekers, refined into the path you use now—the Void. That greater affinity was refined within you until it became a concept, something uniquely yours. The same holds true for the other great cults of Adamath.”

  Tunde processed this as Ifa continued.

  “The Concept of War manifests in different forms, each shaped by its wielder. That’s why the Heralds are divided into enclaves, each one dedicated to a particular aspect of war. The form that Rhyn now wields—the War Blade—is a distilled manifestation of the greater Affinity of War, focusing it into an unparalleled force of destruction.”

  Ifa sighed. “If that was indeed the case, then the girl from the Twisting Blade Sect never stood a chance. War crushes those who cannot wield it. And if her master walks a different path from hers, then she could not have drawn upon his or her authority, leaving her hopeless against Rhyn’s assault.”

  Zhu tilted his head. “Surely her master would have explained that to her?”

  “I doubt anyone expected a mere Lord-ranker to wield the Authority of the War Blade at such a level,” Ifa replied. “Even a peak Lord should not have had access to something like that. Ironedge must have done something drastic to that boy.” His voice carried a note of unease.

  Tunde remained silent, pondering on this new knowledge. Authority. What would the Authority of the Void look like? If he could harness it, it would give him an edge even at peak Lord-realm—and an overwhelming advantage when he ascended to Highlord.

  Ifa narrowed his eyes. “If you’re thinking of trying to wield the Authority of the Void, then you’re either reckless or a complete idiot.”

  Zhu snickered. “Don’t those two mean the same thing?”

  Tunde answered by smacking the back of his head. Zhu yelped, rubbing the spot while pouting.

  “I’ll need it when I face Rhyn. Eventually,” Tunde insisted.

  Ifa exhaled sharply. “You do realize there are hundreds of other cultivators participating, yes? And that someone else could very well eliminate him before you do?”

  “We don’t know that,” Tunde countered.

  “The same way we don’t know just how powerful the other factions truly are,” Ifa shot back. “Prepare as much as you must, advance if you can—reaching Highlord before the tournament begins would certainly help. But do not cut short your lifespan for a power you will gain in time anyway.” His voice carried an unmistakable warning.

  Zhu raised his hand. “What about me?”

  Ifa regarded him for a moment. “It is difficult to say with beasts—especially divine beasts. Your growth is less rigid than a human’s, but I would still advise caution until you reach the realm of Highlord.”

  Zhu let out a long sigh.

  Tunde arched an eyebrow. “Isn’t there something useful in those memories of yours?”

  Zhu closed his eyes and hummed thoughtfully, rubbing his forehead as if deep in concentration. Then, after a few moments, his eyes snapped open, brimming with what could only be described as profound wisdom.

  “Ah, yes! I see something!” he declared dramatically.

  Tunde leaned in expectantly. Ifa also glanced at the divine beast, curiosity flickering across his usually unreadable expression.

  Zhu exhaled deeply, adopting the solemn air of an ancient sage. Then, with absolute certainty, he spoke:

  “Divine beasts are better than humans.”

  Ifa groaned.

  Tunde smacked Zhu across the head again.