"Undead scum!" one of the technocrats hissed, his grip tightening on his weapon as it flared to life with a sharp hum.

  Thorne tilted his head, his expression unreadable before a lazy smirk curved his lips.

  "You know, I've killed cultivators for less than that," he said, his voice light but carrying a cold edge that made the air tense.

  Elyria raised a single hand, her gaze like frost.

  "Hold," she ordered, her voice brooking no argument.

  "As much as I’d love to see his head on a pike, now is not the time."

  A sigh left Thorne’s lips, and he turned to Tunde, his dark eyes filled with something unreadable.

  "It is good to see you again," he said, his voice softer this time.

  Tunde exhaled, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides.

  "What happened to you?"

  A shadow passed over Thorne’s face, his usual cocky demeanor faltering for a moment.

  "I survived," he said simply, his voice resolute.

  Jing stepped closer; her presence quiet but insistent.

  She didn’t bother to mask the disdain in her tone as she whispered harshly to Tunde,

  "We cannot be seen conversing with their kind."

  Thorne’s jaw tightened, his fingers twitching at his sides.

  "My kind?" he repeated, his voice lower now, edged with something dangerous.

  Tunde frowned at Jing, but before he could respond, a flare of aura at the far end of the stage drew their attention.

  Rhyn stood there, his golden gaze locked onto Thorne.

  The herald barely moved, but his presence alone felt like the unsheathing of a blade—silent, sharp, and undeniably deadly.

  Tunde’s hand twitched, and his weapon shifted into its naginata form in a blur of motion. He had seen Rhyn’s techniques firsthand. He wasn’t about to underestimate him again.

  "Contestants, please vacate the stage and head to your respective abodes," the announcer’s voice boomed across the arena.

  "Any fighting outside the tournament will result in instant disqualification."

  Rhyn remained still for a moment longer before easing his stance.

  "Wonder what’s got into his hides," Thorne murmured, watching the herald with a flicker of curiosity.

  Tunde’s expression hardened.

  "You fight under the banner of the same sect that brought destruction to his clan," he said evenly, his voice devoid of emotion.

  "And yet you ask why?"

  Thorne’s smirk faded, his lips pressing into a thin line.

  "Not all of us have the luxury of choosing our paths," he murmured, then turned and took to the air, vanishing into the sky.

  Tunde exhaled sharply, the tension in his shoulders refusing to ease even as the revenant disappeared from sight.

  A soft touch landed on his shoulder, grounding him.

  "You did well," Elyria said, her voice quiet.

  He turned to look at her, searching her gaze before nodding.

  "We need to talk."She regarded him for a long moment before tilting her head.

  "I agree. Meet me at the Pleasure District this evening.I’ll be waiting." With that, she turned and left, her group moving in sync behind her.

  Tunde watched her go, his mind a whirlwind of thoughts.

  He sighed, willing his weapon back into its dormant form before falling in step with Sera and the rest of the Talahan team.

  Zhu walked beside Jing, speaking in hushed tones, though their words barely registered in his mind.

  The shock of what Thorne had become still lingered.

  He had handled it well—perhaps as well as could be expected—but the sight of Thorne’s pale skin, the black veins crawling beneath, left a deep, gnawing revulsion in him.

  A Highlord-level revenant… It was unnatural.

  Wrong.

  And yet, could he truly blame him? Would Tunde not have done the same, clawed for survival no matter the cost?

  He shook his head as they passed through the parting walls and entered their temporary lodgings.

  Waiting for them was Varis, his hands clasped behind his back, his gaze sweeping over them with what Tunde could only hope was satisfaction.

  "Well done," Varis said, his tone measured.

  Tunde suppressed a sigh of relief.

  For a moment, he had wondered if the master would find something to criticize.

  "None of the orthodox factions lost a single contestant.

  The independent factions, however, bore the brunt of the losses." He waved a hand, and several small boxes materialized in the air, floating toward them.

  "The reward for the first stage," he said simply.

  Sera’s eyes narrowed at the unassuming box in her hands.

  "That’s it?" she asked, the skepticism in her voice clear.

  "The first round is merely to weed out the weak-willed from the truly strong," Varis replied.

  "The real test begins in the next stage."

  Tunde opened his box, revealing a green and red pill nestled inside.

  It radiated faint traces of energy, pulsing gently.

  "Consume and cycle it immediately.

  It will strengthen both your soul and your core," Varis instructed.

  Without hesitation, Tunde swallowed the pill.

  The moment it touched his tongue, it dissolved into pure energy, rushing through his body in a surge of raw power.

  His eyes widened, his breath hitching as warmth spread through his limbs.

  He barely had time to sit before the energy settled into his core, his soul almost sighing in pleasure at the nourishment.

  "A Grade 6 spirit pill, provided by the Alchemist Society," Varis continued.

  "From the next stage onward, each reward will be supplied by a different faction.

  They will be ranked in value and distributed based on performance." His gaze locked onto Tunde, his meaning clear.

  "So I suggest you reconsider your friendships with those from other factions—if you want to gain the most from this tournament."

  Tunde met his eyes and nodded, only a fraction.

  He understood the warning for what it was.

  Varis disappeared without another word, leaving them in silence.

  Jing turned to Tunde and gave a small nod.

  This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

  "I’ll be heading back to my place.

  Be safe out there, Tunde." With that, she walked away, disappearing into the corridors.

  Sera watched her go before turning to Tunde.

  "I guess you’ll be headed back to wherever that elder took you?"

  "For a short while," he said, stretching his arms.

  "But there’s no way you’re letting me meet with Elyria alone, is there?"

  Sera snorted.

  "Absolutely not."

  Zhu hummed in agreement; his silver eyes gleaming.

  "Of course, I’m coming along," he added, aghast that Tunde would even ask.

  Tunde rolled his eyes but said nothing as they made their way to the carriage that would take them back to his lodgings.

  The night ahead promised answers, but for now, his mind lingered on the revenant who had once been his friend.

  ***********************

  Ifa was alone within the estate. The entire building, once alive with the movements of servants and retainers, had fallen into silence.

  Even they had left to witness the first stage of the tournament, eager to see the clashes of ascenders and the spectacle of power.

  Ifa, however, saw no use in it. He already knew the outcome. None of his students would fail.

  That realization made him pause.

  His students? Since when had he begun to think of them that way? A frown creased his face as he leaned back against the cold stone wall.

  He had neither guided nor played an active role in their training—at least, not in the way a true master should.

  From Zehra to Daiki to Sera, they had learned under others, refined by paths he had no hand in shaping. Only Zhu could claim to have learned under him, and even that was accidental.

  Ifa had only intended to sharpen the Ethralite’s combat skills, but in the process, he had unknowingly passed down the core techniques and hidden principles of the Seekers, the very arts that should have perished with his sect.

  When he realized it, he had relented.

  What was the point? The past could not be undone.

  He exhaled, running a hand through his hair. His gaze drifted once again—for the tenth time that hour—toward the valley.

  They were there.

  The regents and their paragons, in a hidden rift.

  But he dared not extend his senses to check on them. The consequences of being noticed by the wrong beings would be catastrophic.

  It would mean complete and utter annihilation, not just for himself, but for Tunde as well.

  His presence had to remain hidden, his existence an afterthought.

  Yet, there was something else. A hum in the air, a weight pressing against his senses.

  It wasn’t just the convergence of powerful ascenders—it was something deeper, older.

  His master-realm senses couldn’t quite place it, not without reaching further, unshrouding himself more than he dared.

  But that would be irreversible. Already, the runes carved into his very bones were weakening, the seals loosening with each passing day.

  He was doing all he could to keep them intact. He had to hold out—just a little longer. Until the endgame.

  The Regents were moving again.

  And that was never a good thing. The last time they had all aligned toward a goal this monumental, it had led to the annihilation of the Seekers.

  So many Regents had died in that war. The world had been thrown into such chaos that history itself had been rewritten, entire ages erased.

  Now, only a select few even knew what had truly transpired, and those who did had long since bound themselves to factions ruled by Regents of their own.

  His fists clenched, his breath slow and measured.

  Too long.

  For too long, he had scurried in the shadows like a rat, sealed away in a relic, unable to unleash his full strength. He had been forced into hiding, shackled by the very power he once wielded so freely.

  His body ached—not from age, not from injury, but from the sheer restraint.

  He longed for the mountains of Crystalreach, where the air was so crisp it cut like a blade.

  For the tundras, endless and merciless. For the deep icy caves where silence reigned, and for the volcanic spires where the heat seared the soul itself.

  But most of all, he longed for home—a home Tunde had never known.

  The cults had been thorough in their purge, erasing all traces of it from the world.

  But they had unwittingly played into Alana’s hands.

  She had ensured its secrets remained buried, sealed away from the traitors—away from Lysandria and the rest who had turned on them.

  Ifa exhaled slowly, the weight of old memories pressing against his ribs like a phantom’s grip.

  He couldn’t afford to waver now.

  He had found what he had searched for—the bloodline of the Regent.

  He was this close.

  His journey, the one that had spanned decades of suffering and secrecy, was nearing its end.

  I will not fail again.

  He reached out toward the rift in the distance, fingers trembling, curling into a fist as if grasping at something just beyond his reach.

  “For you, Alana,” he whispered, the name laced with pain so deep it burned in his throat.

  “For you.”

  Guilt and sorrow coiled around him like a noose, each syllable weighted with the agony of loss.

  *************************

  Tunde, along with Sera and Zhu, took the carriage toward the pleasure district, the night bursting with life.

  The air shimmered with a warm, dusky glow from the dimly lit red Ethra crystals, casting deep, inviting shadows over the lively streets.

  The scent of burning incense wove through the air, mingling with the heady aroma of strong spirits and an array of sizzling, boiling, and baking meals that made even the most disciplined of ascetics reconsider their path.

  Zhu, of course, had wasted no time indulging.

  With a flick of his fingers, he had activated the void ring Tunde had gifted him, promptly spending a fortune on every fried, baked, and skewered delicacy within arm’s reach.

  He had then anointed himself Chief Food Coordinator, a title that, to Tunde, made absolutely no sense.

  But to his growing horror, Sera nodded along in solemn agreement, even going as far as praising the Ethralite for his "commitment to logistics." Tunde simply sighed, deciding it was best to leave them to their antics.

  Locating Elyria was a simple matter.

  The tournament’s contestants had been given a dedicated space within the heart of the district—a vast square transformed into a grand banquet hall.

  Rows of polished wooden tables, their surfaces gilded in gold, shimmered under the soft glow of hovering light formations.

  The sheer concentration of power within the space made Tunde pause, his instincts screaming caution.

  Was this really worth it?

  If Elyria were here, then Thorne would undoubtedly be present as well.

  And as much as he wanted to learn what had truly become of the former herald, something in his gut warned him that prying too deeply could be a mistake.

  Each table had a silence formation intricately carved into its edges, along with a platter of roasted meat, side dishes, and jugs filled with elixir-infused wine.

  The food seemed to replenish itself as the night went on—a gesture of wealth and status, no doubt provided by the hosting clan.

  Tunde’s gaze found Elyria quickly.

  She sat alone, her table untouched, a cup of wine held in the grip of her metal arm.

  At first, her expression was guarded, but the moment her eyes landed on him, her sharp features softened, and a small, genuine smile broke through.

  “Sister, right?” Sera asked suddenly, her voice laced with doubt.

  Tunde blinked at her in confusion before realizing what she meant.

  He ignored the comment, stepping forward.

  “Elyria.”

  She chuckled, swirling her wine.

  “Whatever were you fed all this while?”

  He shrugged, sliding into the seat beside her.

  “No idea. If anyone eats a lot, it’s that glutton over there.”

  He gestured toward Zhu, who was already tearing into the limb of what appeared to be a large roasted bird, his eyes gleaming with childlike satisfaction.

  He paid no attention to Tunde, who was clearly used to the sight by now.

  Elyria laughed, shaking her head.

  “Be that as it may, it’s good to see you.

  Now, tell me everything.”

  She raised a single finger before he could begin.

  Her metal arm glowed as a delicate rune flared to life, releasing a soft pulse of aura.

  The silence barrier around their table thickened, subtly shifting.

  Sera frowned.

  “Another aura barrier?”

  Elyria nodded.

  “The clan provided the original silence formation, but whoever set it up could still listen in. This should keep our conversation private.”

  Zhu and Sera nodded, both still chewing as they absorbed her words.

  Tunde took a deep breath and began.

  He started with Black Rock’s war, the wasteland king, and everything that had transpired since.

  He spared no detail, speaking until his voice grew hoarse.

  By the time he finished, Elyria was staring at him with a mixture of disbelief and muted horror.

  She looked between him, Sera, and Zhu before letting out a short, tight laugh.

  “And I thought I had it bad.”

  Tunde shrugged.

  “Story of my life.”

  Her gaze flicked downward, landing on his wrist—on the dark tattoo that marked the relic’s binding.

  “And that?” she asked, her tone quieter now.

  “Still the same,” he replied simply.

  There was no need for her to know how far he had truly come.

  Elyria exhaled, leaning back in her chair.

  The silver threads woven into her gown caught the candlelight, subtly accentuating the sharp lines of her face.

  Tunde forced himself to look away, but not before catching Sera’s mischievous smirk.

  He rolled his eyes, mentally cursing her before shifting the conversation.

  “You have no idea where the phantoms have kept Miria?” Elyria asked.

  Tunde’s jaw clenched.

  “I hope to find out soon. By the end of the tournament, if the rumors are true, I might reach either the peak of Highlord or even the early stages of the Master Realm. And then…” He exhaled sharply.

  “I’ll go get her myself. Consequences be damned.”

  Elyria’s metal fingers seized his jaw, tilting his face so that their eyes locked.

  She studied him for a long, heavy moment before nodding to herself.

  “You’ve lost it. Good.”

  Tunde blinked.

  “Lost what?”

  “That look of self-loathing and hesitation,” Elyria said.

  Sera snorted.

  “Tunde?” she asked as if the very idea was laughable.

  Elyria nodded.

  “Believe it or not, he was once timid. Too scared to act. Ruthless when he did, but always cautious.”

  Tunde sputtered as Zhu solemnly nodded.

  “Bahataba preserve us,” the Ethralite muttered, looking almost sincere.

  Elyria smirked.

  “Now, though, he looks exactly as I envisioned. A true cultivator.”

  Tunde groaned.

  “Alright, alright, enough about me. What about you, Elyria?”

  Her expression sobered.

  She set her cup down with a quiet sigh.

  “I fought my way to the Technocracy. Made friends along the way. Lost those friends along the way. Found myself in the middle of a faction war. Managed to gain the attention of a master as a Lord. Rebuilt my fighting style. Gained a new concept. Beat a dozen Lords to be chosen as the Technocracy’s team leader for the tournament.” She exhaled.

  “And here I am.”

  Tunde blinked, processing the sheer weight of it.

  The entire table had gone silent.

  Even Zhu had stopped eating.

  Elyria smiled sadly.

  “Come to BlackRock,” Tunde blurted out.

  Elyria laughed, patting his shoulder.

  “Oh, Tunde. It’s not as bad as it sounds.”

  He caught her wrist, holding it in silence.

  An unspoken understanding passed between them before he poured himself a cup of wine.

  “And Thorne?” he asked softly, avoiding her gaze.

  The joviality in Elyria’s expression vanished.

  “What about him?”

  “What happened to him?”

  She hesitated before answering.

  “I don’t know much, but… they call him the Butcher of the Ghoul King.”

  Tunde’s stomach dropped.

  “What?”

  Elyria pursed her lips, measuring her next words.

  “You remember what you said about flesh binders?”

  He nodded slowly.

  “Well, guess who we found harvesting them for the Revenant Cult just days before arriving in the capital?”

  Tunde’s breath caught.

  “Thorne’s a flesh binder?”

  “No,” Elyria said, shaking her head.

  “The flesh binders offended the Revenants. Thorne was the one they sent after them—along with others.”

  “Others?” Sera asked.

  Elyria nodded.

  “The Revenants function differently from other cults. They operate like the Technocracy—structured, methodical. Each of their paragons is known as a King, and each King has an Heir.”

  Tunde felt a chill creep down his spine.

  “Thorne,” he breathed.

  Elyria gave a grave nod.

  “Indeed. Thorne is the Heir to the Ghoul King.”

  A heavy silence fell over the table.