The waiting chamber was cloaked in deathly silence, a palpable tension hanging in the air like the calm before a storm. The members of Team Talahan sat in a stillness that bordered on reverence, each one caught in their own private thoughts, but bound together by an unspoken sense of foreboding.

  Zhu sat quietly, his gaze fixed on the wall ahead, unmoving, as though trying to divine answers from the stone itself. Sera watched Tunde with a cautious curiosity, her expression guarded but alert, trying to make sense of the storm brewing behind his closed eyes.

  Jing, clearly confused but wise enough—or perhaps just instinctually aware—not to disturb the Wastelander, kept her distance. And Harumi, ever the quietest of the group, seemed lost in a deeper meditation of his own, as if wrestling with burdens far removed from their immediate situation.

  Tunde was still.

  Seated with legs folded and eyes shut, he meditated—not for serenity, but for survival. It was the only thing that kept him grounded, the only tether that kept his thoughts from spiraling into madness, from lashing out at everything around him. His fury wasn't a blazing inferno, loud and consuming.

  No.

  It was colder than the deepest void—a frozen wasteland of blackened ice and terrible, biting fury. A grief so raw and refined it had been beaten again and again at the forge of betrayal until it became something more: controlled.

  Miria.

  His heart ached at the thought of her. Once his friend, now reforged—twisted—into a weapon for the Phantoms. And by extension, the Talahan clan. Varis, no doubt, had known. The betrayal sat like a dagger in his gut, twisting with every heartbeat.

  Within him, Tunde wrestled with the ever-growing presence of the void-ice aspect, now a part of his Ethra core. It was claiming more of him, faster than he could have imagined.

  With a mere flex of will, his core surged to life. Void Ethra pulsed through his veins, heavy and cold, yet potent. There were now two distinct affinities nested within it—Force, the raw might he had grasped early in his cultivation path, a weapon for breaking through obstacles.

  And now, Ice, a manifestation of his grief, his fury, his need to control the chaos.

  He wondered how it would change him. Not just his techniques, but his entire way of fighting. Would the style taught to him by Varis now evolve into something unrecognizable? Something colder? Sharper? He clenched his fingers slowly, frost seeping from the gaps as cold mist wafted up, curling in the air. He exhaled with a heavy, shuddering breath.

  So much left unsaid. So much undone.

  The rest of the day prior had been a blur. First, denial. Then came the rage. Pure, unrelenting fury that had nearly driven him to suicide-by-phantom. He’d nearly marched alone into the depths of their citadel, knowing full well he would die—and not caring. Then the cold came. That serene, terrifying calm. The void within him had solidified, and his mind had clawed back control from his bleeding heart.

  He was a cultivator. The last of the Seekers. The descendant of Alana and the hegemon Luwaye. He was the future of the cult.

  And he could no longer afford mistakes.

  So he had meditated. All night. All morning. And now. His cold mind waged war against his boiling heart, and as it finally crushed the last remnants of that storm of grief, he found himself standing before a brutal truth he had long evaded.

  He had failed her.

  Just as he had failed everyone that ever mattered. His mother. His father. His sister. Joran. Miria. Even Thorne.

  But failure wasn’t final—not if he had anything to say about it.

  “Alright, I’ll bite—what’s going on?” Sera asked suddenly, her voice cutting through the silence like a blade.

  Tunde opened his eyes slowly. The mist around his fingers dissipated as he released his clenched fists, flexing them once. Her gaze was steady on him, Jing’s too. Whatever haunted the Zao clan heir had clearly taken a backseat for now.

  He could feel Zhu watching him as well, their bond alive with silent concern, prodding gently, like a pulse in his soul.

  “I’ll be fine,” Tunde said simply, voice low but steady.

  It was all he could manage; all he could allow himself to say.

  Sera watched him for a few seconds longer before speaking again, her tone more cautious this time.

  “Word is... the orthodox factions and unorthodox sects are both gunning for your head this round,” she said.

  Tunde merely nodded. No surprise there.

  “You’re not the least bit bothered?” Jing asked, raising a brow.

  “What difference would it make?” Tunde replied, his voice now tinged with cold detachment.

  “They already broke their word and came for me first. They’d be fools to try again.”

  Harumi finally spoke, his voice as soft as drifting snow but edged with seriousness.

  “You must be careful. The eyes of the masters are upon us now. Upon you. Be cautious.”

  Tunde nodded once in acknowledgment. His hand fell to his weapon, fingers wrapping around it with practiced ease as he willed it into the form of a twin-edged Jian sword. Black metal shimmered faintly under the chamber’s light, a silent extension of his will.

  Then the ground beneath them rumbled slightly, the doors of the waiting chamber creaking open as the thunderous roar of the crowd beyond poured in like a flood. It was deafening, but oddly distant to Tunde, whose focus narrowed.

  “Welcome, everyone, to the third round of the Banquet of Power!” the announcer’s voice boomed across the Grand Valley, met with a roar that shook the sky.

  As they stepped out into the open, Tunde’s gaze swept across the arena, locking immediately onto the other emerging factions.

  The Heralds—only two of them remained. Rhyn, the lightning-wielding brute, and beside him, a black-haired girl wielding a gleaming spear, her aura sharp and unreadable.

  The Mistwalkers’ chamber remained sealed and dark. Empty.

  Tunde smiled grimly.

  That, at least, was his doing.

  And something told him he hadn’t heard the last of it.

  But for now, it was time to fight.

  The Keepers came next, clad in their pristine white and golden-sashed robes, led once more by the same figure who had initiated their earlier attack. Their numbers were down to three cultivators now.

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  Beside them stood the Asuras, with only Shui remaining—her expression split into a grin that faltered the instant she locked eyes with Tunde. Something in his gaze—cold, deep, unfathomable—snuffed the confidence right out of her.

  The Technocracy, led by Elyria, had been whittled down to two members: herself and a lanky man with glasses. He stood with a detached look in his eyes and a floating orb that hovered at his side, humming softly with unknown presence.

  Thorne, accompanied by two other revenants, still and silent. Anaya stood alone in place of the Envoys, her presence as composed and elegant as ever. The Wardens were reduced to a single figure as well—a woman who stared at Elyria with undisguised hostility.

  Elyria, for her part, refused to meet the glare, an indication that they likely shared some history—perhaps tied to Elyria’s controversial roots on her home continent.

  The Seaborns were left with two cultivators: one, a sharp-featured male with gills and jagged teeth that peeked from between parted lips, and the other, a tentacle-headed figure with glowing blue eyes.

  A bubble of water shimmered around the latter's head, likely allowing him to breathe on land. Tunde glanced over them both with utter disinterest.

  From the Cult of the Chronomancers, only one figure remained—a man with white hair and snow-white eyes, staring into the distance with forlorn melancholy. The Veilweavers had fared no better, represented now by a single woman wreathed in dark mist.

  The shadows coiled around her in the shape of a serpent, its sorrowful eyes peering down upon the gathered.

  “Makes you thankful we wiped out an entire cult, don’t you think?” Zhu whispered with dry amusement.

  Tunde gave a distracted nod.

  “How’s the process going?”

  Zhu tapped his temple.

  “Almost dispelled,” he replied.

  “Although... it would’ve been better if you’d used it yourself.”

  The Origin Pearl had not been sold, despite the persuasion from the Talahan masters. Zhu, to the insistence of Tunde and much to the disapproval of the imperial family, had chosen to absorb it instead, allowing it to fuse with his mind and body.

  Tunde had refused to allow Zhu sell such a priceless treasure to the Talahan Clan, despite the ludicrous incentives they had waved under his nose. Zhu had always believed that Tunde should use it, but Tunde had disagreed. Zhu had won it fairly in combat, and that was the end of it.

  “I’ll reach the Master Realm in my own time,” Zhu said, still not fully hiding his resentment.

  “We beasts don’t need shortcuts like that.”

  “True,” Tunde agreed, “but by now, I’m sure rumors are already spreading—that the so-called true beast devoured the Origin Pearl. Which means they’ll be coming for you... and by extension, me.”

  Zhu looked at him askance.

  “You want them to come for us?”

  “How else am I supposed to get their void rings?” Tunde asked, eyes gleaming faintly. Zhu laughed.

  They lapsed into silence as more figures entered the gathering arena. Daiki appeared, staff in hand, flanked by two other monks. Zehra stood alone, proudly bearing her clan’s presence. The White Tiger True Beast—the one Zhu had dueled earlier—entered as well, eliciting a sharp tsk of annoyance from him as she grinned maliciously in return.

  “I see you have unfinished business,” Tunde noted casually.

  “Just an irritation. Nothing more,” Zhu muttered, though his clenched jaw said otherwise.

  The presence of true beasts at the banquet wasn’t rare—but this one had clearly struck a nerve.

  “She’ll lose, one way or another,” Zhu added flatly.

  “She?” Tunde raised an eyebrow.

  “Yes. She,” Zhu confirmed.

  Tunde followed his gaze. The tiger's eyes were now focused on the Keepers, burning with thunderous reproach. Curiously, the Keepers returned the glare, filled with venom.

  “She took down two of their number by herself,” Zhu explained.

  “Ice and lightning affinities.”

  Tunde said nothing. Instead, his gaze drifted upwards—towards the floating stands where Ifa sat, hands folded within his robes, his eyes quietly fixed on Tunde. The elder had come as a precaution.

  Tunde didn’t know what he thought he could do against the array of paragons and regents here, but he appreciated the gesture nonetheless.

  He would take his rage out on whatever poor fool crossed his path in the next round. That much was certain.

  Liu, however, was absent—as expected. The Arcanist wouldn’t risk coming, not while both the Phantoms and his people were hunting him down. Still, a part of Tunde wished he had.

  He wished, more than anything, for one last glimpse of her. No matter what anyone said, he didn’t believe that Miria was gone. Puppet or not, there had to be something of her left—something real. Not everything could be erased. Not a soul.

  A golden light descended from the heavens, interrupting his thoughts. The announcer floated down amidst wild applause, arms raised in greeting.

  “Honored guests, cultivators, and competitors! The third round of the banquet is about to begin!” he cried, and the crowd roared in response.

  “This round,” he continued, “will highlight the individual brilliance of each cultivator. Originally, it was to be the beginning of the sparring stages, but... the factions have agreed on one final combined challenge.”

  There was a shift in the atmosphere.

  “You will be transported to an island within a rift, courtesy of our esteemed Keepers. The island is overrun with peak Tier 5 rift spawns—gathered from across dimensions and left to flourish freely. Your goal? Kill as many as you can. If possible, bring back the rift core. And if you’re truly bold... the head of the Rift Guardian—a Tier 6 Rift Thunder Serpent on the verge of enlightenment.”

  A stunned silence fell over the valley. Contestants stared in disbelief. Tunde narrowed his eyes, gaze drifting toward where the powerful factions no doubt observed from afar.

  What madness was this?

  How did they expect early-stage Highlords to deal with such threats? Yes, some of them would undoubtedly ascend to mid or even peak stages in the chaos... but this was still insanity. And then there was the guardian.

  The air grew tense. Contestants glanced around, silently calculating.

  “I don’t care what they say,” Tunde said quietly to his group.

  “We stick together. We find our allies. We move as one. It’s the only chance we have.”

  Everyone nodded. They’d reached the same conclusion.

  “This trial will run for a week,” the announcer declared.

  “But be warned—there will be no interference from the masters.”

  Heads snapped up. Tunde’s heart dropped.

  “Which means,” the announcer continued with an unsettling cheer, “if you die in the rift, that’s the end of you.”

  The crowd erupted in protest—but then everything fell silent as a terrible power surged across the valley. Tunde dropped to one knee, gasping for breath as his chest tightened under the immense pressure. His spirit cried out in fear.

  “What is this…?” he choked out, forcing himself to look up.

  A single figure floated above them, draped in immaculate white robes. His hair and beard were pure snow, a golden sash inscribed with living script flowing around his arms and shoulders. Sunlight coalesced around him, and his golden irises shone like twin stars. A vision of purity—and terror.

  “Since when,” the voice boomed, “have the cultivators of Adamath lost their spines?”

  Even the announcer’s voice trembled as he whispered,

  “Pay your respects to the honored Paragon of the Keepers, Elder Ugad of the Scriptured Book.”

  Ugad’s gaze swept over them.

  “What is a cultivator if not one who pushes the limits of sanity and strength?” he thundered.

  “If you’re afraid—leave. Go home. Cower. No shame in weakness.”

  He paused.

  “Do my fellow paragons object?”

  The sky trembled. A thunderous pulse of power swept across the heavens. None spoke.

  “Then we are in agreement,” Ugad said, exploding into light and vanishing.

  The announcer, now flushed and breathless, raised his hands again.

  “The Paragons have spoken! The will of the Hegemons and the heavens has been made manifest—let the third round begin!”

  The crowd erupted into cheers again, but Tunde only felt disgust. There were no hegemons, not truly. Just power-hungry forces playing with lives. And the people—they followed, dazzled by the spectacle like lambs to the slaughter.

  His fists clenched as the rift pathway began to shimmer with boiling light.

  “And as a bonus from the Paragons,” the announcer added, “this island contains pure Rift Ethra, purified and saturated with resources. You are free to cultivate to your heart’s content.”

  The rift opened. Tunde turned to his team, nodded once, and together they stepped through.

  The world twisted—and then he was falling through heavy rain.

  Cultivators streaked like shooting stars through the storm, crashing toward the vast island below. But Tunde ignored them.

  He controlled his descent with practiced aura manipulation, landing lightly in the heart of a dense jungle. Zhu appeared beside him, green eyes glowing. Sera, Jing, and Harumi followed in quick succession.

  They were whole. But not alone.

  “Can you feel them?” Jing asked, unsheathing her blade.

  “I can see them,” Tunde said, activating his Ethra Sight.

  The jungle lit up. All around, rift creatures circled—eyes glowing in the dark as lightning flashed overhead. Hulking felines, their eyes an unnatural blue, exhaled Ethra of flame and earth.

  “I believe we landed in the middle of their den,” Harumi said grimly.

  “Leave their cores for me,” Zhu called, as glowing kill counters appeared above their heads—each reading ‘0’.

  A guttural roar echoed as the largest of the beasts emerged, a towering feline with a glowing red horn drawing Ethra from the storm around them. It reared back—and Tunde stepped forward.

  He unleashed Void Realm, infusing it with his Void Ice affinity.

  The jungle froze. Black ice enveloped the beast and its surroundings, sealing them in an instant. One swing of his blade, suffused with void Ethra—and the creature shattered.

  The glowing core remained. Tunde tossed it to Zhu, who caught it without a word. The others stared, stunned.

  “The rest are yours,” Tunde said, sitting cross-legged as he began to cultivate.

  And the hunt began.