Highlord's eyes tracked the movement of the unknown weapon as it shot toward Tunde, a streak of violet-black aiming to skewer him. But Tunde's speed had more than tripled since his advancement, and when he caught it mid-flight, the force wave that followed barely moved him. The ground beneath him cracked, but he remained unshaken.

  Yet, his focus wasn’t on the impact—it was on the weapon itself, struggling against his grip like a living thing. Its surface rippled with dark energy, and before he could react, his mind was besieged by an invasive force. A mind technique.

  Slamming into the ground with controlled precision, Tunde folded his legs, stabilizing himself even as the mental assault threatened to unravel him. But his grip remained firm. His consciousness dove inward, deeper than he had ever gone before, into a realm unknown to him—a place within his own mind.

  He found himself floating, spectral and weightless, in a vast expanse of shallow water. The darkness beneath his feet shimmered with golden inscriptions, glowing softly against the void-like depths below. The words burned into his vision, clear and undeniable:

  "Void."

  Tunde’s gaze, however, was drawn to something else. A presence. The weapon had a will. A soul. A vast, coalescing entity that took the form of a monstrous, serpentine beast, its body crafted from blackened metal and its eyes glowing a violent violet.

  "What is this place?" the creature’s voice rumbled, shaking the very fabric of the realm.

  Tunde staggered slightly, the sheer weight of the beast’s presence pressing against his spectral form. The serpent’s mouth split into a sneering grin, and a deep, mocking laughter erupted from its maw.

  "He dared give me to this child?" It roared, the disdain in its voice clear.

  The serpent coiled, its glowing eyes narrowing as it chuckled darkly.

  "How daft of a saint must you have been, Shen, that you would hand over me, a divine soul beast, to a child?"

  Then, its baleful eyes turned fully on Tunde, its hunger palpable.

  "Be that as it may, it seems the saint has given me the gift of a body to possess."

  It lunged.

  Tunde exhaled, gathering his nerves. He stood his ground, unwavering.

  "Greetings, honored divine beast," he said calmly. "It seems you are the one under the wrong assumptions."

  The serpent coiled back slightly, intrigued.

  "Oh?" it rumbled, amused.

  Tunde took a step forward, and in that moment, he felt it—his concept awakening within him. The resonance surrounded him, filled him, imbued him. His very form began to solidify within this mental realm, and behind him, a pair of baleful blue eyes manifested in the darkness.

  The serpent recoiled in shock.

  One piece at a time, a new presence took shape, a monstrous canine beast stepping forward into Tunde’s mindscape.

  From the moment he had entered this realm, Tunde had felt the relic shiver with something akin to glee. Hunger. A gnawing, insatiable hunger that gnawed at him, a hunger transmitted through the manifestation of the fang itself.

  As the large beast fully materialized—a wolf, no, something more—the concept of the void itself surged outward. A branch of the cosmic concept, the path he had chosen to walk, now stirred to life.

  The serpent trembled.

  "Void..." it whispered; its voice laced with fear.

  Tunde found it almost amusing. A master-ranked beast, its power undeniable, and yet it quivered in his presence. A mere early-tier Highlord, yet he stood here, unchallenged. Because this was his domain. No, more than that—this space was a piece of him. His mind. His soul. His very existence. And the serpent had dared to invade it? Had dared to try and consume him?

  "Devourer," the serpent quaked, realization dawning in its ancient gaze.

  Tunde gave it a slow nod, saluting it with a fist to his palm.

  "Ah, you have insight, honored divine beast."

  The serpent remained motionless, watching him with newfound caution.

  "But you see," Tunde continued, "you will nourish my soul. My relic informs me that you seem to possess a bloodline ability."

  The fang pulsed in pleasure, growling in anticipation.

  "Never!" the serpent roared, its maw opening wide.

  A blast of raw, pure spiritual power erupted toward Tunde, a destructive force capable of shattering minds and fracturing souls. A direct attack against his very existence, meant to reduce him to nothing more than a husk, a vessel for the serpent to wear.

  If he were an ordinary cultivator, that is.

  But he wasn’t.

  The fang’s manifested wolf-form opened its mouth, and the attack was consumed.

  It was effortless.

  A whirlpool of nothingness swallowed the energy whole, leaving not even a trace of it behind. Tunde felt the fang absorb it, feed on it, refine it.

  "It’s been so long..." he murmured, eyes gleaming. "So long since I used the very nature of my concept. So long since I’ve seen such a bounty."

  The knowledge poured into him, the very essence of the serpent unraveling in his mind.

  "Master-ranked Violet Serpent of Destruction," he recited, feeling the truth of the beast’s identity as the fang feasted.

  The serpent coiled tightly, and above its head, a formation manifested.

  "Disrespectful child!" it thundered. "You dare belittle me? I will show you the strength of a Violet Destruction Serpent!"

  Tunde watched, unfazed, as the formation pulsed, tapping into something deep within the beast—something ancient.

  A slow grin spread across his face.

  "Devour!" he commanded.

  It wasn’t authority. He had no access to such power yet. But the concept of the void resonated with the grand cosmic law itself.

  A yawning abyss opened before him, devouring the violet blast whole, refining it, absorbing it, feeding it into his soul.

  His perception widened. His spirit strengthened, his very soul expanding beyond what should have been possible for a mere Highlord. The growth should have been reserved for Masters and beyond, but here and now, Tunde ascended further.

  Had the saint anticipated this?

  When the serpent finally began to flicker, its authority spent, it shuddered in horror. It looked at him, seeing something it was never meant to witness.

  "The abyss! Impossible! Your kind... your kind were dealt with! Shen! What manner of destruction have you unleashed upon the realms?!" it wailed.

  "Fang," Tunde whispered.

  The relic moved.

  A single, resounding roar.

  The serpent shattered.

  Its death cry echoed as pure Master-realm spirit energy surged into Tunde, his spectral form fully materializing.

  He inhaled deeply, turning to the relic as its head met his.

  "I understand. And I thank you for understanding as well," he murmured.

  The relic purred, then vanished.

  It had seen through him. It knew why Tunde couldn’t wield it openly yet—not when stronger cultivators could obliterate him for merely possessing it. But it had still fed him the Void Destruction Serpent. It no longer had sentience, but its power remained, imbued into the weapon.

  As he returned to reality, he found himself surrounded.

  Harumi’s blade was fully drawn. The Highlord wielding twin hammers stood ready. Zhu was at his side, his curved sickles glowing with Ethra.

  "About time," Zhu muttered.

  Tunde’s gaze drifted skyward.

  Three figures hovered above.

  Varis. Tianlei. Shen.

  Each wore a different expression.

  Caution. Astonishment. Shock.

  Tunde stood, his gaze dropping to the weapon in his hand. The violet metal rod now ran with void Ethra. With a thought, he willed it—one end warped, taking the shape of a blade, the fanged mouth of a serpent holding it between its jaws.

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  Shen laughed.

  "Good," he said. "Show us what you can do, child!"

  Tunde inhaled.

  The void coursed through him.

  Victory was already his.

  *******************

  Tunde cursed his luck silently as he moved, shooting first at the Highlord, who brought his hammers up to slam into him. The weapons crashed into Tunde’s soulbound staff weapon, whose raw strength sent the astonished Highlord flying backward, lifting him and throwing him aside. He paused, just as Harumi did, checking his core to confirm whether he had somehow advanced past an early-tier Highlord—only to find his rank still stable.

  The Highlord, on the other hand, stood up from the crater he was in. Tunde was aware that they had drawn more guests. Ifa was there, staring at him with such seriousness that he was sure the master would interfere at any moment. Other Highlords of the clan were present as well. Jing floated beside another master of the clan he recognized, and Rhaelar herself stood there, arms folded behind her back, a thunderous look of seriousness etched across her features.

  Tunde bowed at the masters as Shen blinked, aware of his daughter behind him, and sighed.

  “You know, we had a perfectly good thing going on here,” he said. She glanced at him before turning back to Tunde, floating downward slowly.

  Tunde bowed at the waist, saluting her as he spoke.

  “I greet the venerable master,” he said clearly.

  “What makes you think,” she started, “that you could cause such a disturbance right within the palace?” Her voice was as deadly as the blade she sometimes wielded.

  Tunde could feel her presence bearing down on him, driving him straight to his knees. His breath was heavy as he struggled to cycle his Ethra.

  “Enough, sister,” Varis’s voice came clearly as the master was suddenly at his side, dispersing his sister’s pressure.

  Tunde inhaled deeply, still maintaining his kneeling posture.

  “If you’re angry at anyone, direct it at Father. He set this in motion,” Varis added.

  “Selling out your father? Shame!” Shen’s playful voice came from above as Tunde restrained the urge to glare at the saint floating above.

  “And the weapon?” Rhaelar asked softly, no doubt aware of the gazes on them.

  “Commissioned by my student to Father. He crafted the soulbound weapon,” Varis replied as Tunde heard Rhaelar suck in a breath.

  “All cultivators who are not of the main branch line of the Talahan clan, leave,” she ordered.

  In a flash, everyone dispersed. Zhu, as well as the divine beast, no doubt felt the rage of the master. Ifa’s presence receded slightly, moving away—no doubt to protect Zhu.

  “Get to your feet, wastelander,” she ordered.

  Tunde did so, meeting her gaze quietly. It was the stormy gray of the Talahan bloodline, and even with Varis’s reassuring presence at his side, Tunde knew that should the master decide to use a technique right now, he wouldn’t escape without dangerous injuries—to both himself and his cultivation.

  “This weapon is something befitting a truly powerful Highlord, something you haven’t proven to be in my eyes,” she said.

  Tunde’s hand reflexively clenched around the shaft of the weapon, and she noticed, amusement dancing within her gaze.

  “I subdued the spirit within the weapon,” he said, finding his voice as he allowed the void to flow through him, numbing his fear with its icy touch.

  “Oh? Congratulations, then. I suppose you think this truly makes you one of the more prestigious cultivators of the empire?” she asked.

  He gave no reply, his face a cold mask of indifference.

  She hissed as she began floating back up. “Very well, then. It seems my presence here has soured the mood, despite my father’s risky endeavor.”

  Shen whistled, looking away.

  “One technique,” she started. “Survive one technique of mine, and I will acknowledge you.”

  Tunde’s eyes widened, and even the icy touch of the void refused to quell the pure fear that ran through him.

  “You overstep, sister,” Varis said, rage in his voice.

  “Enough, Rhaelar,” Tianlei spoke for the first time.

  “To expect an early-tier Highlord to survive the attack of a peak-tier master? Isn’t that bullying?” the elder added.

  “That weapon is a waste in his hands. It needs to be wielded by someone worthy,” Rhaelar simply replied.

  “And I suppose you think your disciple is more worthy?” Shen asked, all mirth gone from his voice.

  Rhaelar glanced at her father in that moment, aware that she had crossed a boundary. No matter what, Shen Zao was a master, a saint, and her father.

  “Shen,” Tianlei warned.

  “Do you really think I have no measure of a cultivator, hmm?” Shen pressed.

  Rhaelar seemed conflicted. Apparently, this was no longer going as she had expected. Worse still, Tunde understood that if anything were to break out, he would be the one to suffer the most in the end.

  So he stepped forward and bowed his head to the ground, drawing all their attention.

  “Great, venerable masters!” he shouted. “This one is not worthy of your arguments! This one would gladly test his cultivation against a technique of the venerable master and would consider it an honor!”

  Silence reigned for a few seconds before Tianlei spoke.

  “Varis, you finally did it. You broke the poor child,” he said.

  “Hmm, perhaps the weapon messed with his head?” Shen added.

  “I think so. Maybe he should be taken to the rejuvenators?” Varis muttered through gritted teeth.

  “Are you mad?” Varis’s ethereal voice asked him, but Tunde didn’t reply.

  “Very well, then. I’ll go easy on you,” Rhaelar said as the rumbling of thunder filled the sky above.

  “This is madness, even for you, sister,” Varis growled.

  Tunde’s gaze turned to Varis, who seemed to understand, in that moment, that Tunde wanted this challenge. He had always fought against unfair odds, even from an early stage.

  Varis sighed. “I hope you know what you’re doing,” he muttered as he stepped backward.

  Tunde turned back to Rhaelar, who simply raised an eyebrow. He nodded, imbuing his body, preparing himself as he gripped the weapon tighter.

  Rhaelar raised one hand, a single finger pointing toward the storm-blackened sky.

  “For what it’s worth, I hope you survive,” she said as she brought her finger down.

  Too many things happened at once.

  Tunde’s Ethra blazed across the ground as a formation took shape. A basic spirit-gathering array manifested—except this time, Tunde had managed to incorporate a few modifications he had been experimenting with. He honestly hadn’t expected them to work, but he was willing to try.

  His concept flowed through him as he remembered the feeling of the relic in his hand, willing the weapon—now an extension of the relic—to act the same way.

  The bolts of lightning wrapped together into a simple yet devastating technique and slammed into his barrier. It shattered like fragile glass, unable to withstand even the most basic attack of a master.

  Yet, the moment it struck his weapon, the soulbound weapon manifested the presence of the wolf. Its howl rent the air as Tunde roared in half agony and half determination.

  The void’s innate ability—Devour—now awakened due to the spiritual power of the violet destruction serpent coursing through his body, began consuming the technique. Tunde’s skin scorched and burned from the attack, nearly driving him to his knees.

  His essence flame attacked in an instant, refining the energy as perfectly as if it were a pill or elixir, nourishing his body even as it damaged him.

  When the energy cleared, Tunde stood smoking, his robes burned away. The visage of the wolf vanished, leaving only his outstretched arm gripping the weapon. His eyes locked onto the master, who stared at him in shock. They all did.

  When he finally lowered his hand, barely standing as he used the staff for support, he watched as Rhaelar gave a single nod before vanishing.

  Tianlei vanished too, without a word.

  Shen grinned and followed suit, leaving only Varis, who could only stare at Tunde in shock.

  “An innate bloodline ability?” the master asked, stunned.

  Tunde, however, couldn’t find the strength to reply before he collapsed—enraged at himself for passing out.

  ************************

  Waking up within his quarters, Tunde’s eyes flickered open, immediately catching sight of the figures standing in the pale glow of the Ethra crystal that illuminated the room. His breath came sharp as memory surged—lightning, pain, the force of the master's attack. Instinct drove his hands to his body, tracing over his skin, expecting scorched flesh, torn muscle—something. Yet, there was nothing. No burns. No wounds. No pain.

  A quiet exhale left his lips, but relief was fleeting.

  “That was nothing short of reckless,” Ifa’s voice, calm yet edged with disappointment, broke the silence. Tunde’s gaze snapped to the elder, only to find his expression unreadable, his arms clasped behind his back in an air of restrained severity.

  To the side, Zhu stood, his focus fixed on the soulbound weapon now resting against the wall. The serpent-engraved blade had changed. Where once there had been smooth, polished metal, chains now coiled from the creature’s maw, weaving their way down to the base of the staff. The transformation was subtle yet absolute. Ethralite eyes flickered toward Tunde, scrutinizing him with an intensity that left little doubt—he was being measured, weighed, and found… alarming.

  Zhu let out a slow breath and nodded. It was a small gesture, but one laden with unspoken meaning.

  “I had no choice,” Tunde finally said, his voice steady but hollow.

  “Oh, you did,” Ifa countered, his tone sharper now. “You had plenty of choices. But instead, you let pride dictate your actions. You showed them exactly what you are—how resilient, how durable. You proved beyond doubt that you are no mere disciple. And you did it in front of one of the strongest cultivators in the Talahan clan.”

  The words sent a chill down Tunde’s spine. His newly sharpened perception flared, sensing the barrier encasing the room—a bubble of aura, thick and deliberate. This was Zhu’s work. The fact that the Ethralite deemed such precautions necessary only deepened the knot forming in his chest.

  “What do you think will happen now,” Ifa continued, stepping forward, his gaze ice-cold, “now that they know you are not just some helpless, struggling cultivator? Now that they suspect—no, now that they know—you may be one of the remnants of the Seekers?”

  The word hit like a hammer.

  Tunde’s head snapped up, eyes widening. A cold, terrible weight settled in his gut.

  “There’s no way,” he said, but even as the words left his mouth, they rang hollow. A lie spoken more for himself than for the others.

  Ifa’s jaw tightened, his frustration bleeding through. He shut his eyes briefly, as if bracing himself against some unseen burden.

  “You were played,” he said, voice quieter now, but no less sharp. “It was right in front of you, and yet you did not see it.”

  Tunde swallowed. “What do you mean?”

  Zhu finally turned from the weapon, arms folding across his chest. “What uncle means,” he said, voice controlled but tense, “is that the entire attack was a performance. A test. Do you really think the masters of the clan just happened to be close enough to intervene the moment things escalated? That he—the forger of this weapon—was conveniently nearby?”

  Zhu avoided saying the master's name, a silent ward against drawing his attention.

  Realization dawned, slow and bitter.

  “They wanted to see if I could tame the weapon,” Tunde muttered, and the moment the words left his lips, his mouth turned dry.

  “They wanted to see if you were hiding anything,” Ifa corrected. “Your limits. And you, in your arrogance, showed them exactly what they needed to know. You took a master’s casual strike and stood back up as if it were nothing.” He took another step closer, voice now a low, biting whisper. “Tell me, Tunde—how many Highlords do you think could take such an attack and walk away unscathed?”

  The room felt smaller.

  Tunde wanted to summon the icy calm of his concept, to drown himself in its cold embrace.

  “Few,” Ifa answered his own question, tone merciless. “If any. And those who can have spent their entire lives fortified by the best pills, the rarest elixirs, and the most brutal body-tempering techniques the cultivation world has to offer. In other words, the children of the great factions.”

  The weight in Tunde’s gut solidified into something leaden.

  “They know.” It wasn’t a question.

  “They know,” Ifa confirmed. “And now that you have so conveniently proven it for them, we have but one card left to play.”

  There was a flicker of something in Ifa’s expression—something close to pain.

  “What are you talking about?” Tunde asked warily.

  For a long moment, Ifa was silent. Then, finally, he spoke.

  “For countless centuries, I have kept Alana’s hopes alive for the revival of the Seekers. You have just made that work infinitely harder.”

  Tunde clenched his fists, rage simmering beneath his skin. “We had to come out at some point.”

  Ifa laughed—a quiet, bitter sound. “You still don’t understand.”

  Tunde glanced at Zhu, who had turned fully toward them now, face unreadable but eyes filled with concern.

  “They wiped out an entire cult,” Ifa continued, his voice eerily soft. “What do you think they will do to a single master and a handful of Highlords?”

  The air in the room thickened, heavy with the unspoken.

  “What happens when the clan’s patriarch learns that the bloodline of the Seekers still exists? That the pathways could still be opened?” Ifa’s voice sharpened, cutting through the silence like a blade. “Do you wish to bring down another cataclysm upon Adamath? Another Age of Blood?”

  “That’s unfair,” Zhu interjected, his voice suddenly hard. “Even for you.”

  Ifa regarded him for a long, unreadable moment before finally sighing, his shoulders sagging just slightly.

  “We have only one option now,” he said, voice softened but no less firm.

  Tunde’s grip on the soulbound weapon tightened. “And what would that be?”

  Ifa stepped forward, stopping just short of him.

  “Overwhelming victory.”

  Tunde stilled.

  “You will crush every opponent before you,” Ifa continued.

  “You will take every gift, every opportunity given at each stage, and you will claim them all. Because, Tunde of the Seekers, bloodline of Alana—by the time this banquet ends, nothing will remain the same.”