Ifa gripped his knees tightly, knuckles white, as he stared at the viewing constructs flickering with light—illuminating the beginning of the battle. He was speechless, a wave of pure, overwhelming shock coursing through his body as the full weight of what he was seeing settled on him.

  Not just the majesty of the rift guardian’s domain—but even before that, the artifact, the priceless relic that the now-slain Keeper had dared to activate, the very one used to transport Tunde and the others into that sacred space.

  His breath trembled. He wished Tunde had spared the Keeper. Not out of mercy—but so he could have been the one to rip the bastard apart. To tear the spine from his still-warm body, to make him scream, to make him pay.

  That relic had not just been powerful—it had been Alana’s. A piece of her, a fragment of something sacred, and that filth had touched it.

  The sphere—Alana’s sphere—had been an heirloom of the highest order, granting her unfettered access to the vaults of the Seekers, to the hidden sanctums of the abyssal walkers.

  It had been salvaged from the ruins of a burning cult’s last stronghold, rescued from beneath ash-covered towers in the final days of her war. And now, impossibly, Tunde had it. Ifa had seen it disappear into the void-ring worn by that strange prodigy, the last of her bloodline.

  A bitter smile curved Ifa’s lips as he raised his gaze to the sky. Perhaps the heavens truly were watching out for them. Or perhaps, more likely, this was yet another scheme in the endless games of the Regents.

  He didn’t care either way. All that mattered now was that they possessed the sphere—and unless the Keepers were willing to go to war for it, Ifa would die before letting it return to their hands.

  But then came the greater revelation—one that froze his breath and sent a chill down his spine.

  The realm they had entered, the rift itself—it wasn’t just any void. It was her void. A long-lost domain born from Alana’s early days of cultivation, meditation, and isolation. It was a byproduct of her spirit, a fragment of soul-space made manifest, where she had trained the first Highlords and Masters of their order.

  A realm she had once opened to others, intimate and powerful, and—against Ifa’s protests—given to the Keepers in a gesture of peace.

  And now it had returned, rising once more through her descendant. It stung, not because of its power, but because of what it revealed—Alana’s desire to be loved by those who had no love for her in return.

  A desire that had made her forget the very reason they had fled the higher realms. He remembered her words, the teachings she had engraved into his soul back when he too had been a Highlord. He and the others—once the future of the cult—before everything had been shattered by betrayal.

  Tension clutched his chest like a vice as he inhaled, the constructs before him flickering and then dying, overloaded by the raw energy of the technique Tunde had unleashed. By now, the Regents would know. The factions would know. There was no hiding Tunde’s identity anymore—not with what he had done, not with the authority he had invoked.

  Yet… strangely, Ifa himself remained untouched. No phantoms. No wardens at his door. No accusers. The Regents had overlooked him, reasoning—perhaps—that no Seeker could possibly ascend to Master without making the sort of noise Tunde had.

  They were wrong, of course—but that was fine. Let them remain blind.

  He rose to his feet just as the constructs stabilized, revealing a scene that struck him like a blade to the gut. Tunde—his Tunde—stood tall with both cores in hand: one from the rift, the other from the mighty thunder roc, its divine essence now his. Around him, his allies braced for battle, and beyond them, dozens of cultivators circled like wolves, desperate and hungry.

  Ifa’s hands twitched, ready to act, ready to do something—but then the announcer’s voice cut through the rising tension like a blade of clarity.

  “All contestants remaining have been transported!”

  The words echoed across the realms, and in the next breath, every fighter was expelled from the rift—landing on the platform in a thunderous burst that shook the air itself. Ifa staggered beneath the wave of returning bodies and deafening cheers, but his eyes found one figure in the chaos—Tunde, emerging from the crowd, the core of the thunder roc still clutched in his hand.

  The applause grew louder. Louder still.

  Ifa had no idea when he stood, nor when he started clapping, but he did—, and he clapped harder than he ever had in his life, his voice rising in tandem with the chant now sweeping across the crowd:

  “Wastelander! Wastelander! Wastelander!”

  He shouted with everything he had in him. All the rage, all the pain, all the betrayal, everything poured into that cry.

  Damn them all—the Regents, the cults, the factions, the betrayals. Damn the very plane they were trapped in, a prison sealed away by the greed of the powerful.

  If Alana were alive—if she could only see what her descendant had done—what he would do...

  Ifa turned his gaze once more to the sky, to the high thrones where the Regents no doubt watched from above.

  Yes.

  Damn them all.

  *******************************

  “That was stupid, even for you,” Ayun said flatly.

  Shuyin simply frowned and waved a hand with regal disinterest, dispelling the viewing construct in front of them. The translucent image shimmered once, then dissolved into golden dust, immolated from existence with an elegant, effortless motion.

  “It matters not,” she replied coldly.

  “The seeker will be dead soon enough.”

  Ayun’s gaze lingered on the dissipating dust, eyes narrowing as if to silently protest her certainty.

  “I hear there’s another of his kind,” he said after a moment, voice casual, though not without meaning.

  “Scattered like rodents across Adamath.”

  They sat in a private bubble of silence and power, hidden from the noise of the outer world. Beyond the shimmering veil of their barrier, their paragons stood watch—alert, still, ready. Not that any soul foolish enough to challenge a regent would make it far.

  “True,” Shuyin said, her voice laced with boredom.

  “Inconsequential, as you well know. I’ve heard the Phantoms have one in their employ—broken, twisted into a tool. A shame, really. Poor thing.”

  Ayun raised a brow at her tone.

  “Of course I don’t mean it,” Shuyin added with a dry snort, brushing invisible lint from her robes.

  “Strange, though,” Ayun mused, watching her carefully.

  “Alana once took your predecessor as a sister. I imagine you met her when you were younger?”

  At that, Shuyin’s expression soured. Her eyes darkened like a storm rolling in over still waters.

  “That uptight princess was nothing more than a spoiled brat,” she said with a scoff.

  “Always thinking she knew what was best for all of us, for the whole damn realm. Honestly? I was surprised it took them that long to take her out.”

  “From what I’ve heard,” Ayun said pointedly, “the Keepers are the only thing shielding this realm from being noticed by those... others.”

  He let the word hang in the air—ominous, unspoken, but deeply understood.

  “Old wives’ tales,” Shuyin replied dismissively.

  “Legends whispered by long-dead elders to keep us in line. Adamath has been cut off from the planar seas for countless eons. None of it matters anymore.”

  “Then why not break the seal?” Ayun pressed, his voice now low, coaxing.

  “We have a live seeker—perhaps one of Alana’s direct bloodline. I’ll know when I spit him open. And if he is…”

  “Really, Ayun?” Shuyin interjected wearily.

  “You think a child, not even a century old holds the secrets of the Walkers in his blood? That Alana—Alana—would be foolish enough to leave her legacy in such a convenient package?”

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  She leaned forward slightly, her golden eyes gleaming with something unreadable.

  “Assuming he is her descendant, do you truly believe she’d hand over her keys so easily?”

  Ayun’s frown deepened.

  “And besides,” she continued, “the Mistwalkers already hold Crystalreach in their palm. Of all the cults, yours wields the might of a continent. Why stir up trouble now? Why dig deeper?”

  Ayun’s lips curved ever so slightly. A pale ghost of an image shimmered to life beside him—faceless, shifting, barely held together by aether. Shuyin’s gaze sharpened, cold recognition flickering in her expression before she masked it.

  “The same reason we all agreed to chase the path to Hegemon,” Ayun said softly.

  He raised a hand and clenched it slowly.

  “More power.”

  Shuyin rolled her eyes and summoned a large goblet of deep, crimson wine. Its sweet scent filled the air between them as she took a slow sip, her disdain thinly veiled.

  “You know,” she began, “that sphere—the relic I had to suppress all the way to Highlord just to keep it from that pitiful excuse of a student who turned it over to… Tunde, was it?”

  Ayun nodded.

  “Yes, Tunde. Rumor had it the sphere was a key to Alana’s vaults. They say only a true descendant’s blood could unlock the paths to her hidden stores, scattered across Crystalreach.”

  Ayun chuckled darkly.

  “Ah! That explains why so many of them ran to Ironthorn. You promised them safety?”

  He looked at her, incredulous. He knew Shuyin better than most. Behind the opulence of her golden temples, behind the sanctified veneer of her halls, lurked nightmares too horrible to name. The last spy he’d sent into her court had come back so broken, so far gone, that Ayun had been forced to put her down himself—out of mercy, or perhaps guilt.

  “I had to try,” Shuyin said with a shrug.

  “There it was, just sitting there in my predecessor’s vault. She died, thankfully, during the last war—struck down by some lethal technique from the Void Princess.”

  “Did it work?” Ayun asked.

  “Of course not,” Shuyin replied with a snort, draining her goblet.

  Ayun turned his attention back to the construct. The faint image of Tunde, triumphant, hovered still in his mind.

  “Perhaps we could test that theory again,” he said quietly.

  Shuyin laughed, a soft, dangerous sound.

  “Perhaps. But only once our hosts are done with him. Wouldn’t want to ruffle feathers when we’re this close to victory.”

  *********************

  The reward for the third round of the competition was a Skyvessel—an elegant construct spatially shrunk into a compact sphere, each crafted by the artisans of the Technocracy. These marvels had already been distributed to those who had completed their tasks, gleaming proof of accomplishment in their palms.

  Tunde, however, had been granted something greater.

  Though it too bore the name of Skyvessel, his was far more than the simple wood-and-metal constructs the others had received—judging by the glimpses he’d seen of Zhu’s or Sera’s.

  While theirs resembled modest airships armed with basic weaponry and limited runic enchantments, his vessel was far larger, more refined. A layered fusion of Ethra and engineering, it bore the unmistakable hallmarks of something reserved not for contestants—but for the favored. The chosen.

  Even now, as he sat in the quiet of the waiting chamber long after the others had gone—Zhu and Sera departing together—Tunde turned the thin metal tablet in his hands over and over. The image projected on it showed the outline of the vessel, still under construction somewhere deep within the capital.

  It shimmered faintly, displaying annotations and rotating views of hull segments and core runes. With a small sigh, Tunde tossed the tablet aside and leaned back into the stone chair, letting its cool hardness support him as he closed his eyes.

  The low rumble of voices from the floating stands above echoed faintly into the room, a distant murmur of life that washed over him like a tide. But Tunde was somewhere else now—drifting in his thoughts, his mind still caught in the afterglow of the overwhelming power he had wielded during the final moments of that round.

  It had settled now.

  When he opened his eyes again and looked at his hands, he saw no light, no surging energy, no ripple of divine power. The power was gone—or rather, it was sealed. Locked somewhere within him the instant he had stepped out of that strange battleground. It had folded itself into his spirit, absorbed like a storm drawn into a still lake, leaving only a faint shimmer in his aura. He had barely held it together then, masking the internal chaos behind a calm face, until the announcer had mercifully called the round to an end.

  Varis hadn’t come. Not to him. Not to any of them together.

  Instead, they had all been summoned individually—one by one—by the powers they represented. Harumi had been taken away by the Saint of his clan; Jing by Rhaelar himself. Sera had departed with Elder Tianlei, returning to whatever place she answered to.

  Elyria had vanished into the arms of her cult, and Zehra had given Tunde a quick, respectful bow before ascending onto a cloud-formed construct he had never seen before—some ancient legacy of her bloodline, perhaps.

  Even Zhu had been taken—Ifa murmuring something vague as he led him away. Something simple, but heavy with warning:

  Be careful.

  Tunde hadn’t needed anything more. He understood what was left unsaid.

  The truth was out.

  Or at least, part of it was. Enough for the powers that mattered—the Talahan clans, the major factions, and the watching paragons—to begin circling like wolves around a fire. The fact that he wasn’t already crushed beneath some Paragon’s will was a miracle... or more likely, the lingering protection of the Talahan clan. A shield he knew would not last forever.

  He exhaled slowly and drew a few runes in the air with his Ethra and aura, erecting a formation barrier around himself. A thin veil of space-threaded light shimmered, forming a dome of privacy. He couldn’t afford carelessness now. Not when he had made enemies by simply surviving and ruthlessly defending himself.

  Then, slipping inward, he let his consciousness dive into himself—into the sanctuary of his spirit.

  There, within the vast mental landscape that housed his core, he found familiar sights twisted into new forms. The usual rotation of concept aspects around the core was different now—wilder, sharper. But it was the wolf that drew his attention.

  It was still there. His ego.

  But changed.

  The spectral creature stood at the edge of the void, lean and hungry, its fur duller than before, its body almost wasting away. And yet... its presence was greater. Dense with power, it radiated a raw, baleful energy.

  As he reached out and touched it, Tunde’s eyes widened. The power coiled inside the beast was immense—barely restrained—and when it turned to stare at him with eyes like burning coals, he felt the weight of something ancient, something aware.

  "What are you?" he whispered.

  Of course, he knew what it was. The tattoo on his body confirmed it—his ego, the core of his identity and aura. But there was something deeper he hadn’t yet understood. A missing piece, a secret buried within the wolf's fading but potent form. Something critical.

  Something that could break him through to the next stage.

  The fact that he had already advanced to the middle ranks of Highlord in such a short time was remarkable on its own—but more so was the pressure his spirit now exuded. It wasn’t just Highlord anymore.

  It hovered at the edge of Master. Each breath he took, each movement he made, carried a density to it, the gravity of someone increasingly difficult to kill.

  And he would need that strength. Very soon.

  Deep within that sacred space of his spirit, where the void and his essence intertwined, stood a towering stone door—monolithic and imposing. It was carved from the blackest stone Tunde had ever laid eyes upon, a material so dark it seemed to drink in light rather than reflect it. It looked as though a mountain of midnight had been cleaved and sculpted into this very gate, ancient and absolute in its stillness.

  Etched across the stone's surface was the image of a great serpent—no, something more profound, more primeval than any serpent he had ever known. It coiled around the frame like a guardian, its form majestic and unnerving.

  Four stout limbs extended from its massive body, and stone-carved scales lined every inch of it, giving it the appearance of an ancient beast whose name had long since been forgotten to time. Tunde could only stare in awe; whatever it was, it bore a grandeur that defied language.

  Across the door stretched a single, radiant golden chain—anchored on either side, barring passage like a divine decree. It shimmered with authority, its glow soft but unyielding.

  Yet this was his realm. His spirit. Nothing should be able to bar his will here. Tunde frowned, the tension in his brow mirroring the dissonance in his soul. He reached out and gripped the chain with both hands, willing it to break, to yield to his command.

  But it didn’t.

  Instead, the void itself—the very path he walked, the concept bound to his being—recoiled. The air pulsed around him, and the gate trembled once. Then, with a shudder that echoed through the foundation of his soul, it repelled him.

  Tunde was flung backward, crashing onto the unseen floor of his inner world.

  For a moment, all he could do was stare in shock. Then a sound—a dry, rasping chuff—drew his attention. The lean wolf, his ego, stood a few paces away, amber eyes gleaming with what might’ve been mirth. It gave another low huff that was almost a laugh.

  Tunde scowled.

  For something that represented him, the wolf often felt like a separate entity, full of smugness and secrets. It said nothing, only watched as he climbed to his feet again, careful this time.

  The idea of using Joran’s Wrath or Empty Silence—techniques born of destruction and stillness—crossed his mind briefly, but he quickly dismissed it. Too risky. This was his soul, his core. A single misstep here could unravel him.

  Still, he couldn’t tear his gaze away from the door.

  He sat before it, knees folded beneath him, eyes tracing every curve of the carved creature and every runic etching embedded in the stone. Something immense lay behind that threshold—he could feel it. Not just power, but potential. A turning point.

  It was the same presence, the same pull he had felt during the final round of the competition, in that strange place where time bent and power flowed freely. Whatever he'd glimpsed there—the overwhelming strength, the sublime mastery—this door was the key to it. Even a fragment of what lay beyond could redefine him.

  But the gate remained sealed.

  Tunde sighed and lowered his head. There was no point trying again, not now. Not without understanding what bound it, and why he, its owner, was denied entry.

  Reluctantly, he began to withdraw, untethering his awareness from the depths of his spirit and returning to the waking world. His eyes opened slowly, the familiar weight of the waiting chamber pressing down on him once more.

  He rose to his feet in both worlds.

  There would be time to puzzle over the door later. For now, he needed to return to his residence. Still, a thought tugged at his mind—something reckless but irresistible. An experiment.

  He focused.

  Tunde conjured the image of Ifa’s abode with painstaking precision—the stone walls of the front hall, the ornamental path leading to the elder’s study, the faint scent of incense, and the polished jade inlays. It was one of the private estates gifted by the Talahan clan to their most esteemed, tucked within the higher rings of the inner capital. He held the image tight in his mind’s eye.

  Then, drawing deeply on his aspect of space, he bent his will to the task.

  Immediately, he felt the strain.

  It wasn’t like Voidstep—not even close. That had come instinctively, like breathing in a storm. But this? This was raw manipulation of distance, a reweaving of spatial laws through sheer will. He tried to force the connection, aligning the threads of reality like coordinates in his mind, anchoring his destination.

  He was wrong to assume it would be easy.

  The backlash was instantaneous.

  A searing pain erupted within his core, like molten lead had been poured through it. His spirit burned, the threads of Ethra unraveling for a split second as if a hole had been punched through his very soul.

  Tunde collapsed to his knees, clutching his chest as he gasped for breath, sweat dripping down his brow. He felt himself fraying at the edges, the very act of attempting the jump tearing at the fabric of his being.

  He canceled the attempt with a desperate thought.

  The strain faded—slowly. His spirit stitched itself back together, though not without consequence. A brutal headache pounded behind his eyes, and his body trembled with the aftershocks of what he had just dared to do.

  So much for easy.

  Thankfully, his aura was untouched—still intact. He released it, letting it buoy him upward, ferrying him gently from the secluded valley back into the skies above, where the capital's spires loomed.