The morning of the fourth round arrived beneath a storm-choked sky. Massive thunderheads blotted out the sun, casting the entire capital under a brooding veil of darkness that stretched for miles in every direction.

  The winds howled like a chorus of mourners, shrieking through the city with enough force to rattle spirit-forged glass and tug at the robes of even seasoned cultivators. The air itself felt tense, charged, as if the heavens were preparing to split apart under the strain of the Ethra storm that had loomed for days.

  And yet, despite the chaos above, the crowds still came.

  Thousands had gathered—sect members, civilians, rogue cultivators, imperial nobles—all huddled in formation-shielded platforms that hovered like islands above the Grand Valley. Each platform was encased in translucent barriers of radiant light, shielding the onlookers from the storm’s wrath while providing an unobstructed view of the tournament grounds below.

  A somber hush gripped the crowd. Even the loudest of the factions were subdued, their voices reduced to murmurs, their confidence dampened by a collective sense of foreboding. Something about today felt… different.

  The valley platform itself had been reshaped once again—this time into a vast, circular arena, elevated high and reinforced with thick, glowing script-lines of power said to have been etched by peak Master-realm cultivators. It gleamed dully beneath the rain, like an altar awaiting sacrifice.

  Dozens of Masters loyal to the imperial family now lined the valley’s rim. Their auras were hidden, cloaked beneath the grey of ceremonial robes, but their presence was unmistakable. Alongside them, Veilwardens stood like statues—calm, lethal, watchful.

  Shadows clung unnaturally to certain corners of the valley, refusing to be scattered by light or wind. Those in the know understood what that meant: the Phantoms were watching too.

  The air thrummed with pressure.

  Even the announcer, reappearing in a dazzling robe that shimmered like starlight, his trademark smile perfectly polished and illuminated from four floating orbs of light, failed to fully lift the mood. His voice, however, still rang loud and clear.

  “Cultivators, one and all!” he bellowed with theatrical flair, his voice cutting through the wind like a blade.

  “You have witnessed greatness! You have seen what it means to walk under the banners of the mighty—of sects, clans, and imperial bloodlines alike!”

  He gestured with both arms as banners of the great factions flapped wildly around the valley, defying the heavens with stubborn pride.

  “You have witnessed their strength, their ambition, their resolve! And now, you shall witness what those chosen few are truly capable of!”

  A rumble of low approval passed through the crowd.

  “Many have fallen,” the announcer continued, more solemn now.

  “For some, it marked the end of their journey on the path of cultivation. To them, we offer our respect—for they dared to walk a path of blood and trial. For the rest… this round shall define them.”

  He paused, letting the moment stretch.

  “And now,” he said, voice rising, “those who remain have seized the opportunities granted by the Regents! They have pushed themselves to the realm of Highlord—and deeper still! Cultivators of the empire, I give you… your champions!”

  Cheers erupted—louder now, raw and thunderous. A wave of anticipation rolled across the valley.

  All around the platform, grinding stone mechanisms roared to life as the massive entrance gates opened one by one. From each gate, the remaining cultivators stepped forward, cloaked in light and glory. Their steps were calm, composed, and resolute. They bore the finest robes, armor, and insignias their factions could offer—each one a living testament to their people’s pride.

  “Starting with our hosts!” the announcer cried.

  “Who have not lost a single cultivator! Jing of the Thunder Sword Style! Harumi of the Gale Fang Style! Sera of the Crimson Touch Style! And Tunde of the Dark Fist Style!”

  Tunde led his team forward, every step a quiet echo of pressure against the platform. The air thundered with bloodthirsty excitement, the storm’s roar matched only by the crowd’s frenzied response. And yet, his eyes remained fixed on the announcer. Focused. Still. Beneath the cheers, beneath the storm, his mind remained quiet.

  “Now,” the announcer continued, “to the orthodox factions! Elyria of the Technocracy! Rhyn of the Heralds! Dia of the Veilweavers! And Gue of the Mistwalkers!”

  Tunde’s gaze slid to the Mistwalker.

  Draped in the cult’s signature robes, Gue stood still, eyes locked with Tunde’s. For a long, quiet moment, the two simply stared at one another. Then Gue smiled faintly—an expression laced with secret amusement, as if recalling an inside joke only he understood. Tunde, oddly, felt no rage. No panic. Only a faint, almost tired amusement. He sighed softly, chuckling under his breath.

  War was coming.

  Experts of unimaginable cultivation would soon tear the world apart. Allies had already betrayed him—shoved him into a corner where his only options were to become a traitor, perhaps by doing the unthinkable and slaying a Regent… or to run. And in running, lose everything—including his oldest mentor.

  What did the concerns of a single Highlord matter against that scale?

  He turned back to the announcer.

  “And now, the unorthodox factions!” the voice rang out again, brighter this time.

  “Thorne of the Revenants! Reya of the Wild wardens! And Shui of the Asuras!”

  Light flared across the arena as the two stepped forward. Tunde’s eyes flicked over them, then to the final group as the announcer drew in breath once more.

  “And finally… the independents. Those who have earned the right to stand alongside the greats! Zehra of the Acacia Clan! Kaishen of the Razor Jaws of the Sea! Tanru of the Ashen Forests! And Kavashi of the Golden Fang Clan!”

  A flash of movement caught Tunde’s eye. He stared, realization blooming across his face.

  That ape.

  Now he remembered where he had seen it before. Kavashi, the strange one—silver and black fur, wild eyes, and now lifting a single finger to its lips in a gesture of silence, a secret between them. Of course. Of course.

  “That crazy cat,” Zhu muttered beside him.

  Tunde turned to find his friend glaring openly at the feline, who was now standing tall with an almost smug expression.

  Tunde blinked. Something was definitely going on between them, but he didn’t have the energy—or the nerve—to ask.

  “Sixteen!” the announcer declared, his voice rising above the crashing winds and whipping banners.

  “Sixteen cultivators remain! They will face one another in battle—two by two—until only one is left standing!”

  The crowd exploded in applause and fervor.

  “That one shall claim the title of Victor of the First Banquet of Power! They shall earn the blessings of the Regents themselves!”

  He raised his hand, and a glowing orb of light appeared beside him, pulsing with power.

  “And now… the draws!”

  A massive golden projection shimmered into existence above the stage, hovering in the air like a divine edict. It took the form of a monumental stone tablet, easily several stories tall, pulsing with inner light that bathed the arena in a golden glow.

  The brilliance of it lit every face on the platform—contestants and officials alike—casting long shadows that danced under the storm-lit sky.

  A hush fell over the crowd as glowing words began to inscribe themselves onto the tablet in two places at once, carved by invisible hands in flawless, ancient script.

  The announcer’s voice rang out, clear and theatrical, riding the tension like a blade.

  “Jing of the Talahan Clan, you will face Dia of the Veilweavers!”

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  Gasps echoed across the spectator platforms. Tunde immediately glanced toward Jing. The tall, stoic cultivator stood still, his gaze locked on Dia, the acolyte of the cult of Thogu. The Veilweaver’s presence felt like a quiet threat—cloaked in dark robes that fluttered without wind, her aura coiling inwards like a sealed well of nightmare. Jing’s expression was unreadable, but there was a subtle tightening of his jaw, a steel resolve settling into his stance.

  “Kaishen of the Razor Jaws Clan, you will face Tanru of the Ashen Forests!”

  A ripple of amusement spread through the crowd as Kaishen—seaborn, scaled, and grinning with rows of razor teeth—bared his fangs at his opponent. The ape-like Tanru responded with unbothered ease, lifting one hand to wiggle a finger in his ear, clearly unimpressed. The contrast between the predator’s aggression and the forest beast’s disinterest was almost comedic… almost.

  “Zehra of the Acacia Clan, you will face Rhyn of the Heralds!”

  Tunde frowned slightly, eyes drifting across the stage toward the pair. Rhyn stood like an obsidian statue—arms crossed, face like chiseled stone, offering Zehra not even a glance. Zehra, for her part, gripped the hilt of her blade tightly, knuckles pale against the metal. Her face remained composed, but Tunde could see it: the tension in her stance, the flicker of nerves behind her eyes.

  “Harumi of the Talahan Clan, you will face Thorne of the Revenants!”

  That one earned a few murmurs. Harumi stood still, his expression calm, though his fingers flexed slightly at his sides. Across from him, Thorne loomed—gaunt, pale, eyes glowing faintly like embers in shadow. The Revenants rarely entered these sorts of competitions, and their motives were always… murky.

  Tunde narrowed his eyes.

  Something was wrong.

  He had expected intense matchups—but not like this. A sinking suspicion began to bloom in his chest. These weren’t random. The matches were balanced in appearance, but beneath the surface… manipulated. Deliberately crafted. His mind raced.

  No one had said anything about the draws being fair.

  Of course.

  Of course they weren’t.

  A cold feeling settled over him, not from the storm but from realization.

  He already knew who his opponent would be.

  The announcer’s voice rang out again.

  “Sera of the Talahan Clan, you will face Shui of the Asuras!”

  Shui threw back her head and laughed—wild, unhinged, utterly confident. Her robes rippled like flames as she turned toward Sera, licking her lips as if anticipating a meal. Sera didn’t flinch. One brow arched, her hand resting lightly on the curved hilt of her blade.

  “I’m going to skin her alive,” she muttered to Tunde under her breath.

  “You have my blessings,” Tunde replied dryly, though a small part of him flickered with doubt. Shui was dangerous—Asura-blooded, battle-honed. But so was Sera.

  “Elyria of the Technocracy, you will face Reya of the Wild Wardens!”

  Elyria let out a long, almost weary sigh, as if she'd expected as much. Across from her, Reya stood proud, chest rising with each breath, eyes locked on Elyria with a burning intensity. Tunde couldn’t quite decide if it was pride, rage, or something far more primal.

  Now only two matchups remained.

  Tunde didn’t need to hear the names. He already knew.

  He turned his gaze toward the stands, where Ifa would be seated. The elder met his eyes across the arena and nodded—slowly, solemnly, as if affirming what Tunde already suspected.

  The announcer spoke again.

  “Zhu of the Talahan Clan, you will face Kavashi of the Golden Fang Clan!”

  Zhu cracked his neck with a loud pop, stretching his arms as he faced the silver-and-black feline. Kavashi offered him a grin that was all teeth and mischief, the look in her eyes promising both violence and amusement. Tunde spared a glance at Zhu, watching the usually calm Ethralite tense just slightly.

  “That’s going to be interesting,” Tunde muttered.

  And then, finally—

  “Tunde of the Talahan Clan…”

  The announcer’s voice seemed to stretch, echoing across the valley as a final gust of wind screamed through the arena.

  Tunde turned toward the last figure on the stage, the one he knew had been chosen for him long before the draws were ever carved.

  “You will face Gue of the Mistwalkers!”

  Silence fell.

  Even the storm seemed to hesitate.

  Gue stood perfectly still, robes fluttering like smoke in the wind, his face a calm mask. But his eyes—those pale, hollow eyes—locked onto Tunde with something deeper than rivalry.

  Something personal.

  Something ordained.

  Tunde met his gaze unflinching, a storm of his own raging just beneath his skin. This wasn’t just a match. This wasn’t just a battle in a tournament. This was the defining battle of the current chapter of his very existence.

  And he knew it.

  ************

  The contestants had cleared the stage, retreating to their respective waiting chambers carved into the mountainside, leaving the valley floor empty once more. Then, with reverent silence and great anticipation, two cultivators of the Master Realm descended onto the stage—each exuding an oppressive presence, their power washing over the valley like a rising tide.

  In their hands, they each held a strange, ancient item—glowing artifacts that radiated with a potency the audience could barely comprehend. Relics of unknown origin, they pulsed like the beating hearts of primordial beasts.

  Right before the eyes of the awe-struck audience, the two Masters knelt and plunged the items into the ground. Ethra surged. Space groaned. The entire valley shuddered—and then began to change.

  Reality twisted. The very terrain reshaped itself as the ground heaved and cracked, and energy bled into the world. What had been a circular stone platform now became a living, breathing battlefield that consumed the whole valley.

  On one side, space warped unnaturally—shapes flickered in and out of coherence, as if something with the mind of a child was trying to dream itself into being. Grey light pulsed from it, a fog of shifting intention, unstable and eerie. The landscape bent subtly, almost breathing.

  On the opposite end, black fire and white lightning clashed in an eternal storm, both destructive and divine. They arced and lashed through the air, tearing at each other with primal hunger. The atmosphere sizzled. The valley had become a crucible—a fusion of two impossible worlds, born from the clashing concepts of the two cultivators who would fight first.

  A series of formation flags embedded themselves into the four corners of the reshaped battleground. A dome of violet energy rose, sealing off the entire valley in a shimmering barrier that kept the chaotic concepts contained. The ground beneath the audience trembled with the sheer spiritual force being unleashed.

  The announcer’s voice, magnified and clear, rang through the valley:

  “Honoured guests, one and all… I present to you—the first round!”

  A cheer erupted like thunder.

  “From the sacred halls of the Talahan Clan, trained from childhood by the great master Rhaelar Talahan herself—Highlady of the Lightning Flame Spear—please welcome… Jing Talahan!”

  A teleportation array flared to life in midair, and Jing stepped forth in a burst of incandescent power. She was a storm made flesh—her silver and black robes whipped around her as lightning crackled through her hair, and flames danced along the haft of her drawn spear. She spun it once, letting fire and lightning fuse into a chaotic spiral that curled around her in a radiant vortex. The crowd roared her name.

  “And on the other side… from the hidden sanctums of the Veilweavers, direct disciple of the Paragon herself… Dia.”

  There was no flash, no sound. She simply was. One moment empty space, the next, a veil of mist—and then her figure stepped out from it, quiet and spectral. Clad in flowing dark robes that merged with the fog around her, Dia exuded nothingness. She had no flare, no boast. Only silence—and presence.

  “For this match, there shall be no killing. Once a contestant is deemed unable to continue, they will be extracted. The Paragons themselves have sworn to safeguard their survival.”

  The tension coiled tighter than a bowstring.

  “Begin!”

  Jing moved first—lightning flickering in her pupils as her spear surged with power. With a fierce cry, she unleashed a barrage of projection spears—manifested from raw Ethra—ripping toward Dia in a storm of crimson flame and silver lightning.

  Dia lifted one hand.

  The fog around her pulsed, thickened, and then coalesced into blades. Massive, crescent-shaped constructs of near-solid mist struck out and intercepted the spears mid-flight. Lightning crackled and fire roared—but the fog held.

  Then she moved.

  Like smoke on the wind, Dia slipped forward. Her hands sculpted blades from the mist, and phantoms rose from the fog—identical silhouettes of herself, ghostly and semi-formed, racing in from multiple angles.

  Jing didn’t falter.

  With a battle cry, she summoned the lightning and fire around her into the shape of spectral serpents—coiling beasts of flame and spark that lunged and struck, tearing through the clones. The battlefield became chaos.

  Dia appeared above her, silent and sudden, a fog-shaped bow drawn taut with a shimmering arrow of grey flame. She loosed. Jing’s head snapped up—silver light flashing from her void ring as a gleaming shield appeared in an instant. The arrow struck, the shield buckled with a resonant hum—and shattered.

  But Jing was already gone.

  A thunderclap split the air—she reappeared beside Dia mid-air, spear arcing toward her head. Dia twisted, narrowly avoiding the blow. Fog arms lashed out, slamming into Jing. She spun with the force, flipping backward and landing on a hovering platform of lightning, distancing herself.

  Then her aura exploded.

  The air shimmered with heat and storm as her domain erupted—spears forming in a halo above her, fire and lightning warping the sky. Ethra surged toward her as a monumental spear formed overhead, massive and radiant, forged from pure energy, essence flame, and spirit.

  It pulled the very light from the world around it.

  Dia reacted instantly. She dropped from the sky, talismans spinning from her void ring in wide arcs. Three black cauldrons appeared with a boom from her void ring—each opening, spewing viscous black smoke that gathered and twisted into a creature born of nightmare. Tentacles writhed, smoke thickened, and the thing screamed.

  The dome trembled at its power.

  It lunged upward—dozens of tendrils wrapping around the divine spear, halting its descent with shrieks of otherworldly force.

  Jing didn’t hesitate. She drew a second spear—this one smaller, sleeker. Essence flame spiraled around it as she channeled Ethra again. A storm cloud rumbled to life above her, black and red lightning writhing within it.

  She bit down on a pill.

  Power surged. Her aura doubled, then tripled.

  The smaller spear began to glow—flames and bolts pouring into it—and Jing flung it at the tentacled beast, striking from a second angle while still pushing her divine spear down from above.

  Dia spat blood—but didn’t retreat.

  She raised one hand, blood dripping from her fingertips as she summoned a blade—pitch black, dripping the same smoky essence as her creature. Talismans whipped through the air again, attaching themselves to the smoke-monster as it grew, bulking with strength it shouldn’t have.

  Then—wails.

  Ghostly figures spilled from the blade. Human-shaped, howling, writhing in pain. They burst forward, streaking toward Jing like cursed arrows.

  Jing’s void ring glowed—formation flags flew out, forming a tight barrier around her. The wraiths smashed into it, slamming again and again. She gritted her teeth, her body shaking under the pressure.

  She screamed—and the skies answered.

  Bolts of lightning descended in a storm, striking the wraiths, shattering their forms. At the same time, the divine spear above broke through the grip of the tentacled beast and crashed downward.

  The cauldrons flared again—one last defensive shield. The spear shattered it, the force slamming Dia to one knee, coughing blood. The spear struck the ground—and exploded, dust and debris engulfing the entire battlefield.

  For a moment, silence.

  Then… movement.

  As the smoke cleared, Jing hovered mid-air, wide-eyed.

  She looked down—blood ran from her lips.

  A short, black blade protruded from her stomach.

  Behind her, floating barely upright, arm trembling, face bruised and bloodied—stood Dia.

  The Veilweaver had struck the final blow.

  Jing’s spear shattered into fading light. Her form flickered—and then she vanished into motes of silver, defeated but protected.

  The valley was still, save for the crackle of dying lightning and the hiss of fading fog.

  Then, the announcer’s voice rang out again.

  “The winner of the first battle—Dia of the Veilweavers!”