Recovery from his latest reckless stunt took longer than expected.

  Tunde had returned quietly to his abode, body aching and spirit bruised from the backlash of channeling space. His ever-attentive servants had been waiting, worry carefully hidden behind polite smiles, their hands full with a tray of hot food and the preparation of a bath infused with vitality-rich herbs.

  The scent alone was enough to ease some of the tightness in his shoulders. Without a word, he devoured the meal—steamed meats, spiced roots, and a broth thick with restorative essence—then stepped into the waiting bath.

  The warmth enveloped him like a second skin, drawing out the tension from every fiber of his being. His muscles loosened. His mind wandered.

  He didn’t even remember falling asleep.

  Time passed, unmarked and slow, until a sudden chill sank its teeth into him. The heat of the water had long since fled, replaced by icy stillness. The temperature had dropped with the deepening of the night, and the cold snapped him out of slumber like a slap. He jolted upright, breath fogging in the air, skin pale and wrinkled.

  Cursing softly under his breath, Tunde climbed out of the now-frigid water, dried off, and made his way to bed. He collapsed without ceremony, falling into a deep, blank sleep—one so restorative, so complete, it refreshed him more than any elixir or pill could ever hope to.

  When he next opened his eyes, the room was bathed in shadows. Midnight.

  The building was silent, every corner still in slumber. And yet something had roused him—not a sound, but a sensation. A gentle nudge in his spirit. A ripple.

  He was up in seconds.

  Throwing on a robe with practiced ease, he called his weapon forth, watching as the rod shimmered and elongated into a full-length spear. His Ethra sight activated with a pulse, overlaying the Ethra coloured world atop the physical.

  Through the walls and the garden beyond, he saw a familiar figure, standing near the edge of the small cultivated plot tended lovingly by one of the household servants.

  The Ethra signature gave the visitor away instantly.

  Tunde exhaled, just a fraction, allowing his body to relax as the spear in his hands retracted smoothly into its dormant form—a simple rod once more. He made his way outside, silent as the wind, the cold night air brushing against his skin.

  The entire compound slumbered in peace.

  Even the festive heart of the capital had quieted at last, the day’s celebrations having wrung the energy from its people. The soft sound of night creatures hummed in the background, adding a gentle rhythm to the stillness.

  The grounds were lit with grey-burning spirit torches, their flames fed by slow-burning Ethra stones. They cast a subtle warmth, flickering with a pale light that pushed gently against the cold. Even so, Tunde felt the chill bite deeper than it should have—as though the air itself was dense with some unseen tension.

  Ahead, standing just where the stone path met the edge of the garden, was a tall man with his hands folded neatly behind his back.

  Master Varis.

  “I wondered if you’d feel it,” Varis said by way of greeting, his voice soft, as though speaking too loudly might wake the night itself.

  He did not turn, instead keeping his gaze fixed on the stars above, eyes narrowed in contemplation.

  Tunde approached without a word, his steps measured, posture respectful but alert.

  “It was a pulse of pressure,” Varis continued, “subtle, refined—meant only for masters. And yet here you are, a mid-realm Highlord, answering its call.”

  At last, the master turned his head slightly, just enough for one sharp eye to catch Tunde in its sightline.

  “What does that make you, Tunde of the Dark Fist? Wastelander of the Seekers?” he asked, the faintest glint of amusement—or perhaps challenge—flashing across his expression.

  "You knew," Tunde said, his voice low, sharp—biting with the heat of embers long thought cold.

  Pain and anger bled into every syllable, flaring from wounds he had buried after the third round.

  "Of your ties to a long-dead cult? No," Varis replied, voice edged in shadow, as though speaking the truth aloud cost him something.

  "No," Tunde repeated, more forcefully this time.

  His voice rumbled from deep within his chest as he swallowed down the fury rising in him. With effort, he stilled his cycling Ethra, letting the cold of the void seep into him, dulling the blaze within. He needed it. Without it, he’d lash out—stupidly, uselessly.

  His heart, that cursed bleeding organ of raw emotion, screamed for retribution. It wanted him to strike the man who had once been his teacher, to vent the betrayal lodged like a blade in his ribs.

  But his mind, sharpened by void’s chill reason, held him back. Attacking a master? Madness. Tunde was a Highlord—strong, yes—but still one step, one realm, one lifespan beneath Varis. Not even Empty Silence combined with Joran’s Wrath, his deadliest techniques, would do more than scratch the man.

  "Miria," he said, voice hoarse.

  “You knew. You knew what happened to her. What the phantoms did to her.”

  The words hung in the air like a curse. Varis’s eyes darkened visibly.

  “How did you know of that?” he asked, tone flat—dangerously so.

  Tunde said nothing. His silence was not empty—it was filled with pain. His breath caught, his eyes widened. Even the void’s icy calm began to falter as the weight of it all pressed down on him.

  “I trusted you,” he said bitterly.

  “And I’ve kept you alive,” Varis replied with steel in his voice.

  “You should be more grateful.”

  “At what cost?” Tunde growled, his control fraying.

  “Only to sell me later on?”

  Varis turned fully now, his gaze landing on Tunde like a hammer. Once, just months ago, Tunde would have faltered under that gaze, would have looked away or lowered his stance. But not now. Not tonight. The void surged behind his eyes. He stood firm, planted like a pillar of obsidian.

  “You would dare accuse me of betrayal?” Varis’s voice cracked through the still air. “

  You, who hid the truth of who—and what—you are from me?”

  Tunde felt it—the pressure. It began subtly, a quiet suffocation, then rose steadily, like the sky collapsing. The signature of Blitzfire Tempest was unmistakable. A master’s path.

  “Who I am doesn’t matter,” Tunde replied coldly.

  “I represent the Wastelands. I carry Black Rock on my back. I stand as my own.”

  He called upon his Ethra, letting it surge through his limbs. His senses expanded, Ethra Sight painting Varis in a dozen spiritual colors. He began to prepare the formation for a barrier silently —one he might have to raise in a heartbeat.

  “You stupid, stupid child,” Varis hissed.

  “What would you have done?” he continued, voice rising.

  “Gone storming into the domain of the Phantoms? Do you have any idea what you're playing with? What they are?”

  He stepped forward. The air cracked under his footfall as his pressure slammed into Tunde like a tidal wave. Wood groaned and splintered beneath Tunde’s feet, but he held firm, his own presence pushing back, straining to keep from crumbling. It was like lifting a mountain—but Tunde had fought uphill before.

  “I would have done something,” Tunde snarled.

  “Anything. Just to let her know I fought. That I came here not just for glory, but for her.”

  Varis laughed. It was short and loud and cruel.

  “Half the clan wants to hand you over to the Keepers or the Envoys. You did kill their prized students,” he said, tone mocking now as the pressure doubled.

  “The Paragons know what you are. The Regents likely do, too. The moment this tournament ends, you’ll be hunted. Mark my words.”

  Tunde’s legs buckled. He dropped to his knees, a sickening pain blooming in his core as he spat blood onto the broken floor. His vision blurred, yet he refused to look away. Still, he fought.

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  He clenched his eyes shut, retreating deep into his spirit, to that inner sanctum—the place of the dying wolf and the impossible wall. His core floated above, bleeding Ethra into the stone barrier, which now glowed a dark, ominous violet.

  “The only reason you still draw breath,” Varis said, voice now a cold whisper, “is because of the oaths binding the factions for this tournament... and Talahan’s presence. More specifically, the patriarch himself.”

  Tunde’s breath was shallow, ragged. His soul trembled.

  “You owe me your life,” Varis spat.

  “I came seeking a fighter, and I found one. You will obey. And if—when—you survive, maybe there’ll be a chance to save your beloved.”

  There was a pause, a moment of silence filled with heat and agony—then a voice cut through it.

  “The heavens are cruel indeed, are they not?”

  It was calm, familiar, and carried the weight of winds.

  The pressure vanished in an instant.

  Tunde gasped for breath as he tore himself out of the void-space in his mind, the agony lifting just enough to think again. He looked up.

  Ifa stood there, clad in silence and wind, with Zhu at his side. Both men were watching Varis with sharp, unreadable gazes.

  “This is none of your concern, fellow master,” Varis said tersely, barely masking his anger.

  “Fellow master,” Ifa echoed softly, a chuckle lacing his words—as if he knew something Varis did not.

  “Contrary to your assumption,” he continued, his voice now filled with quiet force, “this involves me in every way.”

  A gale stirred the air.

  Tunde felt it immediately. Something changed.

  The space between Varis and Ifa bent slightly, warping at the edges like heat rising off stone. It reminded him of his Void Step—but deeper, older. The ground trembled. Ethra flared, wild and unrestrained. Tunde’s eyes widened.

  In that single, fleeting moment, Ifa was no longer just a man.

  He was otherworldly.

  “He is my friend,” Ifa said, his voice growing louder, stronger.

  “He is close to me. You might even say... family.”

  The sky cracked with thunder. Lightning tore across the clouds.

  Above Varis’s hands, burning black flames gathered, roaring to life, a blade of midnight black appearing in his other hand. The Ebon Tempest.

  Zhu moved. His body pulsed with light as his Ethra surged. Scales of jade green shimmered into view as he fully embraced his imbuement, his Ethralite nature shining through.

  A clash was seconds away.

  “Let’s stop it there, while we can,” came a calm, aged voice.

  Tunde turned his gaze upward.

  Elder Tianlei floated above them, robes fluttering, his presence ominous and unshakable. Beside him, Sera’s eyes went wide as she caught sight of Tunde’s broken state. She descended like a shooting star, rushing to his side.

  She knelt beside him, her hands already glowing with healing Ethra, her touch gentle and immediate. But the air remained heavy, filled with the knowledge that this confrontation had only been postponed.

  Not ended.

  “We need not drag this too long or too far,” Elder Tianlei said calmly as he descended, his robes fluttering in the soft breeze.

  He landed without a sound, his presence serene but firm as his gaze settled upon Varis with a pronounced frown.

  “And we do not treat our guests—especially those who have served us with distinction—in such a disgraceful manner,” he added, his voice mild but laced with quiet rebuke.

  Varis said nothing at first. The pressure that had weighed heavy upon the courtyard lifted as his posture straightened and the storm above dissipated. He glanced at Tunde—bloodied, barely upright, supported by Sera’s arms.

  For the briefest of moments, something flickered in the master’s eyes. Regret. Or perhaps it was guilt. But it vanished too quickly to be certain.

  “You do not know the lengths I’ve gone to,” Varis said finally, his voice low, taut with a quiet fury held in check.

  “The sacrifices I’ve made to bring him—bring you—this far.”

  “All of which we acknowledge and thank Clan Talahan for,” Ifa replied, his voice composed, his bow respectful but cool.

  Tianlei nodded once in agreement.

  “Indeed. But when such sacrifices are paid for with cruelty, and the few kindnesses are wrapped in pain, we are left to wonder if the blade will not be turned on us in the end.”

  “Rest assured,” Tianlei said, voice steady, “Clan Talahan does not betray those who have served it loyally—regardless of what past ghosts may haunt them.”

  Tunde spat out more blood, the taste bitter, metallic, as it filled his mouth. His core throbbed with pain; his muscles clenched uncontrollably as if his very body rebelled against itself.

  “If you’ll excuse us,” Ifa said, stepping closer to Tunde, “I must tend to him before this becomes worse.”

  Tianlei raised a hand and, with a flick of his fingers, summoned glowing yellow pills from his void ring. They hovered for a moment, radiant with gentle warmth before floating towards Ifa.

  “These are Golden Earth Healing Pills,” he said.

  “Crafted by one of the foremost receptors of the Alchemist Guild. Consider them a small token of apology—though I fear they barely scratch the surface.”

  “You honor us, venerable elder,” Ifa said with a deep bow, accepting the pills.

  Tianlei’s gaze shifted back to Varis, a silent question in his eyes. Varis exhaled slowly, then reached into his own void ring. A large, rune-etched chest appeared beside him, resting heavily on the ground with a thud that resonated in the bones.

  “Your reward,” Varis said, his tone measured, “personally from the clan.”

  The air grew heavy, the chest exuding a palpable pressure that made the very ground seem to hum.

  “Within lies the inheritance of a long-dead Highlord of our clan,” Varis continued.

  “He walked the path of Destruction—a path now useless to us. But perhaps... not to you.”

  He looked directly at Tunde, and though the emotion in his gaze was unreadable, the weight of meaning hung between them.

  “The clan hopes this demonstrates our commitment to you. Provided, of course, you continue to represent us well. The earlier stages were merely formalities. The real tournament begins now.”

  Tunde’s fists clenched. His nails dug into his palms. Rage flared behind his weary eyes.

  “I almost lost a friend in your... ‘formalities,’” he said bitterly, his voice laced with barely contained fury.

  “As I said,” Varis replied, his expression unchanging, “formalities. Your allies are few. Your enemies? Many. You have a handful of days to recover before the next round begins. Use them wisely.”

  With that, he turned and lifted off into the night sky, his form vanishing into the darkness.

  Tunde lowered his gaze to the ground. His teeth gritted as he fought back the tears, his rage roiling just beneath the surface like magma held at bay by a crumbling dam. Sera’s grip on his shoulders tightened, grounding him. Beside him, Zhu stood firm, a silent pillar of support.

  “Perhaps it would be best if my student remained behind?” Tianlei suggested, his tone lighter now, yet still respectful.

  “To help him... during this difficult time.”

  “Yes. That would be deeply appreciated, venerable elder,” Ifa replied, bowing once more.

  Tianlei stroked his beard thoughtfully, a contemplative look in his eyes. Then he let out a low tsk and shook his head.

  “The clan needs its vassals now more than ever. Surely you sense it, Elder Ifa—the rising gloom, the shifting tides of power, the tension in the very air.”

  “Indeed,” Ifa said with a solemn nod.

  “War comes to Adamath, as it always does when resources bloom, and the balance teeters.”

  “Well said,” Tianlei murmured.

  “Let it not be said that Clan Talahan fails to reward loyalty. Rest well, Tunde. You have done us all proud.”

  Tunde’s head rose slowly, eyes burning with a deeper pain, something raw and desperate. Then, without warning, he dropped to his knees and slammed his forehead against the ground. The sound was sharp, sudden—startling.

  “Please,” he said, voice hoarse, trembling.

  “Please... let me see her. Help me. Just once.”

  Tianlei’s eyes widened at the sudden plea, genuine emotion flickering across the elder’s weathered face. He looked toward Ifa, who stood still, his gaze turbulent with rage barely contained.

  “You must understand,” Tianlei said gently, “the Phantoms answer only to the clan head... or the patriarch himself. My influence, I fear, does not reach that far. But I promise you—I will try.”

  Tunde nodded, but the tears came unbidden, hot trails cutting through the grime and blood on his face.

  Tianlei sighed heavily, bowing his head once more.

  “Rest, child,” he said quietly. “Rest... and prepare. The winds have only just begun to howl.”

  Then, without another word, the elder turned and rose into the night air, vanishing like a whisper lost to the wind.

  *************************

  The shadow wraith once known as Miria stood at a distance from the compound, a silent sentinel veiled by the night. Her gaze remained fixed on the tense confrontation unfolding between Master Varis, his student, and the assembled elders.

  She stood still, as much a part of the gloom as the dusk itself. Darkness was no longer simply her concept—it was her second skin, her breath, her heartbeat. It welcomed her like an old friend, cloaking her in its velvety embrace as she sank further into the concept of shadow, dissolving all trace of her former self.

  No simple cultivator’s eyes could perceive her now. Her presence had long since ceased to be something that could be seen or felt by ordinary means. She was indistinguishable from the cold, whispering wind or the deepening twilight that eroded the last fragments of light.

  She had mastered the Eclipse Blade—a concept path sharpened to its edge through relentless training and merciless silence. At the very peak of the Highlord realm, her presence was now little more than a rumor in the air. Only a select few of the Phantom Sect, and perhaps some of the more powerful cultivators of the empire, might even begin to sense her.

  She cocked her head slightly, following the current of a passing gust, aligning every breath, every twitch of muscle with the rhythm of the night. Her stillness wasn’t just practiced—it was innate, honed to the point where absolute silence and motionlessness were as effortless as blinking.

  In that eerie quiet, she sought something deep within herself, a flicker, a spark—some remnant of what she once felt for the cultivator known as the Wastelander.

  But there was nothing. Just an expanse of cold stillness. No longing, no anger, no regret. The Shadow Saint had purged her of all that long ago, cleansing her of distractions such as affection or memory.

  What remained now was not a woman, but a weapon: sharpened by solitude, polished by pain, and wielded by doctrine.

  And yet—despite her depth in the Path of the Wraith, despite the shadow and blade that filled her core—a barely perceptible shift in the air beside her was enough to jolt her focus.

  So fine was her attunement to stealth that even the displacement of light and silence announced her master’s arrival. She did not turn, merely inclined her head in reverent acknowledgment.

  Atop the spire of a forgotten tower, the air shimmered, and she emerged—Lady Yue, the Saint of Shadows. Her appearance was like a mirage born of moonlight and ink: skin pale as moon-kissed bone, luminous black eyes that devoured the light, lips as dark as midnight and as dangerous as poison, and a beauty so chilling it drew both desire and dread. Death incarnate, wrapped in silk and silence.

  “Well?” Yue asked, voice a soft caress across the veil between worlds.

  “This one senses no trace of the prey. But his trail leads here. Without doubt, he passed through this place,” Miria reported with measured precision, her voice barely above the wind.

  “Hmm,” Yue mused, her gaze drifting toward the compound.

  “Unfortunate. We cannot act without direct leave from the clan head—Jaito holds the leash tight these days.”

  She gestured delicately toward the broken figure of Tunde, cradled by his companions.

  “And him?” she asked, almost idly.

  “Weak. Gravely injured. Internal damage. He poses no threat,” Miria said, her analysis clinical, detached, every word weighed and exact.

  Yue smiled faintly—a shadow curling at the corner of her lips.

  “So many said the same at the start of this tournament. Most are dead now.”

  Then, she turned fully to Miria, the humor vanishing from her face.

  “But no, my blade, that is not what I mean. I asked what you feel when you look at him.”

  Miria hesitated for the briefest moment. Then, like a creed memorized and recited a thousand times, she responded,

  “This one feels nothing. A blade does not feel. It strikes as commanded by the hand that wields it.”

  Yue stepped closer, her hand rising to cup Miria’s chin. Their eyes met—black into black, mirror to mirror—as if each were peering into the abyss within the other. Yue searched, patiently, for the tiniest fracture, the smallest flicker of doubt or desire.

  After a long, pregnant silence, she released her grip and spoke in a whisper only the dead would hear.

  “Good.”

  She turned to the wind.

  “Come. We return. This... will have consequences.”

  And with that, the Saint of Shadows vanished, a ripple in reality fading into stillness.

  Miria waited a breath longer. Then she turned. But before slipping away, she allowed herself a final glance back toward Tunde. Still crumpled. Still weak.

  He would not defeat her. Of that, she was certain.

  And yet…

  Somewhere in the cold echo of shadow, a small voice whispered:

  He must not fall to another.

  His head is mine.