The second round of the tournament began the very next day, bright and early, within the sprawling Grand Valley. Unlike the day before, this time the contestants did not face each other upon the stage. Instead, they stood ready before a shimmering, roiling rift that distorted the air with its presence. Ethra bled from its edges in violent wisps, crackling with the unmistakable pressure of a Highlord-class rift. The power emanating from it pressed against the gathered cultivators like a tidal wave, forcing many to shield themselves instinctively from the taint of its unfiltered Ethra.

  All except Tunde.

  He stood still, unbothered, letting the Ethra wash over him like a warm breeze. His body absorbed and refined it effortlessly, his physique having long transcended what most would call normal even for a cultivator of his rank. The reaction didn’t go unnoticed—several eyes flicked toward him, eyebrows raising ever so slightly, the air of curiosity and wariness thickening around him.

  A thunderous cheer from the watching crowd shook the valley, rattling the banners and stands. Then, cutting through the sound like a blade, came the booming voice of the announcer.

  “Welcome, all, to the second day of the tournament!” he declared, and the crowd roared in response.

  “This round will be unlike the first! Each faction’s cultivators must now work together to accomplish a singular objective within a rift nurtured specifically for this trial.”

  Murmurs rippled through the audience and contestants alike.

  “Inside this rift,” the announcer continued, “await Tier 5 rift creatures, and scattered throughout—crimson Ethra shards. These shards are embedded within a realm teetering on the edge of collapse, nearly consumed by a violent tempest that ravages the land without pause!”

  Tunde’s eyes narrowed as he stared into the chaotic rift. It was wild and unrelenting—raw power incarnate.

  “Sight will be a liability. Only complete trust in your faction members will see you through to the end,” the announcer warned, his tone now grim. “Each of you has been given a return shard—linked directly to the overseers of this round.”

  Tunde glanced at the small, sky-blue shard nestled in his palm. It pulsed faintly with restrained power.

  “If, at any point, you wish to concede, simply shatter the shard in your hand and a master will appear to retrieve you. No shame, no punishment. And remember—no killing. The eyes of the heavens are upon you.”

  Then, with a pulse of ancient power, the rift opened wide, revealing a maelstrom of wind, Ethra, and distortion. The very air screamed with force as howling gusts tore at the valley, flapping the robes of hundreds.

  But no one hesitated.

  Entire factions leapt forward in bursts of speed, diving headlong into the vortex as the tempest snatched them up like leaves, flinging them across the rift’s chaotic interior. Tunde followed, wrapping his body in aura at the last second. He willed the force aspect of his concept to steady himself, anchoring his center. Even so, the winds were savage.

  A hand latched onto his shoulder amid the whirlwind—Zhu, his Ethralite glowing steadily. His other arm held onto Sera, who in turn clung tightly to Jing. Their chain of connection kept them from being completely separated as they were hurled through space.

  The chaos only lasted seconds before they slammed violently into the jagged side of a colossal mountain. Tunde was on his feet almost instantly, unshaken. Zhu rose beside him, both of them barely winded—their tempered bodies absorbing the impact with ease.

  They scanned their surroundings.

  The landscape was alien and endless: a vast rift realm filled with towering mountains that stretched beyond the horizon, all bathed in a constant grey gloom. Ethra-infused winds shrieked across the expanse, forcing them to shield their faces as the wind clawed at their skin. Words were swallowed by the storm.

  Tunde’s weapon was already in hand, its shape coalescing into a sleek, midnight-black sword that seemed to drink in the surrounding winds. His instincts screamed a warning, and he twisted in one fluid motion. With a single clean strike, he sliced a boulder the size of a man clean in half, the pieces exploding on impact with the earth.

  Sera and Jing had regained their footing by then, both of them moving to defensive positions as more debris began to rain down—rocks hurtling through the air with deadly speed.

  The announcer hadn’t lied. The tempest wasn’t just wind—it was infused with Ethra, aggressive and unpredictable. Sight was nearly useless. Only instinct allowed them to respond fast enough to the barrage. For most, that was a severe handicap.

  But not for Tunde.

  With Ethra Sight, he saw through the chaos—his dominion illuminating the entire area. He extended it outward, suppressing the tempest in a localized bubble. The winds quieted, a momentary calm allowing them to breathe.

  Quickly, he carved the runes for a basic barrier technique into the ground. A ripple of power surged up, forming a protective dome around their position. The incoming projectiles smashed against it but lost most of their force—robbed of power by Tunde’s dominion before impact.

  “This place is the brainchild of a sadist,” Zhu muttered, scanning the storm as Sera and Jing kept watch.

  “We need to start finding those crimson tempest shards,” Jing said, her voice sharp with urgency.

  Tunde nodded, pointing toward a jagged ridge in the distance.

  “We move that way.”

  “The moment we leave the barrier, we’ll be exposed again,” Sera muttered, her gaze lingering on the howling winds beyond the dome.

  “All the more reason to start now,” Tunde replied calmly. His thoughts drifted to the others—he wondered how the rest of the contestants were faring.

  Flashes of light flared across the mountainscape, blue pulses vanishing into the air—cultivators shattering their return shards. Cowards, perhaps. Or simply those wise enough to recognize when death stood too close.

  “Seems some value their lives more than a tournament victory,” Jing noted, not unkindly.

  Tunde gave a brief nod. But he wasn’t one of them. Not while he still had breath, not when the rewards outweighed the bruises.

  “Then we stay together and move as fast as possible to the next mountain,” he said firmly.

  Zhu’s body shimmered as jade scales rippled beneath his skin, a subtle reminder of the durability that rivaled Tunde’s own. The four launched forward in a flash, weaving through the blinding winds.

  Tunde and Zhu led the charge, destroying any debris that dared approach their formation. Behind them, Sera and Jing struggled to expand their perception through the oppressive tempest, their senses muffled by the sheer weight of the storm. It wasn’t just wind—there was authority embedded within the rift itself, thick and oppressive, suppressing even their spirits.

  All except Tunde’s.

  He didn’t need to reach out with his senses. Ethra Sight laid everything bare.

  And what it revealed now sent a spike of focus through him: a squad of cultivators fighting on the next mountain. They were engaged in combat with a rift creature—a towering beast of stone, pulsing with Highlord-class Ethra. Four massive arms swung in devastating arcs, hammering away at the Green Fire faction’s defenders.

  Tunde’s grip on his sword tightened.

  The real test had begun.

  Tunde crashed into the mountain like a thunderbolt, feet planting hard against the stone as dust billowed around him. His eyes, glowing faintly with Ethra, locked immediately onto the five cultivators ahead. One spun around, reacting with impressive speed—his hammer already swinging for Tunde’s head.

  But Tunde’s blade was faster.

  Steel clanged against steel as he parried, then twisted with fluid brutality, slamming a precise strike into the side of the cultivator’s head. The man collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut—unconscious, maybe dead. Tunde didn’t stop to check; he knew the weight of a simple Lord-tier when he hit one.

  Another opponent moved, conjuring a flaming bird of green Ethra. The projection screamed toward him, but his dominion flared in answer, absorbing the brunt—just in time for Zhu to arrive in a blur, a vicious kick to the shin sending the second cultivator sprawling.

  The remaining three were locked in combat with a stone rift creature, leaving them vulnerable to the four who had just arrived. Tunde surged forward, Joran’s Wrath crackling along the edge of his weapon. The blade met the creature’s chest with a devastating crash, Ethra exploding as the Highlord-tier monster shattered into rubble and red mist. Dust settled as he reached into the remains and seized the red shard embedded in its chest, slipping it into his void ring without pause.

  “Does the Talahan Clan have no dignity?” a voice snarled behind him.

  Tunde turned, eyes narrowing at the two remaining cultivators. One of them glared with burning hatred, standing back-to-back with his companion. Before them, Zhu, Jing, and Sera stood calmly—hands on weapons, a storm of power ready to be unleashed.

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  “That shard belonged to us,” the second cultivator growled.

  “Hm. Except… this is a competition,” Tunde replied with chilling calm.

  “You stain the Talahan Clan with your actions, wastelan—” the first began, but his insult was never finished.

  Zhu’s fist hit like an avalanche, caving the cultivator’s chest inward and launching his body off the mountain. Winds howled as he was swept away into the roaring tempest.

  “Mind repeating what your friend just said?” Zhu asked lightly, cracking his fingers. Tunde heard the quiet fury beneath his voice and felt pride swell in his chest.

  “He didn’t seem to finish it,” the Ethralite added.

  The last cultivator snarled and rushed toward the bodies of his companions. “You’ve made an enemy of the Wu Sect.”

  Tunde raised a brow, silent, his presence alone a challenge. Then—flash—a streak of light heralded the arrival of a new figure. A master.

  Clad in grey robes, face hidden behind a smooth, featureless mask, the figure appeared between them without a sound.

  “Killing is frowned upon,” the master said, voice calm but laced with warning.

  “He isn’t dead,” Zhu said, gesturing to the first Highlord-tier he'd launched into the wind.

  “Barely,” the master replied, turning to the remaining Wu cultivator and his unconscious allies.

  “I assume you’d prefer to surrender? I doubt you could handle another round with the Talahan Clan,” he said with a dry chuckle.

  Cursing, the Wu cultivator crushed his shard in fury.

  “Wise choice,” the master said as he grabbed them all and vanished in a flash of light.

  Tunde exhaled, glancing at the spot they’d just vacated.

  “That was impressive,” Jing said, giving him a look. Sera mock-gagged while Zhu snorted.

  “I’m the one who flattened the loudmouth, and he gets all the praise?” Zhu complained.

  “He took down an early-tier Highlord rift beast without flinching,” Jing replied with a shrug. “That’s impressive.”

  “We need to move,” Tunde interrupted, his voice shifting into focus.

  A second later, his instincts screamed.

  His blade was up in a blur, intercepting a scythe of wispy black energy that radiated such malevolence, even his Ethra recoiled. It hissed where the two forces met.

  A figure appeared from the shadows.

  Lanky, with snow-white hair and empty eyes that betrayed no soul—yet a serene smile curled her lips as she gripped the scythe tighter.

  “Envoys!” Jing shouted; horror laced in her voice.

  All around them, black figures began to manifest, forming from shadows. Tunde cursed himself for lowering his guard.

  “You’re interesting,” the female envoy said, voice rasping like wind scraping stone. She twirled the oversized scythe in her hands.

  Tunde’s Ethra Sight flared, revealing the dark, grainy Ethra that surrounded her—it corroded even the Ethra of the rift, a vile presence that gnawed at the very aether of the world.

  He moved.

  Spear flashing with relentless fury, he engaged her, only for two other envoys to rush him as well.

  Envoys. Cultists of death. A fanatical faction that worshiped finality itself—active mostly on the endless islands of the Boundless Seas. Their mortal enemies were the cult of undeath, but clearly, the lines of the competition blurred all such rules.

  Tunde let loose his most devastating technique—Empty Silence. His weapon shone with it as he struck, the power erasing the scythe of one envoy, shattering it and sending him into a seizure of agony.

  The female envoy’s eyes widened in shock. She disengaged instantly, the others following.

  “What kind of technique was that?” she snarled.

  “Anaya, it seems you’ve met your match,” Jing called out, blade at the ready.

  “Anaya?” Tunde asked.

  “The chosen student paragon of the Death Cult. Requiem’s prized heir,” Jing explained with a smirk.

  “Be careful,” Tunde warned. “Their Ethra does… something.”

  “Ours is the command of Death itself,” Anaya hissed, “and you’ll pay for what you did to my companion.”

  “You attacked us first,” Zhu said bluntly. “That’s just dumb.”

  “Shut it, true beast filth,” another envoy spat.

  Zhu turned to Tunde, who nodded.

  The Ethralite blurred into motion, jade-scaled fist smashing into the envoy’s scythe, shattering it. A boulder followed, crashing into the envoy and knocking him unconscious as he spiralled away.

  Anaya moved to intercept—but Tunde was already there.

  His spear shifted into a naginata, boundless Asura-style blows raining down. She deflected and dodged with elegance and speed—enough that Tunde dropped any thought of underestimating her.

  Then—Empty Silence.

  His weapon flared again, and she reeled back, eyes wide. A burst of death Ethra flared around her, manifesting into the image of a tattered, hooded figure.

  “Tunde, dodge!” Jing shouted.

  The figure struck.

  It wasn’t flesh it sought—but soul. The blow hit his spirit directly, sending pain lancing through his essence. For a moment, the icy grip of death reached for him.

  But it shattered.

  Within him, the guardian of his bloodline—the wolf that stood watch over his soul—awoke, tearing the attack apart.

  His blade rose again, intercepting a follow-up strike as Sera arrived, her blades of Ethra slicing into the envoy. She screamed in pain and tried to retreat.

  Tunde caught her arm and sliced cleanly through it.

  Eyes wide in agony, Anaya screamed as he caught the void ring on the severed limb and tossed the arm back at her.

  Anaya caught it with her remaining hand, blood pouring from the stump—only for Sera’s dominion technique to flare. The blood ignited violently, resisting even its owner, as Anaya screamed again and vanished into a streak of black, the other envoys following in retreat.

  Tunde held the void ring in his hand as Jing stared at him, eyes wide.

  “How?” she asked.

  “How what?” he replied, catching his breath.

  “We need to move!” Zhu shouted as the roaring winds of the tempest returned with savage force.

  They dashed to another mountain—this one oddly stationary. The moment they landed, a shimmering barrier wrapped around it, shielding them from the winds.

  “You survived the Requiem Strike,” Jing muttered, like she couldn’t believe her own words.

  “I’m beginning to think this Paragon of Undeath might be a little vain,” Zhu added. “Who names their technique after themselves?”

  “And you’d be right,” Jing replied. “Requiem is one of the deadliest beings alive. That technique has killed too many masters to count. He passed it on to his favorite student.”

  “And you just walked it off,” she added, staring.

  “What does it do, exactly?” Sera asked.

  “It targets the soul,” Tunde replied. “Shatters it. Once your soul dies, your body soon follows.”

  Silence followed.

  “Isn’t that against the rules?” Sera asked, voice tight.

  “It’s not an immediate death,” Jing answered. “It takes hours. By the time the competition ends, the cultivator is just an empty husk. Their stages unravel, one by one.”

  Zhu’s eyes lingered on Tunde, worry in his gaze.

  “I’m fine,” Tunde assured him. “And more importantly... I got this.”

  He held up the void ring.

  “That’s why you cut off her arm?” Zhu asked, impressed. “Damn.”

  “The void ring of Anaya... what sort of treasures lie within?” Jing whispered.

  “Probably death stuff,” Sera muttered.

  “Except without her dead, there’s no way to—” Jing began, but stopped as Tunde opened it.

  “Wait—how?! Is she—?”

  “Dead? No. I just have my ways,” Tunde said cryptically, his void concept unraveling the ring’s protections.

  Resources poured out.

  Specialized pills for Death Ethra, rare elixirs, a dozen golden Aurum cards, and a literal mountain of lumens that towered above them.

  Zhu let out a low whistle.

  “So let me get this straight,” Jing said slowly. “You embarrassed the chosen of Requiem, stole her void ring, cracked it open, and sent their whole team fleeing?”

  “Pretty much, yeah,” Zhu replied, nonchalant as he picked through the elixirs.

  “You do realize you’ve made an enemy of a paragon, right?” Jing asked.

  Sera snorted. Zhu chuckled.

  Tunde smiled.

  Then he laughed.

  The three of them joined in, the sound echoing across the wind-sheltered mountain as Jing just stared, confused, while they sorted through the literal pile of loot.

  ***********************

  Anaya seethed, every breath dragging hot shame through her chest like coals on raw skin. Her arm had been reattached — nothing a Grade 5 healing elixir couldn’t mend — but the wound ran deeper than flesh. It wasn’t the pain that stung. It was the humiliation. The raw, consuming disgrace of being defeated so thoroughly, of being disarmed, of being mocked.

  By him.

  By the one they called the Wastelander.

  Anaya clenched her jaw as they landed roughly on another jagged mountain, sweat soaking her snow-white hair, making it cling to her face. Her inky black eyes flared with fury, dark Ethra simmering around her like a miasma of death barely held at bay.

  “My lady,” an envoy spoke, stepping forward. His features were gaunt, skin pale and expressionless — what little concern he could muster flickered in his eyes.

  The Envoy Path purged emotions from its adherents. It stripped them down to reverence for one thing only — the pursuit of death, of its truth, its stillness. They were supposed to be empty. Supposed to be perfect.

  But Anaya knew better. She’d always known better. Some emotions refused to be carved out. Some things burned too brightly. The terror of facing her teacher. The shame of her defeat. The sheer, overwhelming pressure of that moment when the Wastelander had survived Requiem’s Strike — the signature technique passed down by Requiem himself, the paragon of the Death Cult.

  That attack was never meant to be survived. And yet, he had. Effortlessly.

  She snarled and gripped her scythe tighter, the metal groaning under the pressure.

  “What about the others?” she asked, voice sharp as broken bone. The two envoys crushed by the Wastelander and that beast of a man cloaked in jade aura — both of them Highlords. Both of them overwhelmed.

  “Gone,” another envoy replied. “Most likely taken by masters. Retrieved before death.”

  Back to the Cult. Back to the silent chambers and the cold halls. Left to the mercy of Requiem himself. Anaya didn’t envy them. Not one bit.

  And she knew, with a sinking certainty in her gut, that if she didn’t make this right, she would share their fate.

  “The Wastelander must die,” she growled, every word laced with intent.

  “Normally, I’d agree with that sentiment,” a new voice cut through the haze of her rage, calm and unhurried. “But I know Tunde well enough.”

  The envoys reacted instantly. Scythes raised, Ethra flaring, protective formations springing up. Anaya snapped her head around and hissed like a cornered beast.

  “You,” she spat.

  Thorne stood before them, shadows coiling lazily around his form as he stepped from the veil of a broken concealment formation. His grin was lazy, but his presence was anything but. All around him, more revenants emerged from the mist, silent as death.

  “Were you planning an ambush?” she sneered, scythe braced and ready. “How typical of your kind, Revenant filth.”

  Thorne chuckled, brushing dust from his robes with a flick of his hand.

  “You envoys have such lofty opinions of yourselves,” he said, his tone light, mocking. “And usually, I’d let you keep your delusions. But not today.”

  His weapon emerged — a jagged bone blade, pulsing with dark veins of power. A spectral skull clung to the hilt; its hollow eyes lit with ghostly green fire. Thorne rolled his neck, bones cracking, then pointed the blade toward her.

  “You went after someone of interest to me,” he said simply. “That’s a little… rude.”

  Anaya blinked, confusion breaking through her fury for a fraction of a second. “What business do you have with the Wastelander?”

  Thorne only smiled. “That’s none of your concern. But I see now Tunde is too kind — returning your arm, when he could’ve left you crippled. Still much to teach him.”

  Her scowl deepened, the implication crashing down on her like a wave of ice.

  “You dare interfere? After the order was given?” she snapped.

  There was meant to be an alliance — a tenuous, threadbare one between the unorthodox sects. A mirror of the unity the orthodox factions tried to enforce. A pact not to kill each other.

  “Oh, I’m very aware,” Thorne said, eyes gleaming. “The order was not to kill members of the unorthodoxy during the competition. Which is ridiculous, considering the banquet’s rules are basically the same.”

  He stepped forward, aura shifting subtly.

  “But see, that order said nothing about not fighting.”

  Anaya’s rage detonated, her Ethra erupting in waves of black and violet flame. The Path of Death's essence flame surged around her, curling into the shape of a hooded wraith. Her aura screamed defiance, soul energy forming behind her like a storm about to break.

  Thorne sighed, almost bored.

  “You envoys and your soul attacks,” he muttered. Then he grinned, lifting his blade.

  “You forget one thing.”

  He pointed the bone blade forward.

  “We don’t have souls.”

  And with that, the revenants charged, silent and deadly.

  Thorne vanished into the fray, laughing as he joined the battle.