Tunde smashed into the rocky ground, his body skidding across the uneven surface before he rolled to his feet, naginata gripped tightly in hand. He stifled a roar of frustration, jaw clenched as he whirled around—only to find Sera and Zhu standing in front of him, both cultivators staring at him with thinly veiled concern and confusion.

  “What in the void was that all about?” came Jing’s voice, sharp and echoing from across the cavern.

  She stood beside Harumi, both cultivators of Clan Talahan assessing what looked like a sealed entrance embedded in the mountainside. A massive runic formation shimmered faintly over black crystal stone doors, pulsating with green light.

  The cavern’s interior was laced with large Ethra crystals—brilliant veins of power glowing softly, brimming with life essence and raw Ethra, both energies subtly restoring their cores.

  Tunde let out a slow breath, the rage still prickling beneath his skin, and willed his naginata back into its rod form. The weapon shrunk and reshaped with a shimmer before he tucked it at his waist, still radiating a low hum of latent energy.

  “Shui of the Asuras,” Harumi said darkly, eyes narrowing.

  “I heard she was looking for me,” Sera added, voice contemplative.

  “Any idea why?” Jing asked, glancing at the blood user.

  Sera shrugged casually.

  “Never heard of her in my life.”

  “Well, she certainly wanted you,” Tunde muttered, his voice low and sharper than he intended as he strode toward the sealed doors, Ethra Sight flaring to life in his eyes.

  “And I’d bet my last shard it wasn’t for a friendly chat.”

  Zhu stepped forward, voice calm but curious.

  “What’s making you so angry?”

  Tunde paused, looking over his shoulder.

  “I—” he started, but faltered.

  He swallowed, gaze distant as he shook his head slightly.

  “I don’t know.”

  What had triggered such fury?

  It wasn’t like this was new. He’d been insulted before, dismissed, disrespected—even in this very trial. That was how most of his fights began. So why had her presence ignited something deeper, more primal?

  “It’s the effect of being near an Asura,” Harumi said, breaking the silence.

  Tunde glanced at him.

  “I only noticed it after I left her presence. Their essence—it’s like poison for the mind. Subtle, corrosive. Their aura doesn’t just radiate power; it draws something feral out of you. The longer you stay in combat, the more it seeps in—no matter how strong your mental wards are.”

  Tunde inhaled deeply, then exhaled slowly. He began to cycle his Ethra and aura, his internal flow pushing against the lingering heat of rage. Gradually, he felt the pressure—the compulsion to shatter and break—dissipate.

  “That was… terrifying,” he murmured.

  “Imagine what might have happened if she had reached Sera,” Zhu said, voice thoughtful.

  Sera raised an eyebrow.

  “You think I can’t control my anger?”

  “Tunde’s usually the calmest one among us,” Zhu countered.

  “If it shook him, then none of us are immune.”

  “Enough,” Tunde said firmly, his voice echoing through the crystal-lined cavern.

  He drew in another breath, steadying his nerves.

  “We don’t have time for this. We’re already behind.”

  “Actually, I doubt that,” Zhu said, drawing everyone's attention.

  A sly grin spread across his face.

  “I’ve gathered fifty shards.”

  “Thirty,” Sera added, crossing her arms.

  “Forty,” Jing said casually.

  “Seventy,” Harumi chimed in with a shrug.

  They all turned toward him, surprised.

  “I’ve been around,” he added defensively.

  Tunde reached into his void ring, his senses slipping into the spatial pocket of swirling stasis. His brows lifted slightly.

  “Hm.”

  “Hm?” Sera echoed, squinting.

  “That means he’s got significantly more than us and is deciding how to downplay it,” Zhu said with a snort.

  “Hundred? One-fifty?” Jing guessed, amused.

  “Three hundred,” Tunde replied calmly.

  Silence followed.

  “Wait—how is that even possible?” Harumi asked, stunned.

  “Tunde has a habit of… let’s say, relieving cultivators of their possessions,” Zhu said with a smirk as Tunde shook his head mildly.

  “We’ve been doing that too,” Sera protested.

  “I took the envoy’s ring,” Tunde clarified.

  “She probably had several on her—and I’ve taken others as well. Thieves stealing from thieves.”

  “Stealing from the thieves themselves. Not bad,” Harumi said with a nod of approval.

  “Do we know how much we need to pass this round?” Tunde asked.

  As if summoned by his question, a construct shimmered to life before them—an ethereal projection, its edges glowing as the voice of the announcer rang out, clear and authoritative:

  “Each contestant must obtain at least one hundred shards to be considered for the next round. That is, contingent on the total results of their faction. Each faction must accumulate a minimum of five hundred shards in total!”

  The construct winked out of existence as abruptly as it had appeared, leaving a lingering echo in the still air.

  “So we’re at four hundred and ninety shards,” Harumi said, satisfaction thick in his tone. “Close.”

  “Keeping them is more the issue now,” Sera muttered darkly.

  Jing glanced at Tunde.

  “I suggest we hand them all to Tunde—for safekeeping.”

  “That’s putting all our hopes—and all our shards—on one person,” Harumi pointed out.

  Sera nodded.

  “And we all know they’re gunning for him.”

  “Still,” Zhu said, his voice laced with subtle meaning, “Tunde has a way to keep them hidden. Isn’t that right?”

  Tunde gave a slight nod. His personal void space—small, yes, but stable—could hold far more than it appeared.

  “Yes. But only if that’s what everyone agrees on,” he murmured, turning back to the sealed entrance, eyes narrowing.

  “I’ll hold on to mine,” Harumi said firmly, while the others stepped forward, one by one, placing their accumulated shards into Tunde’s care.

  Tunde turned his attention to the runic formation etched across the surface of the door, his gaze narrowing as he stepped closer. He placed a palm against the black crystal, feeling the cool pulse of ancient power radiating through it.

  With a breath, he released a concentrated surge of aura laced with essence flame—his power seared into the formation, burning through the runes like wildfire unraveling silk. The intricate patterns flared bright green, then dissolved, fading away as the massive stone doors began to grind open with a deep, guttural rumble that echoed through the entire cavern.

  “Well, that’s one way to do it,” Zhu muttered dryly, a smirk tugging at his lips as the passage beyond revealed itself.

  They all paused, struck by the view that unfolded. Standing at the edge of a precipice deep within the heart of the mountain, the group gazed out at what could only be described as an entire world hidden inside the stone. Vast caverns stretched far beyond what should’ve been physically possible, filled with towering Ethra crystals and streams of radiant light. It pulsed with life—like a sealed ecosystem brimming with vitality and pure Ethra. That it existed within a rift only added to the surreal nature of it all.

  “How’s this even possible?” Sera whispered, eyes wide with awe.

  “Many higher realm cultivators possess rifts of their own,” Jing explained, stepping forward, her tone calm and measured.

  “Spaces where their concepts reign absolute. Domains shaped by will alone. My guess? This is something similar. A constructed realm—likely for the tournament. Most elite clans craft these to train their children and students in controlled chaos.”

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  Harumi squinted ahead.

  “Looks like we’ve got company.”

  Figures began appearing across the expanse, darting through the air or charging across the crystal-lined terrain. Clashes of power filled the air—weapon strikes, elemental techniques, and explosive collisions echoed like thunder.

  Tunde’s naginata was in his hands before the thought finished forming, instinct guiding his grip. His Ethra Sight flared, revealing the details others might miss. He caught glimpses of familiar figures amid the chaos: Zehra, wrapped in a swirl of ice and steel, dueling a wind-and-hammer cultivator with practiced ease. Further off, a golden radiance marked Daiki, the monk of the Luminous Path, trading furious, high-speed blows with another fist-user midair.

  But what truly caught his attention—what held it—was the war raging between two opposing forces: envoys and revenants. Their powers polluted the very air, colliding with devastating intensity. It wasn’t just a fight; it was annihilation cloaked in technique.

  “What are they even fighting for?” Sera asked, crouching into a ready stance, her blade already drawn.

  “That,” Zhu said, pointing down below.

  Tunde followed the gesture—and then he saw it.

  It pulsed at the bottom of the cavern like a heartbeat, a shimmering pearl suspended in the open, surrounded by spirals of power. Ethra flowed out from it in rhythmic waves, feeding the crystal walls, the terrain, everything. It released both life energy and raw Ethra in staggering quantities, infusing the world around it. Tunde hadn’t even noticed it with his Sight at first, and that in itself was terrifying.

  “What… is that?” he breathed.

  “No idea,” Harumi replied, his voice filled with quiet awe.

  “But I’d be more worried about that,” Zhu added, urgency creeping into his tone.

  Just beneath the glowing pearl sat a veritable mountain of crimson tempest shards—dozens, maybe hundreds, glittering temptingly in the ambient light. A fortune in power and leverage, just sitting there.

  “Why isn’t anyone going for it?” Jing asked, suspicion written all over her face.

  “Let’s find out,” Tunde said, and without hesitation, launched himself forward.

  The air tore around him as he surged downward. But something was wrong. The closer he got to the pearl, the heavier he felt—his limbs growing denser, every motion a battle against gravity itself. Instinct screamed at him—danger!—just as a burning arrow, crackling with blue fire and infused with Ethra, lanced toward him.

  He prepared to deflect it, but Zhu was already there—his fists slammed into the arrow mid-flight, shattering it in an explosive burst that barely even ruffled his aura. From the smoke emerged a figure: female, with avian features, eyes sharp like a hawk’s and hair made of plumes, a true beast.

  “The pearl increases our weight the closer we get!” Jing shouted from above.

  Tunde grunted, glancing at Zhu with a grin.

  “She’s all yours.”

  Zhu nodded and shot off, twin sickles spinning like a storm as he engaged the true beast. Tunde continued his descent, forcing his body through the crushing pressure radiating from the pearl. Each breath was a labor, each movement a feat of sheer will.

  “Cover me!” he shouted.

  Harumi answered instantly. A green arc of wind and blade Ethra slashed out, cleaving through a large-shielded cultivator and sending their injured remains crashing to the floor, where a master appeared to hastily ferry them away for treatment.

  All around them, battle escalated—Shui’s blood-and-death magic exploded back onto the field, and other cults began revealing themselves. Spell formations flared in colors of white, gold, red, and blue, layered and interlocked—tools of battle, traps, barriers, amplifiers.

  Tunde ignored them—until the pressure in the air shifted.

  A ripple of power announced a new challenger in his path. His naginata, now heavier but no less deadly, met two swift blades in a clash that shattered the veil around the attacker, revealing a familiar figure cloaked in gray.

  “Mist Walker,” Tunde said coldly.

  “Wastelander,” Shui’s voice echoed from the distance, full of fury, somehow appearing in the large space as well, but Tunde didn’t even glance in her direction.

  “Seeker,” the Walker said with a calm menace.

  “I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about,” Tunde replied flatly.

  “And yet you speak our name like venom,” the Walker said, chuckling as more figures stepped into view—dozens of Walkers, their presences subtle, concealed, until now.

  He had seen them the moment their leader appeared, even if just faintly. But now, they revealed themselves fully. Or so he thought—until Sera’s blade drove into one from behind. The attacker crumbled into motes of light.

  “Illusions,” Tunde realized with a frown.

  “Even my Sight didn’t see that.”

  “Stay back!” he called to Sera.

  “Your eyes,” the lead Walker said, voice echoing eerily through the space, “only let you see what you want to see, Seeker.”

  Tunde’s grip tightened.

  “The orthodox cults had an agreement. Are you breaking it?” he asked, voice calm but laced with steel.

  “The Walkers don’t consider your filth part of the orthodox,” came the curt reply, a dozen voices speaking as one.

  Another blow came from behind—Tunde spun and blocked, his naginata slicing the illusion apart. Again, it dissolved.

  “You’re fast for a Seeker,” the Walker said again, circling.

  “So you’re insulting the Talahan clan, then? Breaking the alliance? And dragging the other orthodox cults into it too?”

  “What makes you think they aren’t aware of this?” the voice returned with a mocking laugh.

  Tunde narrowed his eyes. Lies. At least partially. The Talahan wouldn’t betray him—not yet. But they were watching. He wondered what they’d think of this.

  Fine, then.

  He cracked his neck, exhaled—and released his Dominion.

  Void Space burst into being, the pressure of the pearl retreating slightly as his power overlaid the field. The Walkers’ illusions shattered. Five formations crumbled at once, exposed under the void’s suppressive grip. His Ethra surged.

  “I want to make something very clear,” Tunde said, voice raised so that every hidden watcher would hear.

  “I don’t know what this ‘Seeker’ title means. And second—this? This is on you.”

  The head Walker laughed and raised his hand, signalling the others to attack.

  Tunde didn’t hesitate. His naginata flared to life, burning with Ethra, aura, and essence flame. This time, though, he called on the force aspect of his Concept. Power rippled out in a wave.

  The Mistwalkers flowed toward him like wind, their forms shifting with unnatural grace. Tunde’s weapon spun in his grip, the blade a blur of motion. His Ethra Sight danced across the battlefield, revealing intent before it was fully formed, guiding his movements as instinct merged with foresight.

  Steel rang against steel as his naginata clashed with the twin circular blades of the first Mistwalker. Sparks flew, two rapid strikes later and one of the walker’s arms was severed, the limb flung aside with a screech of torn flesh and shredded cloth. The walker’s scream echoed across the mountainside, only to be silenced as the Void Realm pulsed outward—nullifying their dominions before they could root, shattering their mirages like cracked glass.

  A second walker lunged.

  Tunde twisted low and surged forward with a devastating kick to the midsection. The impact sent the Mistwalker hurtling through the air in a blur, crashing into the side of the mountain with an explosive bang. Rocks shattered. Dust flew. The walker crumpled, unmoving.

  The scent of blood bloomed like iron flowers in the air.

  Tunde was already moving, weaving through attacks with brutal efficiency. His naginata came down like a falling star, cleaving into a third Mistwalker. The man’s twin blades came up in a defensive cross, but they shattered on impact. The backlash ripped through his body, bones cracking under the pressure as he let out an agonized scream.

  Tunde’s breath remained even—but his heart, it raged.

  The longer the battle stretched on, the deeper his fury dug into his soul. The Boundless Asura style—meant to be fluid and serene—was now tainted by wrath. It bled into each movement. His strikes grew heavier, sharper, relentless.

  How?

  How had they brought low his people with such skill?

  These weren’t simple cultivators. They were better—far better—than most cultivators he’d faced. Their ability to confuse, strike, and vanish was formidable. Against him, their tricks were rendered useless—but that didn’t diminish the threat they posed to others. As he broke the ribs of the fourth walker and turned to face their leader, who now stood tall with twin short blades glowing with essence flame and refined aura, his rage surged anew.

  No words passed between them. None were needed.

  They clashed.

  The fury of their blows split the air, each strike ringing like a drumbeat of war. The Mistwalker’s fighting style—finally revealed in full—was terrifying in its elegance. Each blow came from a different angle, perfectly coordinated, as though Tunde faced six elite cultivators at once. Mirage and reality blurred together, descending upon him with surgical precision. Even with the Void Realm nullifying projected attacks, they pressed on.

  “Good,” the Mistwalker hissed through his teeth as a cut opened across Tunde’s cheek.

  “Your death will be worthwhile.”

  Tunde said nothing.

  Instead, he coaxed his Essence Flame to the surface, igniting it into an inferno of grey fire. It licked the air around him, merging with his aura as Empty Silence began to coalesce at the edge of his naginata. He swung sideways—an arcing, deadly slash—and watched the Mistwalker in front of him shatter like glass.

  But it was a feint.

  Another figure reformed at his side—blade mere inches from his face.

  Tunde twisted without thought, grabbing the walker’s arm with Joran’s Wrath. His grip tightened—there was a crunch, a gasp of pain. The Mistwalker’s other blade came down triumphantly toward Tunde’s neck, leaving his chest wide open in the process.

  A fatal mistake.

  Void Forge ignited in his soul, manifesting a lance that tore through the walker's core. Whatever tempering held the man upright evaporated as the weapon punched through his chest, blasting him backward in a geyser of blood.

  Tunde’s naginata followed the arc, cleaving off an arm before he slapped the Mistwalker aside like a rag doll. The warrior’s head whipped violently to the side before he crashed into the mountain, motionless.

  Bloodied. Battered. Dying.

  It still wasn’t enough.

  Tunde stepped forward; expression carved from stone. He had to make an example. Not for revenge—but for the message. For everyone watching.

  His naginata rose, burning now with a fused force—Ethra, Aura, Essence Flame. His concept rang through the very air, the chill of the Void descending over his being. His aura flared—and took the shape of a massive, stalking wolf.

  “Empty Silence,” he whispered.

  He swung.

  An explosion of light erupted between him and his target. A massive force slammed into his weapon mid-swing, shattering the attack. A figure appeared—masked, robed—a Master. His hand was outstretched, smoke spiraling from his burned palm as the imbuement technique broke apart in brilliant sparks.

  Its meaning was clear.

  A Highlord's technique—pushed back by a Master. Tunde had crossed the line.

  “The rules were clear, Contestant Tunde,” the Master’s voice rumbled, deep and gruff.

  Tunde bowed stiffly; eyes devoid of emotion.

  “Apologies,” he said.

  “But they came with the intention to kill.”

  “You could’ve incapacitated them. Instead, you chose death.”

  “I—”

  The Master stopped mid-sentence as a viewing construct shimmered into existence beside him. He paused. Information passed. His shoulders stiffened. His head turned slowly back toward Tunde.

  “You will not get a third chance,” he said, voice tight with fury.

  Then he vanished—taking the entire Mistwalker team with him.

  Silence returned to the mountain world.

  The Void Rings of five defeated walkers hovered in the air like fallen stars. Tunde snatched them silently, turning toward the gathered factions.

  Still, silence.

  Then, movement.

  Two groups began to shift. The Envoys and the Revenants ceased their battle, nodding once before forming a unified front. The Asuras joined them. So did the Seaborns. Smaller factions followed—ones Tunde didn’t even recognize.

  On his side, Zehra stepped forward. So did Daiki. Sera. Zhu. Jing. Harumi. Even what remained of the Orthodox factions began to gather. Among them, Tunde spotted Wol, Chu, and the other heirs of the Great Clans—he hadn't even realized they were here.

  Shui of the Asuras strode ahead, laughter rising like a storm as she pointed her blade at Tunde. The whites of her eyes now a deep, bleeding red.

  “Bahataba,” Daiki said, his voice trembling with rage.

  “This will decide the battle.”

  Shui’s voice cut through the tension.

  “I couldn't care less about your ambitions. My guess is you’ve got enough shards already, don’t you?”

  Shui’s gaze stayed on Tunde.

  “Tell me, do you?”

  Before he could speak, Sera stepped forward.

  “I heard you were looking for me.”

  Shui raised an eyebrow—but before she could reply, a beam of light descended from above.

  The Announcer appeared.

  “Young ones!” he cried.

  “Perhaps you’re not aware of the treasure before you.”

  He pointed.

  Suspended midair, spinning slowly in golden light, was a pearl.

  “That is an Origin Pearl! One of only a hundred in existence! It can help clear your path to the peak of the Master Realm!”

  Tunde’s heart dropped.

  They didn’t want a clean victory. They wanted chaos. Carnage. Blood.

  And this... this would shatter any fragile truce the factions held.

  “Again... good luck!” the announcer laughed, vanishing in a beam of power.

  Tunde’s Void Realm exploded into existence. In a heartbeat, he shot toward the pearl—just as dozens of others surged with him. The mountain trembled. Chaos ignited. Cries of pain and blood filled the air.

  Shui’s attack slammed into him from the left. Another came from the right—rot, decay, undeath. But Empty Silence detonated in a sphere around him, shattering both strikes and slicing through bodies—some of which he prayed weren’t allies.

  Zhu burst through the air, aiming for the pearl, only to be intercepted by a monstrous force—a silver-hued, tiger-shaped humanoid who roared with enough force to shake the mountains.

  Tunde had his own problems.

  In front of him stood Shui. Beside her—Thorne.

  They stared at one another. Tension thickened.

  Tunde twirled his naginata.

  Then, all three charged.