Tunde was livid—furious not just at Ifa, but more at himself. The guilt weighed heavy on his chest, a leaden thing he couldn’t shake. He had allowed this. Allowed the elder to take on a burden no man should carry alone. His hands trembled slightly, not from fear, but from barely restrained rage. Not at the world. Not at Ifa. At himself.

  And yet, he didn’t let that anger rule him. He couldn’t afford to. He hadn’t survived this long in the world of cultivation by surrendering to impulse every time the heavens threw a cruel challenge in his path. He had learned to think through fire, to breathe through storms.

  Besides, Ifa himself seemed unbothered. Too calm, too composed—like the idea of being tasked with the death of a Paragon was just another ripple in a vast ocean. Tunde couldn’t decide whether to envy him or curse him for it.

  Still, the inheritance chest sat before them, ominous yet tempting. And the contents weren’t going to inspect themselves.

  Jaw clenched, Tunde began his search, rifling through the contents with quiet, seething focus.

  The first item was a broken weapon. Its hilt and shards gleamed faintly with residual Ethra—blackened steel veined with crimson. A Highlord’s treasure, without question. A once-mighty sword, now shattered beyond immediate repair, yet still thrumming faintly with destruction and sword Ethra.

  “Could still be useful,” Tunde muttered, setting it aside carefully.

  “Even broken, it radiates power.”

  Then came a single talisman, nestled flat at the bottom like a leaf pressed between old pages. Liu let out a low whistle as he leaned closer, eyes gleaming with fascination despite the object’s inert state.

  “Talisman of Ruin,” Sera read aloud, frowning.

  “That… doesn’t sound nice.”

  Liu nodded grimly.

  “It’s not. That’s a spiritual technique talisman, and a particularly nasty one.”

  Tunde, with deliberate caution, placed it down again.

  “Spiritual technique?” Zhu asked, brow raised.

  “It means it doesn’t just attack the body—it tears apart the soul too,” Liu explained.

  “Complete annihilation. Hence the name. When it’s activated, it doesn’t just kill—it erases. Destruction path cultivators were feared for a reason. That path doesn’t just harm the self; it annihilates anything in its way. Physically. Spiritually. The soul burns out like dry wood in an inferno.”

  “I see why the Talahan clan never dared open the chest,” Ifa murmured, voice low, arms crossed as he studied the talisman from a distance.

  Tunde glanced at the elder again, a flicker of worry tightening his chest. Was he still carrying that brand from the scroll? What toll would it take?

  “At least it’s inert—for now,” Liu added, gesturing carefully.

  “It won’t activate unless we feed it Ethra or spiritual intent. But it's a one-use item, so we save it for a moment when we truly have no other choice.”

  “Can you replicate it?” Sera asked, eyes thoughtful.

  Liu blinked in astonishment.

  “Replicate this?” He looked at her as if she’d asked him to pluck stars from the sky.

  “Even if I could—which I can’t, mind you, because I don’t walk the path of destruction—why would I want to?”

  Sera blinked, then wisely kept her response to herself. Still, Tunde had wondered the same thing, if only for a second.

  The next item was a small red box. Tunde picked it up—and gasped. The moment his hand touched it, he felt it: a dense, coiling pressure of pure Destruction Ethra emanating from within, pressing against his palm like a heartbeat.

  “Whatever’s inside… It’s strong,” he said quietly, setting it down with newfound reverence.

  Liu stepped forward, placing one finger atop the box while the other hand raised to his forehead in a diagnostic gesture. A glimmer of silver light danced between his fingers as he withdrew his hand, brows furrowed.

  “Confirmed,” he said, nodding.

  “There’s something sealed within. A raw, concentrated source of Destruction Ethra. We’ll need to set up a containment formation before even thinking about opening it. Best not tempt fate.”

  Tunde obeyed instantly, placing the box to the side as if it were a living bomb.

  The last item rested innocently at the bottom: a small crystal, gleaming red and gold like a dying star. Tunde picked it up, rotating it between his fingers as it pulsed faintly with inner light.

  “A memory crystal,” Liu breathed, reverence creeping into his voice.

  “We can see the life of the cultivator?” Sera asked, her eyes lighting up with curiosity.

  Tunde nodded.

  “If we can share the projection, we can all watch together.”

  Thankfully, Liu was already moving, ever the prepared arcanist. From the golden formation surrounding them, he activated a sub-array—a runic enhancement designed to link soul impressions to shared vision. A glowing rune shimmered above their heads, soft and steady like a lantern in mist.

  “It’ll be like watching from above,” Liu explained.

  “But remember—this is just a memory. Nothing we see can be changed, no matter how real it feels.”

  They all nodded.

  Tunde took one last breath and handed the crystal to Liu.

  The rune activated with a low hum, enveloping them in light—and then the world dissolved into the past.

  *****

  Tunde found himself overlooking a land drowned in fire and ruin. The ground below was a scorched wasteland, flames of blood-red and deep gold licking up into the ash-choked sky like tongues of vengeance. The air stank of death—thick, acrid, and bitter—so potent that even within the safety of a projection, the phantom scent clawed at Tunde’s throat, nearly making him gag.

  It was devastation in its purest form.

  Above, cultivators swarmed the sky like furious insects. They rode flying constructs—ancient warbeasts of jade and steel, winged platforms powered by spirit engines—and, curiously, many stood atop soaring blades, swordflight leaving gleaming arcs of Ethra as they clashed midair. Explosions of light, sound, and elemental power fractured the heavens.

  “Look at them,” came a bitter voice to Tunde’s right.

  He flinched and turned, instinctively tense—only to find himself staring into the worn, familiar face of the destruction cultivator, the same man whose legacy had bound itself to Ifa... and, through him, to Tunde as well.

  “Like hungry wolves,” the elder muttered, his voice rough and hollow.

  “Come to pick at the spoils.”

  He coughed, the sound wet and ragged, as if his lungs carried the residue of war. His robes, once regal, bore the tattered insignia of the Talahan clan—or at least, an older version of it. They lacked the gleam of newer weaves, dirt and blood soaking the fabric in grim testament to the battle he had endured.

  In one hand, the elder held a crystal—the very same memory crystal now projecting his life for Tunde and the others. And in the other, a sword. Whole, but chipped and worn. The same blade Tunde had found broken in the present.

  Tunde scanned the chaos again. No one else wore the Talahan crest. A mosaic of sects and clans raged across the sky in a cacophony of colors, banners, and techniques.

  “Watch and listen,” the elder said bitterly.

  “Whoever you are... see the price of trusting the Talahan clan.”

  Above them, the battle shifted violently as three immense spiritual pressures slammed down from the heavens like divine hammers. The very sky recoiled—ashes scattered, clouds parted, and silence rippled through the battlefield.

  Three cultivators descended, floating on nothing but sheer spiritual might. Master realm presences, unmistakable.

  Their sigils were foreign to Tunde—no familiar banners or known emblems—but the destruction cultivator seemed to recognize them instantly. His jaw tightened.

  “Guyan!” the first of the masters called out.

  He was garbed in flowing white, immaculate despite the carnage. A radiant bird—likely a spirit beast—perched on his shoulder, preening its golden feathers as if unfazed. A staff of celestial wood glowed faintly in the man’s hand, resonating through the air with soft, oppressive vibrations.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  Guyan. So that was the destruction cultivator’s name.

  “We warned you,” the white-robed master said, voice sonorous.

  “Just because you bear the blood of the Talahan clan does not mean they will shield you forever. You must pay for your sins!”

  But Tunde narrowed his eyes. He’d seen enough deceptions, enough sect betrayals, to recognize theater when it unfolded before him. This wasn’t justice. This was a stage, dressed with righteous fury, crafted to crush one man.

  Yes, the flames below were indeed Destruction Ethra—violent and chaotic—but something was off.

  The white-robed man gestured dramatically to the wasteland.

  “Look around you! What possible crime could these people have committed, that you would unleash such evil upon them?!”

  “People?” Guyan spat, his voice cracking with fury.

  “There were no people here until you sent them! I began a purge, and you filled it with innocents! You knew!”

  He raised his blade high, Ethra crackling along its edge.

  “I do not kneel to the shadows of Talahan. Nor to Jaito!”

  Gasps echoed. Even the master cultivators reeled back slightly. Speaking a Paragon’s name aloud—especially one still active—was close to sacrilege.

  “You dare speak the Honored Paragon’s name, abomination?!” a woman hissed.

  She floated beside the white-robed master, her aura sharp and cruel. Master-grade knives appeared behind her in a perfect circle, hovering like a deadly halo.

  “We were warned of your madness too late. The Talahan clan told us—your mind is consumed. Your concept has eaten you alive. You and these fools who follow you are already lost,” she snarled.

  One of Guyan’s followers, a young man with bright eyes and a scorched robe, stepped forward.

  “You must believe him!” he pleaded.

  “We encountered an infestation of Corespawns, it was—”

  Whip.

  The female master didn’t let him finish. A single blade snapped forward, impossibly fast.

  Clang!

  Guyan was faster. His weapon, wrapped in essence flame, caught the knife midair and slapped it aside. It spun once, then returned to the woman like a loyal pet.

  “So you claim,” said the third master, pale-skinned, bald, and broad-chested. Twin axes rested at his sides, glinting menacingly. His voice was quiet, calm—lethal.

  “But we see humans here. And now you accuse us of bringing them for slaughter? That’s a slight I will not forgive.”

  With a grimace, he drew one axe. A thin line of gold split the air behind him.

  Guyan laughed—loud and bitter. His aura burst forth, scorching the land beneath his feet. The very earth blackened and cracked, drained of all life.

  “Then let me give you a tale worth remembering.”

  He raised his sword to the heavens.

  “Go!” he bellowed to the cultivators behind him.

  “Flee! Live in my place, young ones! Let the path of the Wrath Flame endure!”

  The Lord Realm cultivators did not hesitate. They turned and scattered like leaves in a storm.

  But their flight was cut short.

  The skies split once more as Skyvessels emerged—massive airships, sleek and grim, flying under the banners of the Veilwardens and the Whispering Phantoms. Their hulls gleamed like obsidian, lined with sigils of suppression and death.

  Without a word, they opened fire.

  Golden beams carved through the sky. Whole cultivators vanished in bursts of light—bodies, souls, and all. Tunde clenched his fists as he felt Guyan's horror ripple through the projection.

  “How could you?!” Guyan roared; his voice raw with grief.

  His aura surged outward again, forming a colossal flaming avatar—an echo of himself, wreathed in fury. It reached toward the ships with its massive spectral sword, swinging at the engines with a scream of vengeance.

  But from one of the Whispering Phantom vessels, a new figure appeared—silent, elegant, and terrible.

  She wore black. Everything about her was muted and cold, yet she radiated beauty of a kind that could kill with a glance. She lifted a single, slender finger.

  And stopped the avatar’s blade mid-swing.

  Just like that.

  The air froze. The chaos paused. The masters below bowed low.

  “We greet the Saint,” they intoned in unison.

  The woman drifted forward, the air itself seeming to bend around her. She looked at the destruction around her and shook her head.

  “This... this is too much,” she said, voice smooth and regretful.

  “Yue,” Guyan snarled, the name tearing from his throat like venom.

  “What is the meaning of this? Why has the clan turned against me?” Guyan demanded, his breath ragged and full of disbelief.

  “Cultivator Guyan of the Wrath Flame,” Yue’s voice answered, soft as falling ash.

  As she spoke, the skies above began to dim, thick with the scent of scorched flesh and spent flame. The masters flanking her bowed low and respectfully moved aside, giving her the space that a saint commanded by presence alone.

  In the same breath, Veilwardens rose into the air, most of them Nulls—soulless cultivators specialized in control and suppression. Together, they wove their hands in precise, ritualistic motions.

  A radiant formation of interlocking runes and scripts blazed to life, a containment barrier manifesting in a flash of silver flame. Guyan was now trapped within its confines.

  From the darkening clouds overhead, a rippling tear split the sky open. A massive floating platform descended, regal and ominous, cutting through the smoke and fire like a divine judgment. Standing atop it, hands folded neatly behind his back, was a figure that seemed carved from the bedrock of the heavens themselves.

  His features were as sharp as chiseled obsidian, his bearing majestic and ancient. Oiled black and white hair spilled behind him, flowing in harmony with his matching goatee—hallmarks of Talahan bloodline perfection.

  Muscles coiled with the density of centuries revealed a body trained and tempered over eras. His mere presence invoked reverence. Even Tunde, watching from within the memory, felt an involuntary instinct to bow, though he was only a projection.

  Guyan’s mouth opened but no words came. His face paled.

  “We greet the Honoured Paragon!” the cultivators around cried in unison, dropping to one knee even in midair.

  “What is the meaning of this? Why, Father?!” Guyan shouted finally, a tremble of betrayal hidden beneath his fury.

  Tunde’s heart clenched. Father? Guyan was Jaito’s son? But where were the visible traits of Talahan blood? Then again, the same had once been asked of the Wasteland King. Perhaps Jaito made a habit of breeding powerful offspring only to discard them.

  He remembered Black Rock burning. Their conflict had always seemed justified. But now… this truth introduced shadows into Tunde’s conviction.

  Jaito’s voice came low, soft, and it carried like thunder.

  “You are no offspring of mine.”

  As if echoing his judgment, lightning streaked across the burning heavens, shattering silence with divine finality.

  “You were warned that your evil would be your undoing. I appear only to honor the Talahan blood tainted in your veins. I have come not as a father, but as a judge.”

  He lifted one hand toward the horizon.

  “He must end here. Let his ashes be scattered. Bring me his belongings—they belong to the clan now that he is no longer useful.”

  The crystal in Guyan’s hand flashed once, then shot through the sky toward a distant mountain. A distant roar responded to its passage.

  Jaito’s frown deepened.

  “Spiritual beasts,” he said flatly.

  “Yue.”

  Without a word, the Saint of Shadows nodded and vanished toward the mountain.

  “You see it now,” Guyan’s voice rang through the memory, distant yet powerful.

  “Forced onto this path. Nurtured in shadow, fed with lies, used until convenient—and then discarded.”

  His gaze burned with raw fury.

  “Such is the legacy of the Talahan clan.”

  Then, his voice grew darker.

  “If you are seeing this, then you too are nothing but another pawn. Another soul caught in the teeth of the same machine. The grip of the Talahan clan is inescapable.”

  The memory paused a moment. His next words were not shouted—they were spoken with quiet venom.

  “End what I have begun. Bring ruin to them. Let my gifts taste a hundred times sweeter. Embrace destruction. Only with Jaito dead and his line shattered will peace come to Bloodfire.”

  The memory resumed. Guyan raised his hand, tapping two fingers to his forehead. A surge of destruction Ethra erupted around him.

  The surrounding cultivators prepared to attack, only to halt as Jaito raised a single hand.

  “No.” One word.

  A command wrapped in cosmic finality. He did not move. He did not need to.

  The skies bled red and gold. Guyan’s aura avatar expanded, a colossus reaching for the heavens. Lightning cascaded downward. Flames licked the clouds.

  Then a beam of golden light engulfed him.

  “He’s ascending—saint! He’s becoming a saint!” the female master shrieked in disbelief.

  In mere moments, Guyan became what few dared even dream of: a Saint of Destruction.

  Jaito chuckled, amused.

  “A saint of destruction? The heavens truly jest.”

  But Guyan was not laughing.

  He raised a single finger. Red and gold fire twisted into the form of a horned beast—a creature of wrath incarnate. It lunged. The masters panicked. A whip of blades formed in the female’s hands. The avian spirit beast screamed as it morphed into a blade. The third master summoned towers of metal and stone. All of it came crashing toward Guyan.

  He pointed.

  The beast roared.

  The attacks vanished—devoured, incinerated, erased. The monster didn’t stop. It plunged toward the masters who screamed and fled, conjuring every defense they had.

  “Paragon, help us!”

  Jaito only watched. His face unreadable. As if weighing the worth of the lives unraveling before him.

  “Let it not be said I didn’t offer my congratulations,” he said coolly.

  “But what a shame you must die here.”

  “You will die, Jaito!” Guyan bellowed.

  Tunde knew then—it was a suicide attack.

  The beast grew until it blotted out the heavens. It burned everything. Veilwardens and Phantoms cried out as they struggled to suppress the Ethra. Cultivators dropped from the skies like ash in wind.

  And from the mountain, Yue returned, a crimson box clutched in her hand. The crystal now sealed within her void ring.

  Then—darkness.

  The memory ended, a shockwave of pressure flinging them all violently from the vision.

  ******

  Tunde slammed back into his body with a violent jolt, gasping as if he'd surfaced from deep, drowning waters. His chest heaved, lungs burning, as he bent forward, clutching his knees. The air tasted stale and dry, his mouth parched. Around him, the others were deathly still—ashen-faced, eyes wide with horror. Not a word was spoken, but the silence screamed.

  “They know,” he rasped, voice hoarse and raw. He looked up, his gaze hard and unfocused.

  “They gave me this chest on purpose... it wasn’t a gift. It was a message.”

  Liu could only stare in stunned disbelief, lips parted slightly but no sound emerging. Ifa, however, rose to his feet with quiet purpose, his expression darkening as he approached the box. Without hesitation, he took it into his hands.

  “The Talahan clan spreads only death and ruin to those unfortunate enough to cross their path,” he said grimly, his tone sharpened by contempt.

  Tunde could only watch, uncertain of what to say—of what could possibly be said in the face of what they’d just witnessed.

  “They’re trying to break your will,” Ifa continued, voice low but firm, “to bend your path before it's fully formed. They want you to come crawling to them. To make you desperate. To end what has barely begun.” His eyes flicked up, defiance glowing in them.

  “But I say no.”

  He exhaled slowly, shoulders dropping as he sat back down, chest rising and falling with a heavy sigh.

  “They knew,” he said, more quietly now, the realization thick in the air.

  “They knew something like that was inside. They counted on your curiosity... on your integrity. You had no choice but to open it. And now? They expect you to begin scheming, plotting revenge, just like Guyan. So when they finally turn on you—and they will—the world will nod along, believing they had every reason to.”

  Liu cursed under his breath and ran a trembling hand through his hair. His jaw clenched hard enough to tremble.

  “The powerful trample the weak,” he muttered, voice full of disgust.

  “Such is the world we live in.”

  “Then we change the world,” Ifa said, tone suddenly light—almost bright—as he patted the chest gently with the flat of his palm.

  A smile, sharp and steady, curved his lips.

  “We start here. We use this. The Talahan clan wants an enemy?” His smile widened, but it was all teeth now, glinting with grim determination.

  “Then by the heavens, they’ll have one.”