The mountain they stood upon had appeared to be a safe zone—a sanctuary amidst the chaos of the rift. At least, that’s what they’d believed at first. The distant echoes of battle rang out like war drums across the shattered land, giving them a brief moment of respite. Tunde and the others used the lull to sort through the spoils stolen from Anaya’s void ring, leaving the death-aspected items they had no use for. What had once been a treasure trove of resources was now little more than an empty husk. Tunde pocketed the ring after the last useful item was claimed, the emptiness of its interior mirroring the tension rising in his chest.

  Among the loot was a cache of fifty crimson shards—precious currency in the rift’s brutal economy. As the one who had pried the ring from the envoy’s cold hands, Tunde was given the responsibility of carrying them.

  “We’re falling behind on crystals,” Tunde muttered, his expression dark, the weight of their slow progress settling on his shoulders.

  “To be fair, this round just started,” Zhu replied, cracking his neck as he scanned their surroundings.

  Then he froze.

  “What?” Tunde asked, immediately alert, already attuned to the subtle shifts in Zhu’s aura.

  “This mountain…” Zhu murmured, his gaze sharpening as he began to turn in place.

  Jing was the first to react, drawing her blade in one smooth motion. Sera followed suit, her Ethra already churning as the ground beneath them began to tremble. Tunde’s weapon shimmered, reshaping itself into a longsword, void Ethra coiling along its length like black fire.

  Then the mountain struck.

  Two massive stone hands burst from the ground without warning, snatching Tunde and Zhu in one terrifying sweep. Tunde activated Joran’s Wrath, the violent pulse of void energy ripping through the projection technique that had deceived them. Zhu's raw strength surged forth, shattering his own prison as the group quickly regrouped, the tension snapping taut like a drawn bowstring.

  “Should’ve known this place was too good to be true,” Sera hissed, her eyes darting from shadow to shadow.

  A shrill cry pierced the air as flocks of stone birds came hurtling down from above, wings like jagged knives and beaks honed to impale. Zhu’s aura exploded outward, forming the spectral image of a monstrous insect. Its keening shriek reverberated like a war horn, disrupting the flight paths of the birds, sending them into a chaotic descent. Zhu launched into the air, his sickle gleaming as it tore through their stone bodies like paper.

  Tunde’s Ethra Sight activated, staring deep into the heart of the mountain—only, what he saw made no sense. It took a heartbeat for the truth to register.

  “We need to get off this mountain—now!” he shouted, launching skyward.

  But something pushed back.

  A surge of raw Highlord-level Ethra power slammed into them mid-air, yanking them back down. The mountain convulsed beneath their feet, groaning as if waking from a centuries-old slumber.

  “What the hell is happening?” Jing called out.

  “The entire mountain is alive!” Tunde snapped, his tone grim. Jing’s expression blanched at the realization.

  Through his Ethra Sight, Tunde had seen it—an immense, glowing crystal heart buried deep within the stone. This wasn’t terrain. It was a creature. Worse, the so-called "barrier" that had lured them in wasn’t meant to protect them—it was to protect it. A containment field, not a shield.

  With a roar, Tunde’s blade shifted into a massive warhammer. Void Ethra ran down its shaft, condensing at the head. He slammed it down, triggering the full might of the Void Realm. The mountain howled in response, the blow cracking its surface and breaking their restraints. The others recovered quickly, scattering across the terrain as they began to understand the scale of the threat.

  Zhu’s sickle spun like a storm, carving through wave after wave of stone. Tunde followed, his warhammer pulsing with void light as it smashed down on the mountain’s hide, forcing it to shudder. Cracks spread out like veins of pain as humanoid figures began to claw their way from the earth—faceless, stone-bodied golems born of the living mountain.

  “Anyone else feel like we’re fighting the rift guardian itself?!” Sera yelled as she dashed forward, blades flashing.

  Tunde's brow furrowed. The thought wasn’t far-fetched. They had yet to even locate the rift’s core—if it had one—and that made this situation even more precarious. If this mountain was the core…

  His hammer crashed down again, sending out a pulse of void that devoured a cluster of the stone creatures. Crimson shards clattered to the ground and were quickly swept into his ring. Then, the scent of petrichor reached his senses—faint at first, then growing stronger.

  Tunde’s eyes widened.

  “The Tempest! It’s coming back!”

  And that wasn’t the only problem.

  Dozens of presences erupted in the distance—cultivators, powerful ones, streaking toward their location like falling stars. Tunde’s Ethra Sight detected them all at once, his breath catching.

  Unspoken, the group closed in around him.

  Tunde raised his hammer again.

  “Get ready to go deep!”

  “Deep?!” Jing echoed, incredulous.

  Tunde didn’t answer. The hammer came down with a devastating crash, his Empty Silence technique exploding outward, obliterating part of the mountain’s shell. The creature screamed in rage. Zhu was the first to dive into the newly made tunnel, followed closely by Sera, both of them trusting Tunde’s instincts without hesitation.

  As he turned to follow, something struck him from behind.

  He pivoted instinctively, swinging the hammer in a wide arc. It met a metal gauntlet mid-strike, the clash sending shockwaves through the air. The impact pushed him back, just enough for him to shove Jing into the opening.

  He turned, meeting the eyes of his attacker.

  A bald-headed cultivator stood before him, clad in brown robes, silver gauntlets gleaming with runes of reinforcement.

  “So… you’re the Wastelander?” the man said with a cocky grin, stepping forward.

  Tunde’s Ethra Sight flared, immediately parsing the cultivator’s technique—an imbuement strike, power coalescing around the man's fist. Tunde answered in kind, activating Joran’s Wrath. Their blows collided, creating a concussive shockwave that tore through the terrain and forced both fighters apart.

  Tunde winced, flicking his wrist from the residual sting. Then three more figures landed beside the gauntleted man—each one radiating power.

  One bore a longbow, his slender frame relaxed but coiled like a snake. The second was a spear-wielding woman, her aura controlled, deadly. The third stood tall and broad, wielding a greatsword crackling with blue lightning that danced along its length like a living beast.

  Tunde raised his hammer—and willed it into the sleek shape of his naginata. The weapon shimmered as it transformed, responding to his will.

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  The four cultivators observed him closely.

  “Well?” the spear-wielder asked coolly.

  “He’s strong,” the fist-user replied, frowning.

  “As expected of a main branch student,” the archer added, already drawing his bow.

  In a single, fluid motion, he loosed four Ethra-tipped arrows. Tunde dodged, but they curved mid-flight, pursuing him relentlessly. He activated Void Realm, the distortion field dissolving the arrows before they could strike.

  The spearwoman closed the gap in a flash, her weapon stabbing forward. Tunde parried, only to sidestep another blow from the gauntleted cultivator. Lightning screamed as the greatsword came next, a projection in the form of a fanged serpent lashing out.

  It struck with viperous speed, clashing against his Void Realm with brute force—just as the gauntlet came again, a hammering strike that could shatter bone.

  Tunde moved with a dancer’s grace, his naginata spinning in slow arcs as he prepared for battle.

  He watched as the enemy group coordinated their movements, even as explosions of energy lit up the air around them. The chaos of battle was in full swing, with cultivators from different factions converging from all sides—trading blows, unleashing techniques, clashing fiercely.

  The flashes of teleportation constructs began to multiply, Masters appearing and disappearing in bursts of light as they ferried away badly wounded participants. Cultivators dropped like flies, their crimson tempest crystals stolen almost as quickly as they’d obtained them.

  "Who are you?" Tunde asked, his tone quiet but hard as iron, eyes fixed on the spearwoman twirling her weapon with unnerving calm.

  "You have quite the enemies, wastelander," she replied, her voice laced with derision.

  Tunde’s grip on his naginata tightened.

  "Not too many people call me that and walk away," he said, his tone dry, almost amused.

  The greatsword cultivator chuckled, lifting his massive blade with disturbing ease.

  "The Talahan clan has spoiled you, especially with that soulbound weapon of yours."

  Tunde cast a glance at his naginata and smirked. The realization struck him—how confident he had become. Even surrounded, even facing enemies of obvious pedigree and power, he stood calmly, a part of him relishing the danger. The thrill of battle coursed through his veins like fire, almost intoxicating.

  "You want it?" he asked, voice low, watching their expressions shift—weariness and insult flaring behind their cultivated masks.

  "Then don’t blame me for what comes next," he finished, leveling his weapon at them.

  The spearwoman surged forward first, her dominion manifesting around her—a dozen Ethra and aura-infused projection spears spun above her, humming with destructive potential. Her real spear trailed essence flames, its edge glowing.

  The fist user flanked to the left, his arms wrapped in silver Ethra, essence flames licking his skin, his movements deadly and precise. The greatsword cultivator mirrored the tactic from the right, boxing Tunde in.

  Behind them, the bow user calmly knocked an arrow. Dozens of others formed around him, burning with aura and Ethra, floating in the air like a deadly halo.

  It was clear this was a maneuver they had practiced countless times. Refined, brutal, efficient. Against an average cultivator, it would’ve ended the fight in moments.

  But to Tunde?

  It only confirmed how inexperienced they truly were.

  Never leave the ranged cultivator alone.

  Void Step activated—Tunde vanished in a flicker of distortion, completely bypassing the spearwoman. He appeared in front of the bow user, mid-swing.

  His naginata slashed sideways.

  Blood sprayed in an arc as the bow cultivator cried out, a scream torn from his lungs in a high-pitched shriek of pain. Fingers hit the ground alongside a stolen void ring. Tunde had already moved on.

  The others froze—momentarily thrown off—but the fist cultivator reacted fastest, lunging with a shout and fists ablaze.

  Tunde welcomed it.

  He needed justification. He was sure the rift was being watched through viewing constructs by the eyes of Masters and authorities. He needed to show he hadn't struck first with lethal intent.

  Now, he had his excuse.

  He met the fist user’s blow with Empty Silence, the technique wrapping his hands in its eerie stillness. Their fists collided—his bare, the other covered by gauntlets forged at Highlord rank.

  The sound of shattering essence rang out. Tunde’s technique unraveled both the imbuement and the essence flames on contact. The gauntlet fractured, then exploded entirely, bone snapping beneath.

  Pain lanced up Tunde’s arm, but he gritted through it. The damage had been done. His naginata swung in his other hand, deflecting a massive arc from the greatsword user before he followed up with a vicious kick, catching the fist cultivator’s face. Blood exploded from the man’s shattered nose.

  Brutal. Efficient. Unrefined. And effective.

  That was the essence of the Fighting Art of the Boundless Asura—no stylized flourishes or pristine forms like those taught in sects and schools. It was the raw, unfiltered violence of war, distilled into a cultivator’s style. And against pampered Scions of the Empire?

  It worked.

  He pushed harder, pressing the advantage.

  The bow user was writhing on the ground, bleeding heavily. He reached for a healing elixir—only to discover his void ring was gone. Horror contorted his face.

  Left with no choice, he shattered his shard, summoning a Master who whisked him away in a flash of light.

  “You’d make enemies of the Four Great Sects of the Empire?” the greatsword cultivator growled, blood dripping from his broken nose. The spearwoman took a cautious step back, visibly uncertain.

  “You know what you all are?” Tunde began, voice like thunder breaking calm.

  "A bunch of entitled, small-minded brats," he continued, watching their expressions twist with rage.

  "You strut like the world owes you something. And when someone like me appears—someone without your history, without your name—you assume I cheated, bribed, or lied to get here. Because that’s what you would do."

  He slammed the butt of his naginata into the ground. The shock echoed.

  “Well?” he asked coldly.

  The spearwoman roared and lunged at him—but a sudden gust of wind descended from above.

  A figure crashed into her, slamming her body straight into the mountainside. The stone cracked on impact. She lay unmoving.

  Green robes flapped gently as Harumi stepped into view, void ring spinning on one finger.

  “Perfect,” Tunde said with a sigh of relief.

  "You were right," Harumi said, inspecting the downed enemies.

  "They truly were idiots."

  “You…” the fist user stammered, horror dawning in his eyes.

  “Do you understand the gravity of what you’ve just done to your sects?” Harumi cut him off.

  "The Diamond Fist Sect, Piercing Bow, Frost Spear, and Stormblade Sect—attacking a student of the Imperial Clan? Before the individual stages even began?" His voice was sharp, every word cutting deeper.

  “What happened to honor?”

  The fist cultivator moved, perhaps to protest, when a wave of killing intent blanketed the battlefield.

  It was suffocating.

  Tunde's instincts screamed at him. He had only felt this kind of bloodlust from enemies who truly wanted him dead.

  The presence wasn’t fully formed—an early-tiered Highlord—but it was soaked in blood. A soul drenched in slaughter.

  He raised his naginata in silence, its blade glowing with fused Ethra, aura, and essence flame. Beside him, Harumi’s wind blades shimmered into being—the elegance of the Zao Clan manifesting as he, too, sensed the coming storm.

  It hit them like a hammer.

  A cultivator crashed into the Diamond Fist member, bones shattering on impact. Red robes billowed wildly around her—a woman with tangled, windswept hair and a smile that could curdle blood.

  A mace, viciously spiked and stained, hung in her hand. She planted her foot on the Diamond Fist’s throat.

  The spearwoman stirred, moved to help—only for the mace to arc with impossible speed. It clashed with her spear, shattering it and sending her flying, her chest caved in.

  The greatsword user stepped forward, only to have his strike deflected, his throat grabbed, his body slammed into the mountain itself with a thunderous bang.

  “Asura,” Harumi muttered, disgust dripping from every syllable.

  Tunde understood the sentiment. The Asura sect was legendary—barbaric nomads and cultivators who pillaged and murdered their way across the various lands and continents, leaving devastation in their wake. Ifa himself said their name held no true origin, not any longer, not that they knew where they had truly gotten it from

  The Asura woman calmly pulled the Diamond Fist’s void ring from his still form, spilling his blood over it and transferring its contents. The spearwoman, limp and near death, was taken by a silent Master. The Stormblade cultivator wheezed—only to have the mace slammed onto his chest, bones crunching.

  She collected the void rings without a second glance.

  "You’re the wastelander," she said, voice like shattered glass.

  “Everyone keeps calling me that,” Tunde replied, wary. She was deadly—more than anyone here.

  "They call me Shui of the Bloody Mace."

  “Can’t imagine why,” Harumi said dryly.

  She laughed, eyes narrowing.

  "Your uncle won’t save you here, Zao. Not even your islands of wind and blade will survive when the Asuras come knocking."

  Tunde stepped in, voice firm.

  "What do you want?"

  Shui grinned.

  "The girl. The one with the blood affinity. Bring her out, and I’ll consider sparing you and the child."

  Her mace pointed at Harumi, who tightened his grip on his sword.

  “No,” Tunde said.

  Her eyes gleamed—almost like she’d been waiting for that answer.

  “Oh?”

  “I don’t care what business you have with her. Sera is my friend. My teammate. Find easier prey elsewhere.”

  She nodded slowly. And then she moved.

  Her mace came down with devastating force.

  Tunde activated Void Realm—snuffing out her imbuement technique mid-swing. Her eyes widened, adjusting on instinct, but it was too late.

  Joran’s fist crashed into her stomach from the side—his surprise strike blasting her backward with a grunt of pain.

  “Go,” Tunde barked at Harumi. “Inform Jing. Proceed with the plan.”

  "You intend to face an Asura alone?" Harumi asked, a hint of pity in his voice.

  Tunde didn’t answer. His eyes spoke for him.

  Shui rose from the rubble, cackling. Her aura flared—red and wild, filled with bloodlust. Harumi hesitated.

  He couldn’t run from this insult… could he?

  “Not yet, Harumi. Go! They need you.”

  Rationality won. Harumi vanished through a portal; his duty clear.

  “You think to take me alone?” Shui asked, glee in her voice.

  Tunde twirled his naginata, aura flaring as his bloodline’s greed settled into place.

  "Scared?" he asked.

  She grinned, baring teeth.

  “Don’t break too easily,” she whispered—and launched herself at him.