Tunde’s return to his abode was a solemn affair. The building, usually humming with soft chatter, footsteps, and the ever-present presence of servants, was now steeped in unnatural silence. He immediately noticed the absence, the greeting that never came, the bowed heads that no longer appeared at the corners of his vision. A frown tugged at his lips.

  The Talahan clan had withdrawn them.

  They’d made their position clear.

  Only one figure stood before his door, silhouetted against the dimming light of dusk—a figure Tunde had not expected to find waiting for him.

  He descended gently, his boots touching the polished stone with a whisper, and locked eyes with Varis Talahan, hands folded calmly behind his back. The tension between them crackled in the air.

  A strange sight indeed: Tunde, now fully ascended to the Master Realm, facing the man who had once been his teacher—both standing as equals in cultivation, but separated now by an unseen gulf of loyalty and politics.

  “Congratulations,” Varis said at last, his voice flat and cold, like a blade sheathed in frost.

  “Thank you… and the clan, of course,” Tunde replied politely, fist to palm in formal salute.

  An awkward silence lingered between them for several seconds, broken only by the distant hum of city wards and the faint flutter of Ethra crystal lamps beginning to glow above the capital skyline.

  Then, Varis lifted a hand and flicked it slightly. A shimmering dome of aura encased them, muffling the world outside.

  “I had no idea what was inside the box,” Varis said, his tone even, unreadable.

  Tunde inclined his head slightly, though his expression remained guarded.

  “Be that as it may, the deed is done,” he said softly. “It’s not the first time I’ve been betrayed by those I served loyally.”

  Varis’s eyes narrowed at that, but he didn’t deny it. “There are more forces and hidden powers at play than you realize, Tunde,” he said, voice tight with warning.

  Tunde didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he turned his gaze skyward, watching as dusk deepened into twilight. The magical lights of the capital flared to life, casting soft hues of gold and azure across the heavens. He took a slow breath.

  Then came the words that shifted the atmosphere instantly:

  “You need to swear a soul oath to the clan.”

  Tunde’s head snapped around to face him, stunned.

  “Not to me,” Varis clarified quickly, “but to the Paragon himself. It will sever the ties and obligations of any soul-bound pact you made with Guyan. A clean slate.”

  He stepped forward and placed a hand on Tunde’s shoulder, his grip firm, his gaze hard.

  “Survive by all means possible… that’s your mantra, isn’t it?”

  Tunde stepped back, removing himself from the man’s grasp.

  “I’ve made enough soul oaths for a lifetime,” he said quietly. “I will survive—one way or another.”

  Varis’s face darkened. “Don’t be foolish,” he hissed.

  Without warning, his aura surged, an overwhelming wave of pressure that crashed down on Tunde like a storm. The very stones beneath them cracked from the weight.

  But Tunde didn’t buckle.

  Instead, with a sharp breath and a roar of power, he released his own aura—violent, pure, and radiant with freshly refined might. It tore through the surrounding air like a typhoon, slamming into Varis’s aura with titanic force. The space between them warped from the clash, stones shattered underfoot, and a high-pitched hum rang out across the nearby walls.

  Varis took a full step back, stunned. It wasn’t just the strength of Tunde’s aura that caught him off guard—it was the act itself. Tunde, his student, was standing his ground.

  They both retracted their auras, tension thick as blood.

  Varis’s expression twisted—part disbelief, part disappointment.

  “You don’t understand the gravity of what you’re in,” he repeated.

  “You don’t know the full, brutal strength of the Imperial Clan, or what happens when they turn against their own. I just offered you a way out. The only way I could. And you think to make me lose face?”

  Tunde said nothing. There was nothing he could say that would shift what had already been set in motion.

  “I will survive,” he finally murmured, voice soft but unwavering. “I always do.”

  For a heartbeat, Varis was still. Then he barked a short, bitter laugh and covered his face with one hand. His shoulders trembled—not with anger, but something heavier.

  When he looked up again, there was a flicker of grief in his eyes.

  “Then I wish you luck, Tunde,” he said quietly. “You’ve served me well, as a student should. I only wish it didn’t have to end this way.”

  Tunde swallowed hard, the weight of isolation settling heavily on his chest. He was on his own now. Truly. Fully.

  Who had he been fooling? He’d always known this moment would come. The price of freedom had never been cheap. Still, Ifa would bear the burden too—tied to the curse that had secured Tunde’s escape from the Talahan’s control. He clenched his fists.

  “So that’s it?” he asked, bitterness creeping into his tone. “The Talahan clan will just let me go?”

  Varis blinked slowly, then looked away.

  “I want you to know I had no hand in what’s coming,” he said. “For what it’s worth.”

  Tunde’s entire body went still.

  He bowed, slowly and deeply, one last time.

  “Thank you… for everything, Varis,” he said, sincerity laced with sorrow. “No matter how this turned out… I owe my growth to you. I am grateful. I only wish I’d been allowed to part from the clan on peaceful terms.”

  But there was no reply.

  When Tunde looked up, Varis was gone, vanished into the wind, like a dream at dusk.

  Tunde sighed as he straightened his back, stepping through the threshold of his home. The silence was immediate and oppressive, hanging over the space like a heavy curtain.

  He felt the emptiness echo through the halls as he moved forward, and though he kept his expression calm, the stillness gnawed at him. Behind the house, nestled within the inner courtyard, lay the pool—a grand thing once brimming with energy and life.

  Vitality elixirs, nourishing pills, and delicate spirit herbs once filled its waters, dispersed by dutiful hands to revitalize the body and soul.

  Now, it was just water. Cold. Still. Lifeless.

  Tunde didn’t curse or speak. He simply disrobed, his movements efficient and quiet, drawing box after box from his void ring, each marked with the sigil of the Golden Pill Pavilion—a dragon wrapped around a sun. Treasures worth more than a small sect.

  With a pulse of his aura, the pool began to shimmer and bubble as it heated. One of the many luxuries of the Master Realm: full control over one’s internal and external energies. He poured entire boxes of elixirs into the water.

  Then came the pills, dozens of them, each releasing fragrant waves of medicinal power that turned the steam around him golden.

  Without a word, Tunde stepped into the swirling concoction and sank into its depths. The heat soaked into his flesh, then deeper—into his meridians, into his very bones. Around the pool, he erected a barrier, layering it with formations learned from Liu and reinforced with talismans for good measure.

  A faint pulse of power brushed against his senses moments later, distant but unmistakable.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  Zhu.

  The bond between them resonated as the divine beast broke through to the Master Realm.

  Tunde smiled softly, eyes still closed. One more piece falling into place.

  In the far distance, Heaven’s Crucible rumbled again, louder this time. It was not the only one. Across the capital, in scattered regions affected by the Convergence, these divine phenomena had become a frequent occurrence. Dangerous. Unpredictable. But now almost… familiar.

  He forced the thought away. It wasn’t his concern right now.

  He turned inward.

  Within his soul space, he emerged.

  The transformation since his breakthrough was breathtaking. Above him hung a radiant orb of violet and gold flame—his essence flame, blazing like a second sun in the sky of his spirit. It filled the air with heat and clarity, illuminating the landscape of his soul.

  Below his feet, the ground pulsed with life. Violet and green flora bloomed where he stood, each petal a reflection of his Ethra. It had taken root deep within him, blossoming in this sacred inner realm. His aura was everywhere—rushing like wild winds, fierce and free, swirling through the ethereal plane with untamed intensity.

  But his attention was drawn to something greater.

  A massive stone gate loomed before him, ancient and obsidian black, etched with runes older than any language he knew. This was the inheritance gate—the legacy of his ancestor, Alana. It had grown again, becoming more imposing, more... alive.

  Wrapped around it was the creature. His creature.

  The same being that had manifested alongside his aura, the very embodiment of his authority.

  It was magnificent.

  Violet scales shimmered with a metallic sheen, its serpentine body coiled in quiet might. Its head was crowned with massive, branching horns shaped like antlers of carved steel. The beast gazed down at him with piercing, golden eyes—unblinking, assessing.

  It was not just a guardian. It was a question.

  A challenge.

  Tunde stood unmoving as it slowly uncoiled from the gate, slithering through the air like a ribbon of lightning. It loomed over him, its breath hot with power, its presence echoing with the combined resonance of Ethra, aura, and essence flame—all the forces that made him…well, him.

  He reached out and placed a hand against its scales.

  Warm. Smooth. And alive with his essence. It was an amalgamation of everything he was—power, will, soul, and yet he still didn’t understand it. He realized, belatedly, that perhaps he should have asked Varis before they’d parted ways. But that door was now closed.

  With a slow, sinuous motion, the creature turned and returned to the gate, coiling once more around it protectively.

  The black gate pulsed, a low thrum of power reverberating through his very being. Chains of gold and crimson were wrapped around it—binding it. These were not mere locks but seals of Saintly power, radiating profound suppression. It had absorbed the strength of a once Saint, and yet it remained unopened to him.

  Still… something stirred within it. Something old. Ancient.

  Something that whispered not to his mind, but to his spirit.

  Tunde sat before it and closed his eyes. He entered meditation, letting his senses sink into the rhythms of his own energy. His cultivation had leapt forward—a leap so great it could not be overstated. But now, he had to stabilize, refine, and consolidate.

  The Master Realm was the final frontier where elixirs and pills could push one's core forward. Beyond this point, the path to advancement required something more: understanding. A profound realization of one’s concept, the very nature of their power and identity.

  That, and incredibly rare top-tier pills—concoctions infused not just with medicinal energy but with distilled insight.

  He had asked Baron Dale for such things. The baron had only shrugged helplessly, admitting he’d heard of them but had never seen them. The secrets of their creation were jealously guarded by the dominant factions of Adamath.

  It made sense.

  Why let young cultivators race toward Regent or Paragon levels, rising fast enough to threaten the old factions? So most were forced into the paths of Saints, or tied themselves to the great clans through marriage, oath, or servitude—just like the Zao Clan had done.

  Tunde mulled it over in the quiet of his soul.

  Should I walk the path of a Saint? The power, the mystique, it was undeniable. But what would it cost? Would it bar him from the path to Paragon? Could one have both? Or did choosing one shut the door on the other forever?

  No answer came.

  And in truth, it didn’t matter yet.

  For now, the goal was survival.

  Survival first, then understanding. Then, and only then—ascend.

  Tunde remained in the pool through the night, unmoving even as the water lost its heat and every last trace of medicinal potency faded. The concoction had long since been leeched dry, but he stayed within its depths, letting his body and soul merge in quiet meditation. Silence, darkness, and focus became his companions as he tethered every part of himself—spiritual and physical into harmony.

  At dawn’s first light, he rose.

  Steam lifted gently off his skin, dispersed by his aura which dried him in a warm breeze. With a thought, he summoned a fresh robe from his void ring—one bearing the emblem of Black Rock, stitched in silver thread on the chest.

  It was time.

  Time to show the world he stood unbound, untethered to the imperial clan and their politics. He was Tunde of Black Rock now.

  Within his private quarters, he sat cross-legged as he reached once more into his void ring, retrieving the gift of the Zao Saint, a golden orb that shimmered with sacred light. Intricate runes spiraled across its surface, shifting endlessly like constellations in motion. Scripts wrapped around it, whispering truths just beyond perception.

  And yet, he understood them.

  Perhaps it was the subtle alignment between his void aspect, that elusive fragment of space and emptiness he resonated with—and the power contained within the orb. Whatever the case, he saw through the layers of mystery and perceived what sat inside:

  An island.

  Miniaturized and somehow compressed into the glowing sphere, floating like a model, yet undeniably real. Tunde recognized it instantly, and emotions stirred, nostalgia laced with unease. It was the island of the Soul Saint, the same place where he had first tasted the might and depth of a Saint’s power.

  He wondered what the Saint would think if he saw him now.

  Stronger. Sharper. Far more dangerous.

  And with that thought came a whisper of ambition. Not for power alone, but for potential. If Shen Zao had discovered how to isolate, shrink, and store an entire island within a sphere no larger than a man’s palm, then that knowledge was something far greater than wealth. It was strategic superiority.

  Tunde’s mind flashed to the war looming on the horizon.

  Black Rock would not be spared when it erupted. No matter how far removed they thought they were, no matter how many Skyvessels they had sent, armored airships brimming with resources, designed to elevate Black Rock into one of the most formidable forces in the borderlands, it wouldn’t be enough.

  He would need steps in place. An ace. And perhaps this was the seed of one.

  Still, other matters pressed upon him. The tournament would resume by evening, and he had time yet to pursue a different thread: the phantoms, that hidden sect no one seemed to be able to trace.

  He dressed with care, summoned his weapon in its polearm form, and took to the skies. His presence vanished from mortal perception as he cloaked his aura entirely, drifting silently above the market district. Below, the city pulsed with life, merchants haggling, beasts braying, cultivators arguing over relics, pills, and other items.

  To most, he was invisible.

  But his Ethra sight lit the world in a spectrum of swirling energy, each individual a signature of color and movement. He scanned carefully, searching for a very specific rhythm, a particular hue of power that would betray the presence of a Phantom.

  Nothing.

  He wasn’t surprised. If they were truly as skilled as whispered in taverns and among spies, then they wouldn’t be seen so easily. He exhaled and turned toward the other force that might offer answers, the Veilwardens.

  They were easier to find.

  Their fortress, the Shadowkeep, rose like a black obelisk in the very heart of the capital. Made from obsidian stone and sealed with dark mortar, it pierced the sky like a blade. Despite its gloom from the outside, Tunde knew better than to judge by appearances.

  In moments, he descended before the perimeter, halting at a barrier that shimmered like oil on water. Formations layered the air with tight, invisible power, wards built to repel spies, invaders, or fools.

  Tunde reached into his sleeve and produced the medallion given to him by Varis. Pressing it against the barrier, he felt it resonate—then part. Reality shimmered, a ripple of power passing over him.

  And the world changed.

  Gone was the gloomy exterior. Within, the Shadowkeep was something else entirely—dark, yes, but teeming with beauty. Plantlife sprawled across its courtyard, green vines crawling up the black stone like veins of life against death. The architecture remained brutal and sharp, but the space itself breathed.

  Two familiar figures stood in his path.

  He recognized them—Hao and Vayne. Veilwardens he had traveled with on the Skyvessel, their names etched in memory by shared danger and long hours.

  “I greet the Veilwardens,” Tunde said with a respectful fist-to-palm salute.

  No need to provoke hostility. Not yet.

  Wardens trickled out from the structure beyond, silent and composed. Dozens of them. Their presence was imposing—most sat at the peak of the Lord Realm, though Tunde could sense the null affinity in each of them. Their auras were heavy, disciplined, their killing intent coiled like iron chains.

  But two stood apart.

  Hao, now clearly an early-tier Master, and his superior, Thalor, who teetered on the precipice of Paragon as a peak-tier master as well. Their presence was suffocating.

  “Greetings, wastelander,” Hao said coolly, his voice edged with disdain. “We were not expecting you.”

  Tunde remained impassive, returning a shallow nod.

  “Indeed. But I require your help, regardless.”

  A flicker of annoyance crossed Hao’s face. “Just because you carry a medallion from the imperial clan doesn’t mean we answer to you.”

  Interesting.

  They didn’t know.

  “On the contrary,” Tunde said calmly, holding up the medallion again.

  “This isn’t just a seal of rank. It’s the voice of a main-branch master. I speak with the authority of Varis Talahan himself.”

  That shut him up.

  Hao’s mouth opened with a sharp retort, but Vayne stepped in with a raised hand, halting him.

  “Perhaps,” Vayne said, voice even, “but the Wardens will not tolerate arrogance on their grounds. Not unless you prove you're worthy of being heard.”

  Tunde sighed inwardly. As expected.

  “Very well,” he replied aloud. “Lead the way.”

  Vayne nodded, lifting into the air alongside Hao. The rest of the Wardens rose with them, forming a tight circle around Tunde as they flew—less an escort and more a cage.

  They were strong, yes.

  But if they truly believed a handful of Lords could restrain him… the insult itched at his pride. His aura pulsed for a moment, just shy of rising—but he reined it in. No need to make this harder than it needed to be.

  They reached a wide circular courtyard, stone and sigils carved into its floor, positioned directly before the main structure of the Shadowkeep.

  There, seated at the edge of the upper platform, was a woman.

  Her hair was a tapestry of grey and black, woven into a thick braid that coiled over one shoulder. Her robes were darker than midnight. Her aura, however, was hidden.

  Which meant one thing.

  Paragon—or something even beyond.

  Tunde bowed low at the waist, keeping his voice steady. “I greet the Honoured Elder.”

  “You will not address the High Warden unless spoken to,” Vayne said sharply, floating forward and bowing to the woman before turning back.

  “You have been permitted entry to the Veilwardens’ domain. But to make a request, you must earn it.”

  Vayne turned. “Hao, Master Cultivator of the Wardens, do you accept the honor of judging this challenger?”

  “I do, Honoured Elder,” Hao said with a deep bow.

  “Then step into the ring. There will be no lethal strikes. This shall be a spar—one of technique and style. If the visitor defeats you, his request shall be heard. If not, he shall be expelled—and never again allowed within our gates.”

  Vayne’s gaze shifted to Tunde.

  “Do you accept this, Wastelander?”

  Tunde stepped forward, unflinching.

  “I do,” he said with a bow of his own.

  “Then begin.”