"Who’s the Ghoul King?" Zhu asked, glancing between Tunde and Elyria.

  Tunde sighed, rubbing his temples before answering. "The undead cult has many factions, I believe."

  Elyria, who had been quietly observing, patted his shoulder. "Let me handle this," she said, her voice carrying the confidence of someone well-versed in the topic. "The Technocracy has been dealing with them ever since they ravaged Jade Peak."

  Tunde nodded, deferring to her expertise.

  Elyria turned to Sera and Zhu, who both listened attentively. "You both understand the significance of unorthodox factions, right?"

  Sera nodded immediately, while Zhu merely shrugged. "A bit," the Ethralite admitted.

  "They're bad factions," Sera supplied. "They don’t care much for human lives and practice tainted cultivation arts."

  Elyria chuckled dryly. "That’s a simple way to put it, and for the most part, accurate. But if we’re being honest, no faction—orthodox or unorthodox—truly cares about human lives. Power is the only thing that matters." She waved a hand dismissively before continuing. "But yes, the Revenants, or the Cult of the Undead, are an unorthodox faction that practices the abominable art of undeath. Their cultivation is centered around disrupting the natural order of things, which makes them universally reviled."

  She paused, letting the weight of her words settle before adding, "What makes them unique, however, is the fact that they have nine Paragons."

  Tunde's eyebrows lifted in mild surprise, while Zhu’s eyes widened. "Nine?" Tunde asked incredulously. "I knew they had a few, but that many?"

  Elyria nodded. "Indeed. Nine Paragons and one Regent. Rumors persist that the only reason none of them have advanced to Regent is because they actively sabotage one another—constantly vying for dominance as much as they fight against the other factions."

  "That sounds about right," Tunde muttered.

  "Each Paragon represents a distinct branch of the cult," Elyria continued, ticking them off on her fingers. "There’s the Ghoul King, the Bone King, Death, Shadow, Warlock, Soul, Revenant—representing the original branch—and finally, the Lich."

  Zhu frowned. "Most of them never appear in the same place at the same time, do they?"

  "For obvious reasons," Elyria confirmed. "They’re spread across Adamath, following their Regent’s ever-growing madness to conquer the world in the name of their cult."

  "And how well have they been doing on that front?" Tunde asked, folding his arms.

  "Poorly," Elyria said with a smirk. "They’re the number-one enemy of every major faction. Any time a Paragon reveals themselves—which is rare—they invoke the full wrath of the dominant faction in that region, often forcing their own Regent to intervene. It’s an exhausting cycle for them."

  "So they’re like a plague," Sera muttered with a frown.

  "Precisely," Elyria agreed. "A pest that refuses to die out. They’ve spread too far, and their hidden domain of Necropolis remains elusive, ensuring their continued survival."

  Sera leaned forward slightly. "So what’s this about Thorne being the heir to a Paragon?"

  Elyria sighed. "We don’t know much, but around the same time it became public knowledge that a rebel group from within the Technocracy had broken away to form a new faction—the Flesh Binders—the Revenants began hunting them. Rumors surfaced that the Flesh Binders had somehow managed to kill one of the Revenant Paragons."

  Tunde's eyes narrowed. He glanced around the room before asking, "Is that even possible?"

  Elyria shrugged. "Personally, I doubt it. If a Paragon had truly fallen, the news should have spread like wildfire. But Adamath is a vast place, and for all we know, it could have happened within some forgotten rift or remote battlefield."

  "So the Revenants want to exterminate the Flesh Binders for allegedly killing one of their own," Zhu mused. "And Thorne comes into this how?"

  Elyria’s expression darkened. "It became widely known that each Paragon within the Revenants has their own sub-faction within the cult. The Ghoul King’s faction—along with cultivators from the other branches, or ‘Hands’ as they call themselves—attacked Jade Peak." She turned to Tunde, who nodded grimly.

  "Within these factions exist favored cultivators—those who receive the blessings and favor of their respective Kings. These individuals have proven themselves worthy of their patron’s power and are granted the title of ‘Heir.’"

  "That doesn’t mean they get to take over, though," she clarified. "Many heirs have died over the centuries. But to be an Heir means to be the most favored, the most prized among the Paragon’s followers."

  Tunde’s expression hardened. "And Thorne became this how?"

  Elyria’s lips pressed into a thin line. "Another unorthodox faction—the Asuras—generally keep to themselves. However, in a bid to win the favor of the Ghoul King, who had a personal feud with the Asura Paragon, Thorne did something unthinkable."

  Tunde had a sinking feeling in his chest. "What did he do?"

  "He hunted down and killed one of the Asura Paragon’s most prized students—a Highlord."

  Tunde’s blood ran cold. "For no reason?" he asked softly.

  "To earn the Ghoul King’s favor. Nothing else," Elyria spat. "Typical behavior for a Revenant."

  Sera’s eyes blazed with unspoken fury. "That must have been a grave insult to the Asura Paragon."

  "More than an insult," Elyria corrected. "It was an outright provocation. And what made it even worse was the fact that Thorne accomplished this while he was still just a Lord. A Lord taking down a Highlord Asura is nearly unheard of."

  "Thorne has always been strong," Tunde admitted, though his voice was tight.

  Elyria’s expression twisted with disgust. "After killing the Highlord, he stripped the cultivator’s bones and fashioned a blade from his spinal cord and core—cementing his place as the Ghoul King’s Heir."

  Tunde found himself at a loss for words.

  What manner of madness… what pure, unrelenting evil had driven Thorne to commit such an atrocity?

  "You still consider him sane?" Elyria asked, meeting Tunde’s gaze.

  Tunde clenched his fists. "Makes you wonder if he was telling the truth about not killing his team members," he muttered.

  "Or if it was just the madness in his mind denying the truth," Elyria countered.

  Zhu, ever the disruptor of dark moods, handed Tunde a piece of roasted bird meat. Tunde chuckled, though the sound was hollow.

  Sera folded her arms. "So we treat him as an enemy?"

  Tunde took a deep breath before answering. "Yes." His gaze dropped to the table. He struggled to suppress the pain in his chest, but it lingered, heavy and suffocating. "It hurts to say it. I knew him. Or at least, I thought I knew him." He exhaled sharply. "But the man who stood before me today was not the Thorne I once called a friend. He’s been twisted by the Revenants, corrupted beyond recognition. We can no longer associate with him."

  Elyria met his gaze, waiting for him to say the final words.

  Tunde set his jaw. "Thorne is no longer a friend. No longer an ally. He is a Revenant now. A member of the Cult of Undeath. The Heir to the Ghoul King." His voice was firm, unwavering.

  "He is a threat to us all."

  Elyria raised her cup in salute.

  This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  ************************

  Deep within the heart of Clan Talahan’s ancestral palace, the inner quarters were sacred grounds, inaccessible to even most mainline members of the clan save for rare and monumental occasions. Yet there existed a select few—figures of such overwhelming significance within the Empire—that their presence was not only allowed but required. These individuals, though technically under the dominion of the imperial clan, were by all measures beyond reproach. They were the two paragons of the empire who stood outside the lineage of the imperial family—unavoidable forces that even the highest bloodlines dared not offend.

  Their existence, though officially undocumented, was an open secret whispered among the elite, a myth turned rumor—spoken of, but never confirmed. Few alive had ever laid eyes upon them. Fewer still could say they’d felt their presence. But in the vast chamber of the Clan Head and paragon of Talahan, sealed behind layers of formations and runes, within a sanctum that hummed with primordial energy and bore the mark of Jaito himself—a man who had touched upon the profound laws of reality—their arrival was imminent.

  At their level of cultivation, even silence held meaning. No announcements were needed. Reality itself shivered. The very air trembled in reverence as the chamber subtly warped, stretched, and exhaled—revealing the two paragons. One was a timeless legend, a figure who had walked the realm of Paragon since before the current Patriarch’s ascension. The other had shattered her bottleneck barely a day before and yet carried her newfound authority with the calm grace of someone who had dwelt in that elevated realm for centuries.

  Shi Lian, Paragon and head of the Phantom Sect, emerged in a cloud of all-consuming darkness—so absolute that it seemed to drink the light itself. His aura suffocated all traces of Ethra and aura alike. This was not simply power; it was the embodiment of nothingness—cold, isolating, and all-consuming. The only reason Varis and Rhaelar hadn’t crumbled beneath its weight was the stabilizing presence of Jaito himself, whose domain gently held their sanity intact.

  In contrast, Suyan’s entrance was almost serene, a single step through a slowly expanding rift. Her presence didn’t explode outward—it asserted itself. Subtle but undeniable. Her grey eyes and silver-streaked hair offered no hint of pomp, no extravagant flair, and yet the air tightened around her. The truth, known only to a few, was that the High Warden of the Veil Wardens was a Null—untouched and unshaped by conventional Ethra. Her sword, now famed as the Mountain Cleaver, had once been a dull and insignificant blade, or so the tales claimed. Now it was a relic feared across the empire, and her mere presence signified the will of Talahan made manifest.

  Both paragons bowed before the throne—ivory-black and inlaid with celestial etchings—upon which Jaito reclined, his bearing relaxed, his smile amused, and his eyes assessing.

  “Congratulations, Suyan,” he said, voice soft but resonant. “Breaking into the realm of Paragon is no trivial matter.”

  Varis straightened instinctively. The news of her advancement had been tightly guarded—a silent ace in the clan’s sleeve amidst the gathering of fair-weather allies and shadowed foes for the upcoming competition.

  “I live to serve the clan,” Suyan replied, voice devoid of warmth. Mechanical. Hollow. A construct stripped of emotion, and for the briefest moment, Varis felt a chill. And they called me the cold one.

  “We have ourselves quite the situation,” Jaito said, turning to Shi Lian—the elder with long white brows and wisps of silver hair that framed his deceptively frail visage.

  Varis didn’t buy the illusion. He knew the truth: if Shi Lian wished it, he’d be dead before he even understood how.

  “Indeed,” Lian muttered, his voice raspy, ancient. “To think a runt of the Shadai clan survived—and with a Null protector, no less.”

  His gaze flicked toward Suyan, who calmly returned his stare, arms folded.

  “You reportedly have a child under your granddaughter’s tutelage who uses Shadai techniques,” she accused.

  Shi Lian chuckled, raising a brow. “Mere coincidence, Mistress of Blades. A flick of fate, nothing more.”

  Suyan nodded once. “Then you understand—not all Nulls were wise enough to come under my banner.”

  “Well spoken, my dear,” Lian said smoothly. “Forgive this old man’s insolence.”

  Jaito’s amused chuckle echoed through the chamber, but Varis remained still, glancing briefly at Rhaelar. Their eyes met. They were out of their depth—deeply so—and the Clan Head had summoned them here for a reason. Perhaps to teach them something. Or to test them.

  “A seeker and a Shadai heir in the Empire at the same time,” Jaito mused. “Quite the coincidence, wouldn’t you say?”

  Shi Lian paused. “A seeker?” he asked, brow furrowing.

  “Indeed,” Jaito replied, stroking his beard. “My nephew’s chosen contestant appears to be the last of the seekers. Allegedly, of course. Officially, we can’t acknowledge that—not without inciting the Walkers.”

  “And yet,” Jaito continued, “we’ve had far too many lasts lately, don’t you think?”

  “Execute him,” Suyan said flatly.

  Varis stiffened, heart skipping.

  “Oh?” Jaito asked, clearly intrigued.

  “If seekers are anything like what the histories say, then he’s a threat. Not just to the imperial clan—but to the empire as a whole,” Suyan stated.

  Varis gritted his teeth, forcing himself to remain silent.

  “Perhaps… just perhaps,” Shi Lian said, thoughtfully.

  “Out with it, old man,” Jaito urged, grinning.

  “Could this seeker be the same child who repelled the one who named himself Wasteland King?”

  “Indeed,” Jaito confirmed. “Though ‘repelled’ might be a stretch. Still, it was he.”

  “Then his identity may prove...useful. Especially to my most recent endeavor,” Lian said, eyes gleaming.

  “I was wondering when you’d reveal her presence,” Jaito murmured, eyes flicking to the darkness beside Lian. “She hides well. But not from me.”

  Varis blinked. He hadn't felt a thing—no ripple, no pulse—and yet from Lian’s shadow, a figure emerged, bowing low.

  “I greet the Clan Head,” she whispered.

  Her voice sent a chill down Varis’s spine. Not because it was cold—but because it felt empty. Not masked or hidden, but erased. As if her soul had been sanded down until only the killing instinct remained.

  “Honored Clan Head,” Lian intoned. “I present to you the current interest and student of my granddaughter, and the sole inheritor of the Shadai Clan’s Eclipse Blade Techniques—Miria.”

  Varis’s heart sank. If Tunde were here, he’d have been crushed by despair. This was not the girl he had cherished. Not even a flicker of the old Miria remained. Just a weapon. A puppet in Lian’s grasp.

  He felt shame—cold, bitter shame—for not doing more. For not saving her. And he wondered whether he’d ever tell Tunde. Or if he even could.

  “Impressive,” Jaito said, voice light. “Her exploits in the Undercity were...noteworthy.”

  Lian bowed. “She serves her purpose well. As for the Shadai heir—our resources are in motion. The Null protecting him is skilled at hiding, but it is only a matter of time. Especially with Miria on the hunt.”

  He patted her head gently, a gesture that chilled Varis more than any threat could.

  “Good,” Jaito said. His gaze sharpened. “And I trust you’re aware of the consequences of dallying with a seeker… Varis?”

  Varis bowed deeply, voice calm. “All is under control, Clan Head.”

  Jaito clicked his tongue. “My Warden disagrees. She saw what your seeker did in battle. Others did too. We know just how dangerous he might become.”

  Varis glanced at Miria—no emotion, no response.

  “Tunde, is it?” Suyan asked.

  Varis inclined his head.

  “The boy has promise,” she said. “But he owes much of his progress to you. Is that correct?”

  “In part,” Varis said. “But most of it comes from his own will. His need to protect the ones he treasures.”

  “Ah,” Jaito chuckled. “Then all his efforts are doomed to fail.”

  “Perhaps,” Lian added, hand still resting on Miria’s shoulder. “Perhaps not.”

  “We are reaching the point of no return,” Jaito said, voice turning grave. “The Regents have reached a consensus. At the end of the Convergence, a shift is coming—one that will shake the very foundations of the Empire.”

  Varis glanced at Rhaelar. She subtly shook her head. No, she hadn’t heard of it either. Perhaps their parents knew—if they could be found.

  “Will this... shift endanger the Imperial Clan?” Suyan asked.

  “Not if all goes well,” Jaito replied. “Which is why we cannot leave anything to chance—especially not rogue elements within our own home.”

  Suyan bowed her head. “Your words, my will.”

  Shi Lian echoed the sentiment. “It shall be done.”

  Jaito nodded once, the weight of authority in his voice. “See it done.”

  And with that, both paragons vanished as they had come—through the folds of reality, leaving behind a heavy silence that even the runes in the chamber dared not disturb.

  Varis exhaled slowly, the breath escaping him as though it had been held in for far too long. The echo of power and presence left by the departed paragons still hung in the air like a fading stormcloud. Across from him, Jaito, the clan head of Talahan, sat languidly on his throne of ivory-black stone, fingers drumming a slow, deliberate rhythm on the armrests. The soft sound echoed ominously through the chamber.

  "Do you both understand why I brought you here to witness what just transpired?" he asked, voice calm—almost gentle—but layered with deeper meaning.

  Varis shook his head slightly, casting a glance toward his senior sister. Rhaelar mirrored his motion, just as uncertain.

  Jaito nodded, not surprised. “Because you need to understand something vital—something fundamental to our clan and the Empire as a whole.” He leaned forward just slightly, the weight of his presence pressing down on the room. “Family is everything.”

  He paused for a moment, allowing the words to settle like dust on stone.

  “Even now,” he continued, “the schemings of both unorthodox and orthodox sects stir the waters beneath our feet. When the banquet concludes, it will not be with mere pleasantries and wine. It will end in revelation, upheaval—maybe even blood. The closing act will be... quite interesting.”

  Varis clenched his fists subtly. Too many pieces were moving without his knowledge, and he hated that. He was used to being in control—being prepared. But in this room, under this roof, the scale of the game being played was far beyond his reach.

  “That seeker of yours,” Jaito said, casually, as if speaking of a common soldier instead of a singular existence, “has the potential to become one of our vassal powers. A tool. A weapon to point at our enemies.”

  He paused.

  “Or,” he said, voice dropping an octave, “a thorn in our side—one that may require pruning.”

  A quiet chill seeped into Varis’s spine. Despite himself, he stiffened.

  “He is loyal,” Varis said carefully, choosing his words like stepping stones over a river of blades.

  “Yes,” Jaito replied, a smile playing on his lips. “But for how long? What happens when he learns the truth? That he has been nothing more than a well-placed piece on the gameboard—guided, groomed, and used?”

  The clan head turned his sharp gaze on his nephew, eyes gleaming with a predator’s cunning.

  “That is what he is, isn’t he?” he asked softly.

  Varis hesitated—just for a breath—before lowering his gaze and nodding. “Of course, uncle.”

  The smile deepened. Jaito clearly appreciated the acknowledgment. Not just of loyalty—but of bloodline, of hierarchy, of the game being played.

  “And at the end of the day,” he murmured, voice as smooth as velvet over steel, “what matters most?”

  “Blood,” Rhaelar replied immediately, her voice unwavering, eyes steady.

  “Blood comes first,” Varis whispered, the words heavy in his throat. A vow. A resignation. A truth that could not be escaped.

  Jaito leaned back once more, the faintest look of approval in his expression, as if satisfied that the lesson had finally sunk in.