Varis floated silently into the inner chambers of the palace, his presence barely a ripple in the tranquil sanctum. He drifted past cascading crystalline waterfalls, their glistening arcs refracting light into prismatic splinters, and walked beneath soaring arches guarded by domesticated spiritual beasts—graceful, regal creatures now considered extinct in most of Bloodfire. Some whispered they were the last of their kind not just in these parts, but in the entire continent.

  At the center of a vast, immaculate garden sat a pagoda, serene and radiant in its stillness. Its wooden frame had been crafted from sacred timber—personally cultivated by the elusive Tree Saint, a recluse who shunned battle and the courts of power for the meditative hush of ancient forests on the empire’s distant border. The saint had offered the structure as a gift to Varis’s mother decades ago, when she ascended to the rank of master.

  Time had not worn it down. Instead, the pagoda had grown with the garden, sinking roots into the earth like a living thing. It pulsed with silent vitality, and in return, the garden fed it back. Its uppermost boughs now bore glowing, fragrant fruits—spiritual delicacies said to elevate an initiate to adept with a single bite.

  Varis paused at the threshold and bowed deeply, waiting with practiced stillness for permission to enter. The response came, as always, calm and effortless.

  “Come,” said a voice—deep, yet light, a breeze layered over thunder.

  He straightened and stepped into the cool shadow of the pagoda, eyes falling upon the lone figure seated within.

  Jaito Talahan.

  His uncle. The clan head. The sharp edge of the Talahan legacy.

  If their patriarch was the immovable mountain—distant and dormant—then Jaito was its sword, unsheathed and ever near. Though his posture was relaxed, and his robe unadorned, the weight of his presence filled the chamber like coiled power. At his side rested no elegant teapot, no ceramic set for ceremony—only a massive drum of dark, lacquered wood filled to the brim with thick, aromatic wine.

  Varis knew that wine. Everyone did. A signature blend laced with the most lethal toxins and venoms known across the continent—a taste only those like Jaito could endure, much less savor.

  A servant offered a cup. Varis politely declined. His uncle chuckled, unsurprised.

  “How was our little gift received?” Jaito asked, skipping pleasantries as always, his tone casual but curious.

  Varis did not hesitate.

  “It was well received, I should hope,” he replied, tone even.

  “Though I confess, great uncle, why you would entrust the inheritance of a destruction cultivator to a mere seeker eludes my simple understanding. Please, enlighten this one.”

  He bowed slightly, keeping his gaze respectfully lowered.

  Jaito chuckled again, leaning back with a lazy grace.

  “Do you know why I like you, Varis?” he asked, a gleam in his eye.

  Varis didn’t answer. He knew better. The question was rhetorical.

  “It’s because you’re a simple man,” Jaito said, his voice almost affectionate.

  “You see the world as it appears. You choose a path and stay on it. Deviations annoy you. You crave order. Even after growing up in this viper’s nest, you cling to your ideals. Admirable, if na?ve.”

  Still, Varis said nothing.

  “Rhaelar, on the other hand...” Jaito sighed, a soft smile playing on his lips.

  “She’s your mother’s daughter through and through. Ruthless with the blade, yes—but even more dangerous at court. She prefers whispers to war cries, influence over force. She twists the game to suit her will... all beneath a mask so perfect it fools even those who wear it.”

  Varis felt the faintest chill creep down his spine. Did the clan head know? Had he somehow uncovered the quiet scheming of his parents—schemes that would, without question, be branded betrayal?

  He said nothing, kept his expression neutral.

  Jaito gestured lazily to the cushion across from him.

  “Sit.”

  Varis obeyed, lowering himself slowly, posture still attentive.

  “You asked why I gave your cherished pupil the legacy of a destruction cultivator,” Jaito said, eyes glittering.

  “It’s simple. That inheritance... was dear to me.”

  He sipped from his wine bowl, exhaling deeply.

  “It marked my first mistake,” he went on.

  “A lesson, one might think, that I would’ve learned from. Apparently not.”

  Varis stilled.

  “My first illegitimate child,” Jaito said quietly.

  “One who dared to reach beyond the station the heavens assigned him.”

  Varis froze.

  Illegitimate? Was the Wasteland King not the only one? Could there be others?

  “I see that look,” Jaito said with a low laugh.

  “You’re shocked that your dear old uncle was... promiscuous?”

  He threw back another mouthful of wine, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes dancing with mirth.

  “No, nephew. Not promiscuous. Far from it.”

  His voice dropped slightly, taking on a contemplative edge.

  “Back in the days when the Technocracy bit off more than it could chew, your grandfather—my father—had just advanced to the rank of Regent. He needed time to stabilize his power, to consolidate his Ethra. So he entered a meditation that was meant to last a century... and ended up spanning several.”

  Jaito smiled faintly at the memory, as if amused by its absurdity.

  “I couldn’t leave the capital. Not for long. The risk of external aggression was too high. And your mother was off taming the east—true beasts rampaging across those plains, rebellious factions still refusing to kneel.”

  He leaned forward now, eyes fixed on Varis.

  “So I made... arrangements.”

  There was a pause, a glint of teasing wickedness in his voice.

  “Tell me, has your mother ever explained how children are made?”

  Varis blinked, then offered the shy smile expected of him. He nodded, feigning mild embarrassment.

  “Ah, took the best of the best, did I?” Jaito laughed heartily.

  “Maybe. Maybe not. The point is—I had... dalliances. With vassals. Trusted families. Those whose loyalty was absolute.”

  “And they gave you children?” Varis asked, disturbed despite himself.

  “They just... offered their heirs?”

  He could imagine their pride. Their sense of duty. And yet—what happened to those children when Jaito no longer had use for them?

  Jaito’s grin widened, wolfish and unrepentant.

  “Oh, my dear nephew,” he said softly, “you’d be amazed what people will offer... when they believe it's an honor to bleed for you.”

  “Oh, not their true heirs,” Jaito replied with a casual wave of his hand, as if dismissing the very notion.

  “But enough to secure their positions within the clan. Tokens of loyalty. Flesh and blood turned into bargaining chips.”

  He paused, swirling the venom-laced wine in his cup, his gaze distant.

  “Except for one,” he said, voice softening with a rare, almost reflective gravity.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  “One who genuinely gave me their female heir. A dying clan, one gasping on its final breath. Our bond with them stretched back to the earliest days of the empire, a relic of another age.”

  Varis kept his face composed, but internally, a flicker of unease stirred. He was not a student of clan histories—not the way Rhaelar was. She could recite genealogies and political pacts with the precision of a court historian. He had only ever cared about who was an ally and who was not. Strategy. Action. The battlefield. Politics, in his mind, had always been her game.

  “They believed,” Jaito continued, “that by merging their dwindling bloodline with ours, they might elevate their standing. Perhaps even birth the next heir to the Talahan line.”

  He chuckled, a sharp, bitter sound.

  “Foolish. As if your grandfather—or I—would ever permit that.”

  Varis remained silent, unmoving, his breath shallow as Jaito leaned back, the story unfolding like a snake uncoiling itself.

  “So when the child was born, they were taken. Not raised by the mother. No sentiment. They were trained in the arts I chose. Molded into something useful. And if they proved themselves worthy, they would earn the right to call themselves Talahan.”

  Outside, the air grew cool. The distant scent of oncoming rain drifted in—fresh, electric. Ethra currents crackled faintly in the distance, crashing like unseen waves against the grand barrier that shielded the capital. A storm was brewing, both outside and within.

  “Unfortunately—or perhaps fortunately, depending on perspective—they died,” Jaito said flatly, pouring himself another bowl of wine. “It was an era of chaos. Clans at war with one another. Sects and schools clawing for territory before we turned our attention outward. A bloody, but amusing time.”

  He drank deeply, then exhaled.

  “All but one, that is. The child of that woman... was born with neither clan's concept. No affinity. Nothing of thunder, lightning or shadow. No balance or control. Only destruction.”

  The word landed like a hammer between them. Varis felt his body tense.

  “A joke, perhaps, from the heavens. A middle finger from fate to both bloodlines. But the boy—he survived. No... he thrived. He took the name Guyan.”

  Varis frowned. He didn’t recognize the name.

  “Through brutality alone,” Jaito said, his expression darkening, “Guyan carved a path. He accomplished every task with ruthless precision. Soon, others began to follow him. He wasn’t merely a soldier—he became a symbol. And that, Varis, is when problems arise.”

  He leaned in slightly, voice lower now, sharp as a blade’s edge.

  “Publicly, it looked promising. A cultivator gaining renown. But inside the clan, whispers grew. Guyan was beginning to be seen as my heir. That, we could not allow. A destruction cultivator? An aberration, a ticking death sentence.”

  Jaito shook his head slowly, the memory clearly still a thorn in his pride.

  “Most didn’t know the truth. Guyan was burning through his life force. Only the highest grade elixirs, pills, and relentless advancement were keeping him alive. It was unsustainable. But worse still... our phantoms reported that major clans and sects were secretly aligning themselves under his banner.”

  Jaito’s voice dropped another octave.

  “More importantly, they were aligning under the banner of the clan his mother came from.”

  Varis narrowed his eyes.

  “And what clan was that?”

  “The Shadai,” Jaito said, and Varis’s heart skipped a beat.

  The Shadai. The traitors. Masters of the Eclipse Shadow Art. A clan so feared their name alone could silence a room a long time ago.

  Jaito nodded grimly.

  “Yes, nephew. The same Shadai clan that birthed the phantoms as a vassal sect. A clan smart enough to bend the knee, but never forget what they once were.”

  A cold knot formed in Varis’s stomach.

  “My little plan had worked too well,” Jaito went on, pouring himself another drink.

  “So we... corrected it. Atrocities were laid at Guyan’s feet—some fabricated, most inevitable. After all, with his nature, it was only a matter of time before he committed such acts.”

  “And the Shadai?” Varis asked quietly.

  “Eradicated,” Jaito said simply.

  “They were branded traitors. The other clans happily joined in. Shared the spoils. But rumor has it one of their whelps still runs loose—skulking through the capital, phantoms at his heel.”

  He tapped the rim of his wine bowl, eyes narrowing.

  “Makes you wonder... are the phantoms remembering their roots? Or forging new ones?”

  Without warning, he snapped his fingers.

  The servant standing nearby disappeared—gone in an instant. Not slain. Obliterated. Not even ash remained.

  “He was one of theirs,” Jaito said without a flicker of remorse.

  “Shi Lian’s whelp. Spent decades clawing his way up the ranks, masking his lack of affinity. Thought I wouldn’t notice.”

  “You believe the phantoms are betraying us?” Varis asked, voice grim.

  “Oh, I suspect it,” Jaito said with a faint grin.

  “Whether I can prove it yet... that remains to be seen. But that brings us to the matter at hand, doesn’t it?”

  Varis straightened slightly, every instinct on edge.

  “This world, Varis, is shaped by vigilance. Blood means nothing. Alliances crumble like paper soaked in rain. If you want to live as long as I have, you must learn to see betrayal before it grows teeth.”

  Then came the pivot.

  “Your... student,” Jaito said slowly, the word laced with implication, “belongs to a cult that was nearly wiped from existence—for endangering the entire plane. And somehow, this same child shows up at Jade Peak just in time for the revenant invasion. Just in time for the clan to require strength on the Wasteland front. And just in time to end one of my older, more exhausting mistakes.”

  His gaze locked onto Varis’s like a predator.

  “Now this boy—Tunde—displays the talents of a capital-born heir. Advances through ranks with dizzying speed. Gains followers. Gains strength. And now... now he’s one of the favorites to win the tournament.”

  “You think he’ll betray us?” Varis asked.

  “I think something doesn’t align,” Jaito replied coolly.

  “And unlike you, I see the patterns beneath the surface. That’s why I gave him the inheritance—because buried within it lies a blood oath scroll.”

  Varis’s eyes widened, his breath catching.

  “A blood oath scroll?”

  Jaito nodded slowly.

  “Left by Guyan himself. A remnant of that past. A trap, perhaps. Or a test. But one with consequences for our entire clan. And I intend to see how your student handles it. Because the other factions want his head. And frankly, we cannot afford uncertainty within our walls.”

  Varis finally understood. He had been summoned not to consult—but to be informed. Tunde’s execution was no longer a thought. It was the plan. And the bitter taste that rose in Varis’s throat surprised him.

  Rhaelar was right. He was getting attached.

  “He could still be useful,” Varis offered carefully.

  Jaito smiled, amused.

  “Ah, now there it is—the hesitation. You think me cruel. But I am merely realistic. You would reward him for his loyalty. I would eliminate a threat before it festers. Tell me, nephew, have you ever wondered why those sent to kill him—many stronger than he—always die in such ridiculous, almost amusing ways?”

  Varis’s jaw tightened, unable to deny the pattern.

  Jaito sighed and closed his eyes for a moment, as if briefly wearied.

  “A great change is coming, Varis. And I intend to reward you... for your loyalty.”

  Varis said nothing.

  Like you rewarded the Shadai? Like you’ll reward Tunde? he thought bitterly, though his face betrayed nothing.

  “But I need to know something,” Jaito said, eyes reopening, sharp as flint.

  “That you are with me. That if any threat rises—within or without—you will come to me first. Can I trust you, nephew?”

  Varis bowed, spine straight, voice steady.

  “Your words are my will.”

  Jaito chuckled, satisfied.

  Varis left as calmly as he had arrived, his aura silent as he drifted away from the garden and the death-laced pagoda. His features were cold, unreadable. But within, a storm churned. He would need time. Time to think. Time to choose.

  Time to prepare for what was to come.

  *********

  The two days leading up to the fourth round found Tunde sequestered within his home, immersed in relentless meditation and focused cultivation. Gone was the luxury of time. There was no more space for leisurely progress, no more breathing room to climb the path toward the realm of Master at a steady pace.

  Now, there was only urgency. The continent itself groaned beneath the weight of dense, storm-like Ethra that had saturated the atmosphere—thick, palpable, and volatile. Ethra was no longer a resource to be sought after. It was now a force that pressed down upon the world, ever-present and overwhelming.

  Across markets and street stalls, Ethra-gathering formations were being sold in abundance, mass-produced and snatched up by cultivators desperate to ride the wave of power that had descended. Rumors abounded of breakthroughs—Lord and rank cultivators stepping into new realms, barriers long considered unbreachable now falling one after another. It was spreading like wildfire, and Tunde knew that those still competing in the tournament would not be left behind. They too would advance.

  Before retreating into isolation, Tunde had paid Daiki a brief visit. The monk had technically emerged victorious in the third round, receiving a rare and coveted Skyvessel as reward. Yet, oddly, the members of the Luminous Path had abruptly departed the capital, returning to their Golden Mountains with unexpected haste.

  It left an ache in Tunde’s chest—a subtle fracture in the emotional armor he had so carefully forged. But alongside that ache came a molten resolve. Something inside him hardened.

  He responded the only way he knew how: through preparation.

  He purchased one of the gathering arrays. Then another. And another. One for himself, one each for Sera and Zhu. With Liu's help, they pushed the formations beyond their base capabilities—modifying the arrays to pull in greater quantities of Ethra. In Tunde’s case, they tuned it so finely that it nearly tore open the threads of ambient energy around him.

  They were no longer hiding. The clan clearly expected him to walk a war path now. So he and his companions decided to lean into that expectation—feeding the myth, shaping the narrative. If they were to be feared, let them be feared fully.

  He gave Ifa the Aurum cards he had left—every last one—and the medallion that held privileges within the Talahan capital. The elder headed for the Golden Lion Pavilion and met with the Baron himself. The purchases they made alarmed the old merchant. Not because of the items, but because of the sheer cost Tunde was willing to pay.

  But Tunde had his reasons.

  He had seen war. Real war. And he understood something few cultivators did: in true conflict, money was meaningless. Resources were everything. And while Ethra now flowed like a storm unleashed, the bounty wouldn’t last. After the storm would come scarcity—famine of cultivation materials, closed borders, hoarded knowledge.

  He began preparing for that future.

  Void rings were bought by the dozens. Filled with entire spiritual trees, rare herbs, crates of elixirs and pills. The pavilion had to shut down sections of their inventory because of how thoroughly he had emptied their stock. When the Aurum cards ran dry, he simply transferred the debt to the medallion—backed by the Talahan clan itself.

  One by one, the rings were delivered to Tunde, who immediately secured them within void space—hidden from detection, untraceable. Anyone who came searching for them would find nothing. After all, how would they even begin to explain the complete disappearance of resources without even the void rings to show?

  The Talahan clan, of course, was billed for it all. And yet—no one came knocking. Not Varis. Not the elders. Not any of the clan’s experts. No questions were raised, no inquiries made. It only reinforced what Tunde already suspected: they didn’t care. They believed him a walking corpse, soon to be dealt with. Why waste the effort?

  Liu, however, had proposed something else. A final gambit. A terrifyingly ambitious idea involving the mysterious sphere—an object that even now hummed with latent power, barely restrained by the ancient sealing methods employed by the Keepers. The plan bordered on insanity, but if it worked... it could tilt the balance. Tunde had agreed.

  He contacted Black Rock through a construct and spoke with Lady Ryka. That conversation brought him yet more troubling news: Draven was en route to the capital, acting under the orders of a Saint. Likely Saint Shen of the Zao clan. It was a problem—but one he would deal with later.

  For now, he returned to stillness. Meditation. Control. Refinement. He turned inward, reinforcing the foundation of his cultivation, shoring up the cracks left by the strain of recent battles. He was ready to ascend, but the path forward was unclear.

  He was no longer asking if he would reach the realm of Master.

  The question now was simple.

  How soon?