The last few days had passed in a blink, consumed by seclusion and silence. Tunde spent them adjusting to the weapon, testing its changes, and coming to grips with a chilling realization—his bloodline’s ability to devour was not simply a technique he wielded, but something ingrained into his very soul and body.

  The relic, powerful as it was, had only been a tool; his ability to consume, to siphon, to absorb, was part of his very essence.

  Ifa had confirmed what Tunde already suspected: his soul had grown strong enough to withstand the presence and dominion of a Master. And yet, he was still only an early-tier Highlord. The weight of what that meant was suffocating.

  No messages had come from Varis. No signs of betrayal. But Tunde was no fool—silence did not mean safety. Zhu had remained close, his presence almost suffocating, lingering like a junior brother afraid to lose an elder sibling. Ifa, on the other hand, had become even more withdrawn, often disappearing for hours at a time, muttering cryptic remarks about the arks or staring towards the sky with a dark expression before turning his gaze toward the palace.

  Whatever was brewing behind those pristine walls was not in their favor.

  Tunde, however, had thrown himself into the only thing he could control—his training.

  After his encounter with the Violet Serpent of Destruction, he had taken time to settle his spirit, grounding himself after the chaotic flood of power it had left behind. His core felt stronger, more solid, but something else had changed, too. Zhu had been the first to point it out, watching him with wary fascination.

  "You feel... different," he had murmured, his sharp gaze unreadable.

  "Like a peak-realm Highlord. Maybe even an early-tiered Master."

  That had been enough to send Tunde back to the Knowledge Hall for reassessment, a part of him needing confirmation of what he already knew deep down.

  In Liu’s absence—something that still gnawed at the back of his mind—Tunde had returned to testing his modifications to the basic spirit barrier formation he had crafted.

  The first iteration had been simple, a shield reinforced by his void concept, which functioned in a uniquely destructive way. Rather than merely resisting an attack, it absorbed techniques and dispersed them like drops of ink swallowed by an ocean. But Tunde wanted more.

  If a formation could siphon Ethra into itself, then why couldn't it siphon it directly into him?

  He had spent hours refining the idea, poring over memories of old manuscripts and the fragmented knowledge Ifa begrudgingly imparted. His mentor had always been a well of wisdom, but now that their existence was known—at least his existence was—Ifa’s reluctance to fully pass on his knowledge made little sense.

  Instead of teaching, the elder would vanish for long stretches of time. And when he was present, he was distracted, always watching, always waiting.

  It was as if he knew something Tunde did not.

  And perhaps, he did.

  Trusting the Talahan clan was out of the question. Their recent stunt only proved that much. But even they wouldn’t be foolish enough to make a direct move—not while the imperial medallion still hung at Tunde’s hip like a silent shield.

  That, and he had taken precautions.

  His journey to Baron Dale had been quiet, slipping through the capital's streets unnoticed. His Ethra sight made it almost effortless to detect the phantoms tailing him, their formless presence clinging to his heels like shadows. They had no idea he could see them.

  Instead, Zhu had taken his place at the estate, surrounded by artifacts radiating destruction and void Ethra. Ifa had cocooned the entire premises with his aura, distorting the phantoms' perception, leaving them to rely on their senses to track what they believed was him. It had worked perfectly.

  Meanwhile, Tunde had arrived at Dale’s headquarters, the air thick with the scent of rare herbs and potent alchemical mixtures. The Golden Pill Pavilion was a fortress of wealth, and every breath he took was filled with the tantalizing temptation of high-grade Ethra.

  He could feel it.

  The potency of the cultivators outside the door. The richness of the pills stacked within the storerooms. His bloodline ability buzzed beneath his skin, an instinctive hunger whispering of their value.

  Dale had greeted him with his usual flair, all honeyed words and veiled calculations. But when the merchant read through the order, his expression turned ashen, his fingers twitching as he slowly set the list down.

  "This is quite the... ah, hefty order," he said carefully.

  Tunde merely nodded, sipping from a cup of expensive tea, the warmth doing little to chase away the steel in his gaze.

  "You think I’m overdoing it," he said, more statement than question.

  Dale locked his fingers together, the glow of his void rings catching the dim light.

  "Not exactly," the merchant admitted.

  "It’s true we could charge it all under the imperial medallion, but I fear the cost on you."

  Tunde arched a brow but said nothing, waiting for him to elaborate.

  Dale sighed. "Just your previous order alone totalled close to a million lumens."

  Tunde said nothing.

  "And this? Do you even have the infrastructure to store it all? An alchemist capable of refining the perishable items? Cultivators who can consume these high-grade pills and elixirs before their potency begins to fade?"

  Tunde frowned. He had considered the logistics, but not to the extent Dale was implying.

  "Apparently, I didn’t think this through," he muttered.

  The merchant chuckled, shaking his head.

  "I may be violating the Pavilion’s unspoken rule of squeezing every last lumen from our clients," he said dryly,

  "But I feel obligated to give you some proper counsel."

  Tunde smirked. "Wish Joran was here to hear that."

  The name cast a shadow over Dale’s face, his lips twitching into something too sad to be called a smile.

  "Indeed," he murmured.

  "But it was his prudence that got you this far. You would do well to remember that."

  Tunde said nothing.

  Dale exhaled, glancing toward the sealed doors.

  "Already, the convergence is strengthening the Ethra quality within the empire. I hear reports from the borders and the central plains—more rifts have begun manifesting, and stronger creatures are slipping through. You can look at it in two ways."

  Tunde arched a brow, waiting.

  "One: the cultivators facing these rifts will advance rapidly—at least those who survive. Meaning most of the low-tiered resources on this list will soon be obsolete."

  Tunde nodded slowly.

  "The other, more concerning outcome," Dale continued,

  "Is that those cultivators will struggle. They will need resources to advance. Now tell me, what do you think happens if word spreads that the Black Rock Sect possesses an ocean of wealth?"

  Tunde's frown deepened.

  "They'd come down on Black Rock."

  Dale snapped his fingers.

  "Exactly. And while I can say for certain that right now, you would be among the top cultivators of the wastelands and border regions, you are not there to defend them."

  Tunde shut his eyes briefly, exhaling.

  "So what if we delay the shipments?"

  Dale tilted his head.

  "You’re thinking of stockpiling in advance?"

  Tunde nodded.

  "A good strategy. But some of these pills will need to be freshly refined. I can make recommendations for more stable alternatives, but even so, their potency will start degrading the moment they’re made."

  Tunde opened his eyes, a slow smirk forming.

  "That’s what void rings are for, are they not?"

  Dale chuckled.

  "To store this much? You’d need Skyvessels just to ferry the resources under armed escort, then construct a spatial chamber to house it all."

  Tunde leaned back, his smirk widening.

  "Then get the resources. If you have better ones than what’s listed, I don’t mind. But the crystals I requested—those are non-negotiable."

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  Dale studied him for a long moment.

  "And the spatial chamber?"

  Tunde's eyes gleamed.

  "Don't worry about that," he said.

  "I have something that will more than suffice."

  ********************

  With his business with the Baron concluded, Tunde returned to his abode, awaiting the start of the next day. Sleep eluded him, not due to fatigue but because of the restless anticipation curling in his chest. Instead, he spent the hours in deep meditation, using the stillness to temper his mind and spirit, allowing the hours to pass with minimal unrest.

  When dawn arrived, the servants greeted him with a robe of black and white, the crest of the Talahan clan embroidered upon its chest—an unmistakable mark of his allegiance. Alongside the ceremonial attire, a small construct vessel awaited him, prepared to ferry him to the great valley where the event would take place.

  The journey was silent, the only sound being the occasional hum of the vessel as it cut through the air. Tunde’s thoughts, however, were anything but quiet. His fingers idly traced the weapon strapped to his waist, now shrunk to the size of a baton—a testament to what a true Forgesmith could accomplish.

  It could become anything at his command: a hammer, a spear, a blade. And now, with the serpent’s consciousness fully expunged from the weapon, it obeyed his thoughts without hesitation, shifting forms at the speed of intent. How it had been crafted remained a mystery to him, but he was grateful for its existence. He would wield it to the best of his abilities.

  As the valley came into view, its sheer scale struck him with renewed awe. It played host to hundreds of thousands, an endless sea of spectators gathered to witness the grand tournament. Floating platforms hovered across the canyon, occupied by thousands of cultivators from various factions.

  His enhanced Ethra sight allowed him to take in the intricate formations layered throughout the valley, each pulsating with arcane energy. The sheer complexity of their structure made his eyes ache just to look at them.

  "This is bigger than I thought," Zhu muttered at his side, his voice laced with surprise.

  Tunde’s gaze flickered toward Ifa, the elder standing beside them. His expression, as always, was unreadable—his face an impassive mask of suspicion and distrust as he took in the surroundings.

  "It begins," the elder murmured softly.

  Tunde nodded, bracing himself.

  As was tradition, the contestants were ferried into the valley walls, escorted by their respective factions. Tunde walked alongside Zhu, who had also been registered under the banner of the Talahan clan. The waiting hall they entered was massive, filled with competing warriors, each emanating an air of sharpened resolve.

  Yet, it was the next arrivals that gave Tunde pause.

  Stepping through the entrance, clad in the same black-and-white attire as himself, was Sera. She was followed closely by Jing, Harumi, and the fourth disciple of Elder Tianlei—a woman whose name he had yet to learn. Behind them, their masters arrived in turn: Varis, Rhaelar, Tianlei, and Shen. The students bowed in unison before their sponsors, their movements crisp and disciplined.

  Tunde’s eyes lingered on Sera first, immediately noting the difference in her aura. She stood at the peak of the Lord Realm, her presence refined and potent. Her skin looked rejuvenated, yet the scars she bore remained—though now they carried the appearance of ancient marks, as though they had been there for centuries.

  Her blood essence was strong, purified, honed. Even more striking was the blade at her hip—Slaughter, yet no longer the same. It had been reforged, reworked, elevated beyond what it once was. A soulbound weapon, like his own.

  This was the strongest he had ever seen her, and he could tell—instinctively—that she was on the verge of a breakthrough. Perhaps she was merely waiting for the tournament to begin before stepping into her next evolution.

  "Welcome, members of Team Talahan," Varis began, his gaze sweeping over them all.

  Tunde tore his eyes from Sera, noticing that she had momentarily halted—her focus now fixed on Zhu. She seemed to only now register his presence, her expression betraying momentary shock. Not that Zhu paid her any mind.

  "You represent the strength and best of what the clan has to offer on such short notice," Varis continued, his eyes meeting Tunde’s.

  There was no malice in his gaze, no cold disdain—only the same ruthless pragmatism Tunde had come to associate with him.

  "Much will be expected of you, and much will you deliver," Rhaelar stated, her words leaving no room for argument.

  "Initially, the tournament was meant as a test of individual prowess," Tianlei added, his tone measured.

  "However, the regents have agreed unanimously to shift the format. It will now operate on a faction-versus-faction basis."

  Tunde frowned. That was an unexpected change.

  "Clan Talahan will represent the empire as a whole," Tianlei clarified.

  "The various sects, schools, and smaller clans will be classified as individual factions. Your priority, however, will be dealing with both orthodox and unorthodox factions."

  "In simpler terms, ignore the individual factions," Shen interjected, his tone dismissive. "They rarely make it past the early stages."

  Tunde processed the information, nodding slightly as he mulled it over.

  "As you might expect, the orthodox factions have come to an agreement," Varis said.

  "There will be no in-fighting between us until later stages—after we have successfully pushed out the unorthodox forces and, by then, the individual factions."

  "In short, for now, you are to avoid conflict with the Technocracy, the Heralds, and the other orthodox factions—unless they strike first," Rhaelar added.

  "The revenants and their ilk, however…" Shen’s lips curled into a smirk.

  "Those, I want you to eliminate. In fact, for every Lord you take out, I’ll personally reward you with five hundred thousand lumens. Highlords? A million."

  Tunde’s eyes widened in surprise. Beside him, Zhu let out a low whistle.

  "Leave it to us," Zhu promised, his grin matching Tunde’s own.

  "Nothing will remain of the unorthodoxy."

  "Good." Rhaelar’s gaze swept over the group once more.

  "Tunde will lead this team. Are there any objections?"

  Tunde’s gaze instinctively flicked toward Jing and the fourth disciple of Tianlei. Neither spoke. The latter simply looked away, unwilling to provoke him. He exhaled through his nose—so much for them challenging his authority.

  "Good," Varis finalized.

  "Your orders are clear: complete victory. None of you are to be eliminated before the individual rounds. Now go—succeed."

  With that, the masters departed as swiftly as they had arrived.

  Jing let out a slow exhale. The fourth disciple scoffed and withdrew into a corner. Then, Jing turned to Tunde and bowed.

  "Congratulations on your advancement," she said.

  "And yours as well, it seems," he replied, bowing in return.

  "I should have expected you wouldn’t be left behind," she added with a small smile.

  "Your zeal for the cultivation arts is—"

  "Alright, that’s enough flirting," Sera interrupted, stepping between them.

  "He’s spoken for."

  Jing frowned as Sera pulled Tunde aside.

  "You look strong," he observed, chuckling.

  "Good," she shot back.

  "I thought you were about to say 'beautiful'—and I would’ve crushed your skull."

  A playful smile danced on her blood-red lips. Her crimson hair had been neatly plaited behind her head, her red eyes glowing faintly with power. She was every bit a cultivator of the Blood Path.

  "Have you heard anything about Miria?" she asked suddenly.

  Tunde’s expression darkened. "No. And it seems they aren’t willing to help."

  Sera’s face hardened. She nodded, understanding the unspoken meaning behind his words.

  "And this whole 'individual factions' arrangement," she continued,

  "You know what it really means, right?"

  "Yes," he replied.

  "Our friends will be on their own… technically."

  He winked.

  Sera blinked. "What’s wrong with your eyes?"

  "Never mind," he sighed.

  "Just watch out for them."

  Before she could respond, Jing called out,

  "It’s beginning."

  Tunde turned toward the massive stone walls as they rumbled open, revealing the deafening cheers of the gathered masses.

  "Welcome, one and all," a booming voice declared,

  "To the first Banquet of Power!"

  **************************

  Tunde stepped forward with his team onto the expansive platform, the polished stone stretching beneath them as the deafening roars of the crowd welcomed their arrival. They were the first to emerge.

  “Esteemed guests, the first faction, representing our most honored hosts—welcome the Talahan faction!” The announcer’s voice rang out, amplified by arcane constructs. The cheers intensified, a tidal wave of noise that reverberated across the valley.

  Tunde strode with measured steps, his expression carefully neutral. Should he smile? Maintain an air of indifference? He wasn’t sure. Zhu, however, had no such concerns. He waved exuberantly at the crowd, a broad grin splitting his face as if he were the sole attraction of the event.

  “Look at them,” Sera scoffed, rolling her eyes at Zhu’s antics.

  Before Tunde could respond, another announcement rang out.

  “Next, our closest neighbors, the martial talents of the Cult of the Warbringers, children of the honored Hegemon of War, Baelthor—the Heralds!”

  A section of the towering stone wall across the arena slid open with a deep, resonant groan. A disciplined procession emerged, clad in crimson robes, their movements precise, purposeful. Tunde’s eyes hardened as they locked onto the figure at their head.

  Rhyn.

  It had only been a week since their last encounter, but the difference in the man was striking. How had he advanced so suddenly to Highlord? Or had he simply been concealing his true strength all along? This Rhyn was no longer the brash, arrogant scion of Clan Verdan—this was a tempered warrior.

  For a brief moment, their gazes met across the distance. Tunde braced himself, expecting a flicker of resentment, anger, perhaps even open hostility. But there was none. No lingering grudge, no seething rage. Rhyn simply regarded him with a cool, assessing look, nodded once, and then turned away.

  Tunde exhaled slowly. That was… unexpected.

  “To the far east,” the announcer continued,

  “The cult of orthodoxy and our most distant neighbors, the artificers of the honored Hegemon of Martial Constructs, Mekrandor—the Technocracy!”

  Another set of massive doors slid open, and Tunde felt his breath catch in his throat.

  His fingers curled instinctively around the baton at his waist, gripping it as if to anchor himself.

  A woman led the procession of the Technocrats, her presence like a blade against his senses—sharp, deliberate, undeniable. Metallic silver eyes gleamed beneath the midday sun, framed by neatly braided yellow hair streaked with silver. Her robes, a pristine blend of blue and silver, shimmered subtly with embedded runes. But what truly drew his attention was the arm.

  A masterpiece of artifice.

  A construct of gleaming silver, humming faintly with restrained power, intricate runic engravings pulsing softly with energy.

  “Elyria,” he whispered, her name slipping past his lips before he could stop it.

  Beside him, Sera cast him a sideways glance, concern flashing in her red eyes.

  “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  Perhaps he had.

  Across the platform, Elyria’s lips curled into the faintest of smiles. Though the distance between them was vast, Tunde had no doubt she had heard him. She inclined her head ever so slightly before turning away, moving to take her place beside the Heralds beneath the sigil of the Technocrats.

  And so the major factions continued to be called forth—one by one, each displaying their elite warriors. Two Highlords per faction at the very least. The sheer imbalance of power was glaringly evident, the tournament clearly skewed in favor of the major sects.

  Then came the Wild Wardens.

  Their arrival stirred a reaction, but not from Tunde—from Elyria. A flicker of something passed across her face—recognition, perhaps? Unease? Tunde caught it for only a second before her mask of control returned.

  But when the Mistwalkers were called, it was Tunde whose entire demeanor shifted.

  The moment they stepped onto the stage, something deep and primal inside him stirred. His breath slowed, his muscles tensed, and his gaze became like ice.

  They moved in eerie synchronization, clad in grey robes, their foreheads wrapped in strips of inscribed cloth that seemed to pulse with an unnatural aura. There was something about them that sent a ripple of dread through him, though he refused to show it.

  Their expressions were blank—cold, detached, their gazes sweeping across the assembled factions as if they were little more than dust in the wind.

  Then, for the briefest of moments, their leader—a tall, dark-skinned Highlord—let his gaze pass over Tunde. It was subtle, almost unnoticeable.

  But Tunde noticed.

  His hands clenched into fists, nails digging into his palms as he forced himself to remain still. Now was not the time. His rage was a caged beast, waiting, seething, but not yet free. His time would come.

  And when it did, his vengeance would burn hotter than the volcanic peaks of his homeland.

  Then came the unorthodox sects, and with them, the true oddities.

  The first were the Envoys—the death sect. Their very presence was unsettling. Pale, sunken features, their skin stretched taut over gaunt faces, as if they had clawed their way out of their own graves. They moved with a spectral grace, their mere existence sending shudders through those around them.

  Leading them was a tall, spindly woman, her aura suffused with decay, yet her presence unmistakably that of a Highlady.

  Then came the Asuras.

  Chaos and madness incarnate.

  Their leader, a wild-eyed woman wielding a massive spiked mace, exuded unhinged bloodlust. She strutted forward, sizing up the other factions like prey.

  Tunde wasn’t the only one who noticed.

  For a fleeting second, her gaze locked onto Sera, and a flash of something primal—something almost furious—crossed her face before vanishing just as quickly.

  And then, the final faction.

  The one he hadn’t dared to imagine would appear.

  The Revenants.

  The moment their name was called, the world seemed to slow.

  Tunde’s breath stilled.

  His heart clenched.

  He had convinced himself—perhaps foolishly, perhaps out of hope—that he would never see him again. That somehow, by some miracle, fate had spared him from this moment.

  But there he was.

  Leading the Revenants.

  No longer just a ghost of the past.

  Thorne.

  His former mentor.

  Now a Highlord.

  Tunde’s grip tightened on his weapon, but his heart—his heart felt like it was breaking.