Jing’s loss had struck a heavy blow to the Talahan team, none more so than Tunde, who had seen firsthand just how formidable she truly was. And yet, Dia had been better. Not just by a little, but by a margin that couldn’t be ignored.

  As Tunde replayed the fight through his Ethra Sight, analyzing the Veilweaver’s movements and techniques frame by frame, a bitter truth settled in his chest: Jing had been completely outclassed. The gap between the student of a master and the direct disciple of a paragon was vast—almost insurmountable.

  And then there were Dia’s tools, items of such profound power and eerie origin that Tunde half-expected the tournament officials to step in and declare them illegal. But no such ruling came.

  Still, as impressive as that duel had been, its brutality paled in comparison to what followed, the battle between Kaishen and Tanru.

  From the moment Tanru stepped onto the stage, Tunde’s instincts flared with confusion. He knew the beast. He had fought the true beast. Tanru was a Master Realm creature; there was no mistaking the aura he once wielded. But now, somehow, impossibly, he stood at the realm of Highlord.

  It made no sense.

  His aura felt similar yet subtly different: more controlled, less savage. The Tanru who had once opposed the Ashen Flame Sect was a tempest of raw aggression. This version was younger in temperament, more playful, almost reckless in a juvenile sort of way. A clone? A child? A rebirth? Tunde didn’t know, but he kept watching.

  Kaishen stepped forward like a living tide. He brought with him the wrath of the sea itself. His path was a fusion of blade and water, refined to lethal precision, and now layered with venom—a corruption that made every cut more deadly.

  As the match began, the valley flooded. Towering stone peaks rose from the ground like jagged fangs, massive trees shot toward the heavens, and waves surged with destructive force.

  Tanru met it all with joy. The red-and-gold staff he wielded spun in his hands like an extension of his soul. Earth and fire bled from his strikes, each movement laced with primal might. His body burned, literally, glowing from within as he channeled the fury of his path with wild abandon.

  They clashed for over ten minutes—an eternity for most—but a testament to the inhuman endurance of true beasts. Explosions tore through the valley. Water hissed against fire. Earth shattered beneath tidal waves. And when the dust finally settled, Kaishen stood victorious. Once again, the influence of a paragon's resources and training revealed itself.

  Yet Tunde couldn’t shake the feeling that Tanru hadn’t fought to win. He had danced through the battle like it was a game, smiling even as he fell. As if he’d come to enjoy the tournament for its own sake and nothing more.

  And then came the fight Tunde had been dreading.

  Zehra versus Rhyn.

  His fists clenched without him realizing. Something about this matchup was wrong. It felt like a sacrifice, one made in the name of convenience, comfort, or politics. He knew it. The others knew it. Even those regents, Heaven curse them, had to know it. And yet, they let it happen. They chose to let it happen.

  “She’s strong,” Zhu said beside him, biting into a spirit fruit rich with life aura.

  “Rhyn’s something else entirely,” Tunde muttered, his gaze drifting toward the corner where Jing usually sat.

  She was gone. She had vanished after her battle. At first, he’d assumed she was receiving treatment for the wounds Dia had inflicted. But now... he wasn’t so sure.

  “The chosen of the Heralds is said to have touched the Song of Blades,” Harumi said quietly, her tone grim.

  “That would mean he’s already taken his first step onto the path of sainthood.”

  “You’re not helping,” Zhu sighed.

  “he’s simply speaking truth. If Zehra wants to survive this, she’s going to have to go further than she ever has before,” Tunde said, just as the door opened.

  He turned, half-expecting Jing to walk in.

  Instead, it was Zehra and, behind her, Ujin and Akero, both radiating the unmistakable pressure of Masters.

  She walked with purpose, but Tunde saw the strain behind every step. She gripped her blade so tightly her knuckles were white. Her white hair had been pulled back into a tight knot, and her blue eyes glowed faintly with restrained power. Beneath the composure, though, there was fear. Determination. Pressure.

  “Tunde!” Ujin greeted brightly, waving as if they were back in the sparring grounds at Shimmersteel.

  Akero simply nodded, grave and silent.

  Tunde and the others bowed slightly.

  “I greet the honored elders.”

  “Bah,” Ujin scoffed, grinning.

  “Zehra here was desperate to see you. Said something about a good luck charm.” He waggled his eyebrows.

  Zehra growled softly at her uncle, clearly mortified. Ujin just laughed and raised his hands in surrender.

  She turned to Tunde, swallowed hard, and bowed.

  Tunde blinked, startled. Confused. Shocked. He glanced around instinctively, half-expecting her father to appear and wipe him out of existence on the spot.

  “What are you doing?” he asked quietly.

  “Please,” she said, her voice trembling. Her head stayed bowed.

  “If there’s anything you can tell me... anything at all that could help me beat Rhyn, I—I would be grateful. My clan would be grateful.”

  Her shoulders quivered. She was swallowing pride, ego, dignity, all for this. All for a chance.

  Tunde stepped forward, voice soft.

  “You insult me.”

  She looked up sharply, eyes wide. Akero tensed, taking a step forward, but Ujin held him back, watching thoughtfully.

  Tunde continued.

  “We left Shimmersteel together,” he said, his voice steady, strong.

  “I left with people who became more than allies. We became companions. Friends. I left with the Princess of Ice herself.” Zehra stood straighter, her eyes locked onto his.

  “We survived death itself. Faced remnants of a Saint and lived. We grew stronger. You grew stronger. Then came the abominations of the Ashen Flame Sect, and you didn’t falter. You’re here. Standing. A mid-tier Highlady of the Acacia Clan. You are more than you believe.”

  Her lips trembled. He could see the tears welling up, freezing slightly as she fought them back.

  “Rhyn is a prodigy. Touching the Song of Blades is no small feat. But he couldn’t beat you in that swamp—not then. And if you want this victory as much as I believe you do… he still won’t beat you now.”

  He stepped closer, placing a hand over her clenched one.

  “Surpass your limits, Ice Princess. Show them what the Acacia Clan nurtured. Show them why a sect from another continent came for your hand in marriage.”

  She stepped forward and hugged him.

  It was warm—fiercely so. Her grip tight, trembling with gratitude and resolve. Tunde stood stiffly at first, stunned, then awkwardly patted her back, glancing up to see Akero’s glare and Ujin’s wide grin.

  “Thank you,” she whispered against his ear.

  When she finally let go, she wiped at her eyes with a determined nod, then turned to leave.

  “I canceled it,” she said suddenly.

  “What?” Tunde blinked, confused.

  “The marriage. I canceled it.”

  He stared at her. “Why?”

  She smiled—a real smile. One that lifted the weight from her shoulders.

  “Because he’s not half the man you are,” she said.

  “And I won’t settle for anything less.”

  Then she turned and walked out, head high, back straight.

  Akero followed, silent but respectful. Ujin lingered a moment longer, winking.

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  “See you soon, brother-in-law,” he said with a booming laugh as Tunde choked on air.

  Zhu tutted, shaking his head.

  “And they say I’m the bad influence.”

  *******

  Frost coated the entire fighting stage in thick, glittering sheets. Ice spread across the ground in jagged veins, climbing into tall crystalline pillars that reached toward the sky like frozen sentinels. Winter had not arrived naturally—it had been summoned, forced into existence by sheer will and power. Yet amidst the deepening cold, a single figure sat unmoved, cross-legged in meditation.

  He wore robes of black and red, untouched by the frost that crept close but dared not kiss his skin. Rhyn, of the Enclave of Blades, the chosen student of Kael Ironedge—master and saint of the sword—remained composed in the heart of the chill, a silent flame in a frozen world. At his side rested a plain sword, devoid of ornamentation or flourishes. It was not a relic to be admired, but a tool meant solely for war.

  The announcer’s voice rang out, solemn with reverence.

  “Now entering the stage… Zehra of the Acacia Clan!”

  She stepped into the arena like the herald of winter herself, her frost blade gleaming in her grip. White hair bound tightly behind her head, eyes like blue steel—cold, unflinching, and distant. Emotion had been stripped from her face, replaced with a deadly stillness. She was no longer the girl Tunde knew—she had become a weapon.

  Rhyn opened his eyes. Inhaled. Then stood.

  The sword came into his hand with practiced ease as the announcer raised one hand.

  “Begin!”

  An explosion of elemental power erupted instantly. From one side, a storm of frost blades tore forward like a hail of jagged daggers. From the other, projected Ethra blades answered—green and spectral, sharp enough to tear stone asunder. They clashed mid-air, shattering pillars, cracking the frozen stage beneath them. Neither warrior moved—testing one another’s strength through sheer projection.

  Rhyn had yet to unsheathe his sword.

  But then he shifted—just a single movement of his arm—and Zehra moved as if on instinct. The air above her swirled with forming frost, condensing into hundreds of deadly icicles that rained down like divine judgment. Rhyn danced through them, fluid and precise, evading each shard with preternatural awareness, as though he had already seen their fall.

  His body blurred forward, cutting the distance, closing in on her with ruthless efficiency.

  Zehra’s eyes narrowed, and with a flick of her wrist, jagged ice blades erupted from the ground beneath his feet. They stabbed upward, each strike aimed with lethal intent. Still, Rhyn danced—narrow dodges, each one barely missing, his robes fluttering in their icy wake.

  He swung his arm, and a crescent arc of blade aura screamed toward her. Zehra snapped her fingers—the air froze, the attack encased mid-flight, shattered into harmless fragments before her face.

  But Rhyn was already upon her.

  His blade, still sheathed, came down like an executioner’s axe, shrouded in razor-sharp aura. Zehra met it, her frost blade parrying hard, sending a tremor through the stage as their clash echoed across the valley. They exploded into motion, trading blows like hammers to anvils, their weapons colliding in furious rhythm, each strike resounding with force and intent.

  Zehra twisted in midair, dodging the projected Ethra blades that now pursued her. She landed atop frozen shards she had created, elevating herself above Rhyn. Frost-winds gathered around her, coalescing into razored currents of ice-blade affinity, carrying shards from the battlefield itself. She launched it down with a cry of effort.

  Rhyn raised his sword high, and green Ethra shimmered around it, becoming denser, heavier—almost solid. With a single sweep, he slashed sideways, meeting her barrage head-on. The collision birthed a furious explosion of ice and energy, shards flying in every direction. A barrier of jade Ethra shimmered into being around Rhyn, absorbing the impact.

  He stood straight. Nodded once.

  Then drew his blade.

  The moment the sword left its sheath, the valley seemed to inhale. A weight settled over the arena—spiritual, immense. Zehra’s eyes narrowed as she responded in kind. Her fingers snapped. Behind her, three massive birds of ice materialized, wings outstretched, their breath clouds of winter.

  The central one opened its beak and launched a blizzard, a stream of concentrated hail and frost that rushed toward Rhyn. His blade moved—elegant, practiced—and the stream split apart before him, parted like waves around a rock. The other two birds dived, talons like blades, shrieking.

  Rhyn twisted midair, jade Ethra whirling around him in a spiraling dance. He became a cyclone of blade and essence, crashing into the constructs. The birds spread their wings, launching gales of frost in retaliation, but he had already ascended above it, untouched.

  His eyes glinted with focus. Then he drew his blade back and held it steady.

  Everyone felt it—the hum of something greater. The sword began to resonate with a song no one else could hear.

  He slashed.

  Two ice birds were bisected cleanly. They shattered midair in perfect symmetry, dissolving into shards. Rhyn rocketed forward, blade aimed at Zehra, who raised her weapon, cloaking herself in armor wrought of ice and will. Their blades clashed with such violence that the ground cracked beneath them, and both were flung backward.

  Blood traced a line down Zehra’s forearm, but her body was already working to heal it—a pill dissolving in her mouth. She landed hard, breath steadying as she watched the air.

  Then Rhyn charged again.

  His style had evolved—six strikes came from six directions in the same instant. Every movement was refined, devastating, impossible to track. Zehra answered with perfect, frigid precision, her blade turning aside each lethal strike, dancing in the narrow space between annihilation and defiance.

  A tiny bird flew from her void ring, settling on her shoulder. It radiated such cold that frost leapt from her skin to the air, and even Rhyn began to slow. His arms iced over, flesh stiffening—but he gave no indication of pain. Aura surged from him, melting the frost as black lines spread across his skin, glowing with jade light.

  He had become something more.

  Refined. Lethal. Transcendent.

  The fog of frost thickened, but Zehra remained resolute. Her skin blued with cold, her body like living crystal. Her mastery of frost was nearing total—everything within the barrier turned white. She became a glacier in motion, relentless. Rhyn, in contrast, was the storm of war incarnate. Jade Ethra swirled around him, manifesting as another blade in his free hand.

  The sound of their combat dimmed behind the fog, drowned by the roaring hush of ice and aura.

  Then it happened.

  The fog parted—and with it came revelation.

  Around Rhyn stood a mirage—a second aura in the shape of a towering figure. A humanoid giant, indistinct, but undeniable. A warrior incarnate. And in its hand… a blade cloaked in essence flame, glowing with divine hunger.

  The black lines on Rhyn’s arms lit with furious green as his final move began.

  Zehra felt it. Knew it.

  And she roared.

  Her hair turned pure white, body shimmering like a spirit as a single, perfect icicle manifested behind her. The bird on her shoulder cried out, fusing with it, and the world itself seemed to freeze. Even time faltered.

  She had done it.

  She had touched the Song of Ice.

  It was beauty. It was death.

  Then Rhyn’s power broke through, his second blade appearing in the air above, runes spiraling around it. He brought it down in a final swing—an execution of all he was.

  Zehra met it, the last of her strength poured into one final, impossibly perfect swing.

  Their blades met.

  And silence followed.

  No sound, just the scream of the air as it cracked under the pressure, the barrier around the stage fracturing before masters appeared, shielding the spectators with layers of protective Ethra.

  The fog lifted.

  Rhyn stood, arm broken and frozen, mangled beyond use. Zehra’s blade had pierced into his opposite shoulder, buried deep. But she lay unconscious, her body already dissolving into motes of light as the healing array activated.

  Rhyn pulled the blade from his arm, blood hissing in the cold air. He looked down at her, eyes solemn, and spoke a single word.

  “Worthy.”

  Then he turned, walking from the battlefield as the announcer, voice strained, called out the verdict:

  “Victory—Rhyn, herald of the Enclave of Blades!”

  *********

  “I admit, you’ve done remarkable work with that child,” Mei said, sipping delicately from her tea.

  Her eyes, sharp despite the softness of her tone, flicked toward Kael, whose expression darkened slightly with a thoughtful frown.

  “He was pushed farther than I anticipated,” the master and saint replied, his voice tinged with the weight of hindsight.

  Mei raised a perfectly arched eyebrow.

  “He defeated the heir of a clan rumored to be on the cusp of producing their first saint,” she noted pointedly, swirling her tea as if stirring the implications herself.

  “Exactly,” Kael said with a short nod, his gaze dropping momentarily to the surface of his cup.

  Mei shook her head, almost wistfully.

  “Although, in the long run… it might not mean anything at all, would it?” she asked softly, a lilt of sadness—or was it calculation?—in her voice.

  Kael’s eyes lifted to meet hers, quiet and steady.

  “Is there something I should be aware of?” he asked, his tone calm but edged.

  Mei gave a delicate sigh, leaning back into her cushions.

  “You’re a Warbringer, Kael. You tell me,” she replied with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

  Kael studied her for a long moment, fingers resting atop one another, knuckles white.

  “War is inevitable,” he said quietly.

  “It always has been. Especially when the heavens begin to bless us with… unusual boons.”

  Mei kept her smile, though the light behind it darkened.

  “You know I’ve always preferred you over Jaito, right?” she said, a hint of amusement in her tone.

  Kael chuckled dryly.

  “Pretty sure your clan head would be sorely disappointed to hear that.”

  “Probably,” Mei admitted, brushing an invisible speck from her robe.

  “Which is why you could do me the favor of telling me why your regent is here—right now—in our capital. Along with the other regents of both the orthodox and unorthodox sects.”

  Kael stilled.

  “What?” he said, the single word sharp, cutting through the room like a blade.

  Mei simply smiled, saying nothing.

  Kael raised his hand immediately, aura flaring out in a wave, reinforcing the already intricate shielding around the chamber. When he spoke again, it was with authority.

  “Sister… what exactly are you implying?”

  Mei leaned forward, setting her tea down with perfect care. She ran a finger thoughtfully along the rim of the cup.

  “Interesting,” she murmured. “You really don’t know, do you?”

  Kael’s brows furrowed.

  “I know the Paragon is here, yes. But our regent? Bashu? That’s impossible. He’s been in deep meditation for over two months, unbroken.”

  His voice was even, but Mei saw it, the faint flicker of doubt, the storm just behind his eyes.

  “Curious,” she said mildly, “seeing as the other cults—the Orthodoxy included—all claim their regents are meditating as well.”

  Kael’s hands came together, fingers locking tightly. He closed his eyes, inhaled, exhaled slowly—and let out a soft, bitter laugh.

  “I’ve been a fool,” he said, voice like the wind over stone.

  Mei took another sip of her tea.

  “Welcome to the party,” she said just as Shen entered quietly through the reinforced barrier, Rhaelar following silently behind him.

  Kael looked up, eyes scanning both of them, tension mounting in his shoulders.

  “This is madness,” he muttered.

  “The enclaves have stood against the Artificers for centuries. The idea that Bashu would work with them is…” He trailed off, shaking his head, unwilling to finish the thought.

  Mei let the silence stretch a little longer before speaking.

  “And yet… here we are.”

  “To what end?” Kael asked finally, his voice low, tight.

  “That’s what we’re trying to determine,” Shen said, folding his arms as he took his place beside his seated wife.

  “Though… we do have our suspicions.”

  “Please. Enlighten me,” Kael said, jaw clenched, the air around him thickening with controlled Ethra.

  “I’ll be frank, you’re not going to like it,” Mei said with a shrug.

  “Especially not with an army slowly gathering within our territory. We don’t know where it’s going. Or why.”

  “Violent rifts are increasing. Rift creatures breaching through more often. Affinity crystals manifesting out of nowhere. Something’s shifting,” Rhaelar added, her voice cool and even, though her eyes betrayed concern.

  Kael looked to her, the edges of his expression softening.

  “Congratulations,” he said quietly.

  Rhaelar blinked, caught off guard.

  “See? I told you he’d notice!” Shen said, beaming at his wife, who gave him an affectionate pat on the arm, still visibly unsure what she was being congratulated for.

  Kael shook his head slowly.

  “Speak plainly,” he said at last. “What is coming?”

  Mei’s eyes gleamed with something ancient and grim.

  “War,” she said simply. “The war to break all wars.”

  Shen gave a dreamy sigh.

  “I love your mother. Sends shivers down my spine every time she says things like that.”

  Mei smiled demurely. Rhaelar rolled her eyes.

  Kael ran a tired hand down his face, the weight of the world beginning to settle on his shoulders.