The search that followed was nothing short of chaotic, a flurry of activity orchestrated by the knowledge hall’s guardians. They combed through the endless rows of stone shelves, aided by eager cultivators hoping to earn the favor of both the knowledge hall and the Talahan clan by assisting in the search. But Tunde knew from the start—it was a futile effort. No trace of Liu would be found. Not a single footprint, not the faintest wisp of residual aura. If his Ethra Sight had failed to perceive Liu’s departure, then no ordinary means would uncover him.

  Yet the question gnawed at him—how? How had Liu evaded him? His bloodline ability had pierced through the first layer of whatever shroud Liu had hidden behind, but something had changed the second time. Had Liu realized he was being observed through an ocular ability? Was he somehow able to counteract it? It wasn’t impossible; there were esoteric techniques that could veil one from even the keenest perception. Still, for someone to recognize and counteract Ethra Sight in mere moments… Who the hell was this person?

  Shaking his head, Tunde stored the large book away within his void ring and waited as the search dragged on. The knowledge hall, as he had quickly come to realize, was immense—a spatially expanded domain that could take days, even weeks, to search in its entirety. It wasn’t long before the cultivators began to tire, and the guardians, recognizing the futility of the effort, shifted tactics. Tunde had provided a description of Liu, which the guardians relayed to the floating sentinel constructs that had appeared after the breach of the hall’s sanctity. From now on, should Liu appear again, he would be marked and hunted down by the knowledge hall’s enforcers.

  And yet… Tunde had the distinct feeling that Liu had been avoiding the constructs and guardians for a very, very long time. How had no one noticed him until now?

  That thought lingered as he left the commotion behind, retreating back to the formation section. He had requested seclusion from the guardians, and they had been all too eager to comply. Perhaps they, too, were exhausted from the fruitless search.

  Sitting cross-legged upon the floating stone platform, Tunde retrieved the large book once more. Its ancient, weathered cover felt solid in his hands, yet when he flipped through its pages, they were as blank as ever. What game was Liu playing? Sighing, he set it aside and turned instead to one of the dusty tomes he had taken from the shelves—a far safer and more predictable source of knowledge.

  But the moment the book touched the stone beside Liu’s, a faint pale blue glow emanated from the large book’s empty pages.

  Tunde stiffened, his breath catching as thin, delicate ribbons of Ethra slithered from the old formation book into Liu’s, like veins pumping lifeblood into something long dormant. His heart pounded as he instinctively activated his Ethra Sight, watching in stunned silence as the strange tendrils of energy faded, leaving behind a single, fully written page where once there had been nothing.

  The words at the top sent a chill down his spine.

  ‘Defensive Formation, Refined: Grade 4’

  Tunde’s gaze flicked to the old book he had taken from the shelves. Its title read:

  ‘Wu Shia’s Combined 123 Thunderous Defensive Formation: Grade 1’

  His eyes widened. Had Liu’s book just… absorbed the knowledge from another book and condensed it into something greater? Dozens of lower-grade formations had seemingly fused into one more refined and powerful version, something that should have taken years of study and experimentation to accomplish.

  Liu had said this book was worth entire cities. Tunde had assumed it was an exaggeration, but now? Now, he wasn’t so sure.

  A sudden prickle ran down his spine. He glanced around, his Ethra Sight straining as he scanned the dimly lit shelves, the endless corridors of knowledge.

  For a fleeting moment, he could have sworn he felt Liu’s presence.

  His grip tightened on the book.

  Slowly, deliberately, he returned the first old tome to the shelf and reached for another.

  ***********************

  Shen Zao spread the broken pieces of the naginata across the pristine metallic surface of his forge anvil. The soulbound relic beneath them thrummed with his latent authority, resonating with the weight of his presence, eager to fulfill its purpose—to forge. He laced his fingers together, tuning out the distant clang of hammers and the roar of bellows echoing from the grand forge complex behind his doors. His gaze lingered on the shattered weapon, eyes narrowed in contemplation.

  It was shoddy workmanship—exactly what one would expect from an adept-ranked Forgesmith, nothing more. And yet, even as Shen studied the fractured pieces, he found himself nodding in appreciation. The intent behind the blade was as glaring as the sun at noon, bold and uncompromising. The smith who crafted this weapon may have lacked skill, but he did not lack purpose.

  With a sharp snap of his fingers, a Highlord materialized before him—the same Highlord who had escorted the wastelander and Jing Talahan to his quarters. The man bowed low, forehead nearly touching the cold stone floor.

  “Find out exactly who forged this weapon,” Shen ordered, his voice carrying the quiet authority of one who was accustomed to obedience. “Bring him to me.”

  There would be no refusal. Not when a master—no, a saint—demanded an audience. An adept-ranked forgesmith with no significant backing would not dare defy such a summons. In truth, Shen suspected the smith would willingly offer up an arm, perhaps even his entire lineage, just for the chance to speak with a master. But such thoughts were fleeting, unimportant. He dismissed them as quickly as they had come, his focus returning to the broken shards before him.

  Reaching out, he grasped a piece of the shattered weapon and traced his fingers over its jagged edge, then reached for a nearby slab of Thousand-Year Cold Steel. Most forgesmiths would scoff at the idea of using such a material for weapon crafting. They considered it a waste of resources, citing its supposed inability to channel Ethra. But that belief was a crutch for the weak-minded—an excuse born of ignorance.

  The truth was far more nuanced. Cold steel did not resist Ethra; it simply refused to submit to it. It was stubborn, unyielding—a metal that required will to shape and temper properly. That was the difference between common weapons and true artifacts of legend. Any competent forgesmith could craft a soulbound relic, but only those who understood the nature of steel, who could impose their very essence upon the material, could create something worthy of the highest ranks of the cultivation world.

  A low chuckle rumbled from Shen’s throat as he leaned back in his chair, arms folding across his chest. On one hand, he saw an opportunity to forge something truly unique, something magnificent. On the other, there was Tunde—a boy shrouded in mystery, hiding more than he let on. Shen had felt it, the presence of something subtle yet undeniably powerful, lingering around the wastelander like the faintest scent of blood in still air. A relic, perhaps? One strong enough to warrant caution.

  He had triggered that fight with Harumi deliberately, prodding the child, forcing him to reveal whatever he was concealing. But Tunde had not taken the bait. He had resisted the urge to unveil his hidden strength, demonstrating a level of restraint and self-control far beyond what Shen had expected.

  That alone had earned him a modicum of respect.

  There were countless cultivators—hundreds, perhaps thousands—who burned with relentless ambition, who would die rather than remain stagnant in their path. But those who would die for what they truly believed in? Those were far rarer than most would care to admit.

  Shen turned his gaze back to the broken naginata, fingers drumming lightly against his armrest. The shards spoke of pain and death, of struggle and sacrifice, of willpower so fiercely tempered that he could almost taste the makings of authority dancing across their fractured edges.

  He exhaled, shaking his head.

  Perhaps he should warn Varis that he was toying with the cub of a terrible rift beast.

  The seeker—Tunde—was a cauldron of raw, untamed power, simmering at the brink of eruption. Not even soul oaths would be enough to contain him, not comfortably. He was a wild thing, something that could not be bound so easily.

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  And yet, Bai had entrusted him with a purpose. Bai had chosen this child, of all people, to be the one to free him from his shackles.

  Few truly understood the nature of saints—what they were, what they could do. Ordinary cultivators could guess at their power, based on the rare encounters the world had with them. But the truth remained shrouded in obscurity. That was what made saints so enigmatic, so revered.

  The Empire boasted more than two saints within its borders—a fact the other great powers of the continent understood well enough not to take lightly.

  Shen was one thing. But the Saint of Shadows, hidden within the veils of the Whispering Phantom Sect, was another entirely. And then, there was the third, the one rumored to dwell among the Veilwardens.

  Each of them a force beyond reckoning. Each of them wielding power that had been earned, not merely granted.

  For saints did not ascend by strength alone. They discovered something unique about Adamath—about the very fabric of existence—and claimed it as their own.

  Many believed Shen had achieved sainthood through his unparalleled combat prowess. That was a lie. His true path had always been forging. He was not merely a warrior. He was a creator, one of the few in this world who could shape reality itself through the weapons he forged.

  And through that power, he could see.

  Even now, he could sense them—others like himself, scattered across the surface of the planet, each bound to their own forge, their own craft, their own truths. He could reach out, if he wished. He could seek them out.

  But he did not.

  There were secrets saints could not afford to reveal. The world they called home was a pond, a stagnant pool, sealed away for so long that it had begun to rot. The Regents ensured it remained that way, and should any saint speak of the greater truths, they would be erased—struck down before their whispers could spread.

  And yet…

  Something else had touched this weapon. Something other.

  It was a brand, faint but undeniable, lingering like the echo of a voice from beyond. Masters would never notice it. Highlords, even paragons, would remain oblivious.

  But a saint?

  A saint could see.

  Tunde’s greatest fortune was that he had yet to encounter another of Shen’s kind. If he had… he would not exist. Not now. Not anymore.

  Even within the Empire, few ever stood in the presence of a master, let alone a saint. Unless one resided in the capital, or carried the blood of a Highlord, the odds of encountering someone of Shen’s caliber were slim. Possible, but slim.

  Shen exhaled through his nose, resolving himself.

  Doubt would not taint his craft.

  Bai had placed trust in the child, and Shen would honor that—to a reasonable degree.

  Besides… Harumi had taken an interest in him. That, in itself, was telling.

  Most Scions of the Imperial Clan clung to the belief that their concepts and fighting styles were absolute, superior to all others. Their arrogance was their cage. Tunde had shattered that delusion, adapting, growing, in a way that defied their expectations.

  That was what cultivation should be. The willingness to learn, to abandon false pride, to embrace new paths.

  But most cultivators forgot this truth as they ascended. They became comfortable, convinced of their own greatness. And when they stalled, when their foundation proved flawed, they had nothing left to fall back on.

  For most, this meant death.

  For Tunde?

  The heavens had forged him in suffering. Tested him in bloodshed. Tempered him in the fires of adversity, again and again.

  Shen almost pitied the child—almost. If not for the sheer bounty of the rewards he had reaped in return.

  To climb from nothing to the Lord Realm in a single year was not just insane—it was suicidal.

  And yet, somehow, Tunde was still alive.

  That alone made him worth watching.

  It meant something far more dangerous.

  Shen inhaled deeply, placing his hands on the anvil. His forge hummed in response, the entire chamber resonating with his authority.

  He would not let this broken weapon remain broken.

  He would create something magnificent.

  Something… deadly.

  **************************

  The undercities burned. The cavern-lit skies pulsed with silent flashes of clashing techniques, searing across the stalagmite-covered ceilings like spectral lightning. This place was never meant to exist—not as it did now. The undercities, a labyrinthine network carved into the bones of the capital itself, stretched unseen from one end of the empire to the other, a hidden artery of vice and power. To the uninformed, it was a festering den of outcasts and criminals, a blackened underbelly teeming with Corespawns smuggled in from the wastelands, mercenaries who preferred the eternal gloom to the golden spires above, and assassins who had carved entire dominions from the darkness. But the truth ran deeper. The undercities were more than a hiding place. They had a purpose—one the whispering phantoms had long since claimed as their own.

  The imperial clan had let it fester, not because they were blind, but because they understood: the world of cultivation was never black and white. The undercities had their uses. An unseen hand in the dark could accomplish what a legion of warriors could not. Even still, the empire did not rule here.

  The Brotherhood did.

  A nameless, faceless entity that bled through the cracks of every transaction, every whisper, every illicit deal in the empire’s shadows. They were not merely a syndicate; they were an institution, running the black market with such ruthless efficiency that they might as well have been a great sect or a hidden faction in their own right. Perhaps they could have remained as such—powerful, yet unnoticed. But all things had a limit.

  The purge of the phantoms had unearthed ugly, festering truths. Some were expected—elders of the sect with ties to a splinter group calling themselves the Veiled Shadows. Betrayal was nothing new in the phantoms. The First Blade himself—the eternal darkness that answered only to the patriarch of the imperial clan—had personally seen to their erasure. That alone would have been manageable. But what had followed could not be ignored.

  Some of the elders, those whose treachery had been laid bare, had not merely sold secrets. They had sold them to the Brotherhood.

  That was the final insult.

  The phantoms had been waiting for an excuse, a single justification to break the undercities under their blades. The imperial clan’s paragon and ruler, Jaito, had long held them in check—watching, amused, as the undercities writhed in their own filth. He had tolerated them because his father’s voice had demanded it. But even he could not turn away from this. A threat had sunk its roots into the very heart of the imperial clan, and that, Jaito could not ignore. His orders had been clear.

  Find them.

  The Shadow Saint had been given the mandate by the First Blade, and the phantoms had been unleashed.

  No one truly understood what it meant to walk the path of the phantoms. Assassins? A crude term. Killers in the dark? Perhaps, but that was not the essence of what they were. To be a phantom was to be an absence, a whisper in the wind, a cold breath against the spine. To move unseen, unheard, leaving behind nothing but the prickle of dread, the lingering sense that something had passed—something unknowable, something terrifying.

  And so they moved.

  A single shadow glided through the city, unseen, untouched, as if the very air yielded to her passage. The formation masters stationed across the citadel were supposed to be its first line of defense. In reality, they were little more than figureheads—positions bought and haggled for, bestowed upon those who sought prestige rather than war. After all, who in their right mind would dare an invasion in the heart of the Talahan clan’s empire?

  The clan itself.

  Twin long blades whispered through the air, severing flesh before the victims even realized they had been struck. Heads fell, bodies crumpled, lifeblood spilling onto the stone as silent death swept through the tower. The wielder—Miria—did not pause. She was of the shadow now. She had shed her mortal bindings, submerged herself in its cold, calculating embrace. That was the gift granted to her by the Shadow Saint—the unshackling of her potential, the awakening of what she truly was.

  A Shadow Wraith.

  It had not come easily.

  The agony had been absolute, a trial designed to break mind, body, and soul. She had walked through pain so consuming it could have shattered lesser beings into madness. But she had survived. No—she had thrived. The strands of white that had once streaked her hair were gone, replaced by the abyssal blackness of true shadow. Her irises were no longer merely dark; they were infinite, pools of inky void that devoured the light. Her pale skin bore shifting tattoos—living sigils that pulsed and twisted, merging her with the gloom of the high tower where the formation masters had once stood.

  She did not need to speak.

  A subtle pulse of aura radiated from her, imperceptible to all but the other phantoms woven into this night of slaughter. All across the undercities, the madness had begun. Explosions ignited the streets, bursts of raw, fiery destruction that incinerated entire sections of the city in moments. Screams rang out—brief, broken things. Those fortunate enough perished instantly. The less fortunate writhed in agony, consumed by the black flames of the imperial clan. And the truly wise… they took their own lives, knowing that if the phantoms found them, death would not be an escape.

  But Miria’s mission did not lie in the flames.

  No, her task lay ahead, in the one building that stood furthest from the citadel—a structure untouched by the chaos, its walls untouched by fire. It was a place her master had singled out. A place of secrets.

  She could feel them—the Nightblades that moved with her, silent as the void, waiting only for her command. They were not merely allies; they were living extensions of her will.

  Miria raised a single blade and pointed toward the distant building.

  Like wraiths, the Nightblades vanished, weaving into the burning sky, wrapping smoke and shadow around themselves. Their bloodlust did not stir. Their presence did not flicker.

  And Miria?

  She had another way.

  Glancing down at her arm, she watched as the tattoos writhed, converging on her right limb, twisting and flowing toward her outstretched fingertip. A single droplet of blackness fell, sinking into the stone below. The air warped, and a pit of inky void spiraled into existence.

  Even now, nausea gnawed at the edges of her senses, the exertion pulling at the edges of her mind. This technique was not something she could wield freely—it had been granted only by the blessings of the Shadow Saint. But she could not falter. Somewhere within this chaos, within the storm of fire and steel, Miria knew she was watching.

  She steadied herself. Took a breath. And stepped into the abyss.

  Icy nothingness swallowed her whole.

  She did not resist it.

  She embraced it.

  And when she emerged, it was within the walls of the building itself, soot-filled air rushing into her lungs as she opened her blackened eyes.

  It was time for the wraith to begin the hunt.