Her blows met his naginata with raw, unrelenting brute force—something Tunde was more than familiar with. It was how he had begun, his first brutal introduction to the cultivation world and its bloody, ruthless way of life. It was how it had shaped him, honed him, and carved away the softness of youth until only the warrior remained.

  So when Shui’s mace came crashing down onto his naginata, Tunde felt the force aspect of his concept hum in resonance. His weapon parried the blow aside, redirecting the worst of the impact with practiced ease, while the mountain beneath him absorbed the rest—its will flickering through his environment, the ancient entity responding with urgency as it conjured stone humanoids from the earth, hastily formed defenders driven by instinct to protect the greater mind from its aggressors.

  Shui shattered through them with terrifying grace, her assault unrelenting. Ethra Sight traced the paths of her movements, highlighting each twitch of muscle and shift of stance as she conjured more blood-forged maces.

  She sliced her own skin, drawing from her own life force, weeping blood-red tears as her Ethra surged through the fluid with a precision that spoke of decades—no, lifetimes—of practice. Even as Tunde’s Ethra Sight continued to trace her strikes, mapping the patterns buried in her style, his Void Realm pulsed outward, nullifying the techniques laced into her blows, stripping the power from each projected or imbued strike. And yet... Tunde was at a loss for words.

  The sheer ferocity of every blow, the violent symphony of their clashing weapons, the way the sound of steel meeting steel echoed louder than the chaos erupting all around them—it was intoxicating.

  Tunde knew he should be going after the crystals, scooping up as many as he could in the mad rush. But truthfully, this was far more exhilarating. Dancing on the edge of life and death, watching Shui’s blood techniques unfold, trying to seize control of the blood within his own veins—he’d trained for this exact kind of fight, endured countless sessions with Sera to prepare for this level of manipulation. And now, here he was. Holding his own.

  They broke apart for a breath, only for two cultivators to swoop in, hoping to catch Shui off guard.

  The first hurled a chain-held Morningstar, the spiked weapon whistling through the air toward her skull. Shui didn’t even flinch. She dodged with casual elegance, caught the chain mid-flight, and yanked the cultivator toward her like a puppet.

  The second assailant, wielding a large ceremonial fan, unleashed a violent gust of wind, a slicing wall of air meant to break her guard—but Shui’s blood rose up in a crimson barrier, shielding her before retaliating with a volley of blood-forged needles that pierced through the wind and into the man’s flesh.

  Tunde, meanwhile, had his own problems. Two seaborn cultivators surged forward, their weapons forged from serrated bone, their blades accompanied by discs of spinning water fired toward him like blades.

  But the moment the attacks crossed the threshold of his Void Realm, they collapsed—drenched arcs of Ethra nullified and falling to the ground with a useless splash. The seaborn didn’t even have time to react before they found themselves under siege, the mountain's stone defenders rising around them by the dozens.

  The first of the seaborn, sharp-toothed and grinning, let his aura flare. His blue-tinted skin shimmered as his presence expanded, his aura coalescing into the shape of a monstrous sea creature. It exploded forward, crashing into the stone warriors, reducing them to rubble. That gave Tunde the opening he needed.

  He pounced from the side, crashing into the seaborn with a shoulder-check backed by pure intent. The enemy’s imbuement technique flared—but Joran’s wrath answered louder, blasting the seaborn away like driftwood in a storm.

  As the foe skidded across the rocks, Tunde didn’t miss a beat. He reached down, yanked the void ring chained around its neck, and grabbed its bone blade in the same motion, both items vanishing into his own void ring with a pulse of energy.

  The second seaborn, snarling with fury, lunged at him, serrated spear leading the charge. Orbs of water floated beside it, twisting into vicious sea-creatures—mindless constructs ready to devour anything in their path. But as they crossed the threshold into Tunde’s domain, they too dissolved, drained of all power.

  Tunde stepped forward, his body loose, relaxed—yet every motion deadly.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  They traded blows, raw and fast.

  "Filthy human," the seaborn growled, teeth bared, hatred in every word.

  Tunde raised an eyebrow, sidestepping a thrust.

  "And here I was being nice," he replied casually, driving a Void Palm into the creature’s chest.

  The Seaborn flew backward, crashing into the mountain wall with a crunch. Its eyes rolled back, unconscious. Tunde strolled up, tore the void ring from around its neck, and turned the body over with his foot before slipping the ring into his own.

  "And stay down," he muttered, before vanishing into the chaos once more.

  He glanced up toward Shui—only to find that the female had already finished her would-be assailants. What was left of them was a crimson mess, their bodies crumpled and lifeless, void rings now nestled in her grasp. A single master-level cultivator had whisked her away and back again, vanishing into the chaos with them like a ghost.

  "Good," she said, her voice laced with genuine approval.

  "You are truly of the Wastelands."

  Tunde bit back the retort rising in his throat. The Wastelands? No. She was wrong.

  He wasn’t of the Wastelands. He was of Crystalreach. Of jagged cliffs and frozen nights, of the cold, hard ground where food was scarce and hope even scarcer. He was born from tears and forged in pain, carved by hunger, loss, and the slow grind of survival.

  The memory of it all sent a storm howling through his soul—rage, deep and biting, rising like thunderclouds on the edge of a scream. But Tunde only breathed deeply, steadying himself, forcing the emotion down into that quiet place where it gave him focus instead of fury.

  “Leave,” he said, voice low, heavy with warning, “while you still can.”

  Shui blinked at the words, caught off guard.

  “You think you’re stronger than me?” she asked, a sharp edge to her tone.

  Tunde’s grip on his naginata tightened, knuckles whitening as he continued to suppress the hurricane within him.

  “I don’t care what you want with Sera,” he said.

  “She’s long gone. Get out of here. You’ve still got a competition to win.”

  “But you have more than enough Tempest Shards,” she replied, her voice softening for just a moment before her entire countenance shifted.

  Her killing intent snapped into full clarity, and suddenly the battlefield felt smaller, more suffocating. Tunde could feel it—so could the others. Around them, cultivators paused mid-duel and instinctively backed away, retreating, their own battles pulled to safer grounds. No one wanted to be caught between what was about to happen.

  "And Asuras," she continued, “don’t take orders—especially not from cubs like you.”

  Tunde nodded once.

  No more words.

  His naginata rose in silence, while her blood mace answered her call. It pulsed in her hand, veins of dark crimson dancing across its surface as if the weapon itself breathed. Its growing sentience radiated pure madness and rage, bloodlust given form.

  Above her, her aura erupted—taking the shape of a grinning face, massive and malformed, its eyes void of light, its mouth stretching in an eternal, maniacal smile. It was made entirely of blood and twisted intent, a horrific mirror of her killing will. The space around her warped subtly, the weight of her concept bending the Ethra like iron under flame.

  Tunde watched it all gather. Crimson flames of essence flickered around her like living things, and her concept—brutal, raw, and maddened—manifested in full. She stood at the peak of her power, poised to show the world her truth.

  So he showed his.

  It began with the absence of Ethra. A quiet terror. His presence—his very being—began to suck the Ethra from the surrounding air like a vacuum, stealing the breath from the mountain itself. Cold radiated from him in waves as he sank deeper into the void that answered his call, drawing on a darkness that had no bottom. His weapon frosted over, cold to the touch, as he channeled the heart of his concept through it—his power no longer restrained, but flowing freely.

  His aura flared into view behind him, a massive black wolf with snarling jaws and eyes of flickering white flame. The space around him dulled to grayscale, color, and warmth bleached by his presence as his concept took precedence over the world.

  The mountain rumbled in answer to his transformation.

  He took a stance—clean, precise. Silent annihilation wrapped in flesh. Within the blade of his naginata, he wrestled two devastating forces into harmony: Empty Silence and Joran’s Wrath. Wisps of black and white Ethra curled off the blade like smoke, waiting, pulsing, hunting.

  Shui didn’t falter. She only smiled, teeth gleaming.

  She relished this.

  Good, Tunde thought.

  It wouldn’t be right to cut her down like grass—not when she had earned this battle. And then she moved.

  She dragged madness and death behind her, the raw weight of her concept shattering the stone where she’d once stood. Her mace swung in a blur, the air itself screaming as it tore through it. The moment it moved, it became a comet of devastation, a herald of carnage.

  Tunde answered with silence.

  His naginata hummed through the air, cutting the world apart with a single, soundless song—the song of absolute annihilation.

  Two things happened at once.

  Two hands—soft, yet firm—grabbed him from behind, wrenching him backwards just as his weapon collided with hers. There was no time to react.

  The clash detonated like a thunderclap.

  The shockwave vaporized everything around them. The earth split. Stone screamed. Essence flared and then vanished. Shui was blown back, tumbling through the air in a spray of blood and fury. Tunde’s body was flung in the opposite direction—but not alone. He was being pulled, dragged through the very hole in reality he had made during their earlier duel.

  And in the final moment before the world vanished into blur and wind and cold—he saw her.

  Shui.

  Vanishing before his eyes.