Ifa’s entire building was consumed by his aura—a dense, almost invisible dome of power that hummed at the edge of perception, silencing the world and ensuring no scrying eye, no listening talisman, no curious spirit could pierce its veil. It was the aura of a Master who had nothing left to prove and far too many enemies who wished they could still try.

  And in that quiet, protected space, he had a guest—one who was complicated in every way that mattered.

  A modest table sat between them, the faint scent of spiced tea wafting through the air, steam curling like lazy smoke between Ifa and Liu, the arcanist. The younger man had shown the courtesy of boiling a pot of tea himself, steeping it in one of his own rare herbs. Ifa found it... oddly soothing.

  His body ached with every breath, bones creaking from the toll of power he had unleashed just minutes ago. The ancient seals etched into his very bones were fraying at the edges, threatening to splinter apart and release a flood of raw power that would no doubt draw the attention of the powers now gathering in the heart of the empire.

  “Your words aren’t news to me,” Ifa said levelly, lifting the small porcelain cup to his lips and taking a careful sip.

  The tea was strong, bitter, and calming.

  “Neither is the fact of who you are. So I see no reason to collude with you, Scholar’s Eyes or not,” he added, his gaze meeting Liu’s without flinching.

  It was deeply unsettling to look into Liu’s eyes—those luminous, star-dappled pools of blue. The Scholar’s Sight. The Vision of Hegemons. Fate’s Mirror. It had many names, all whispered with awe or dread. So rare that some called it myth. So dangerous that most who bore it were hidden away or hunted.

  “Most cultivators can’t even maintain eye contact with me,” Liu said, his voice quieter now, touched by something old and weary. A sad chuckle escaped him.

  “Either that, or whatever they see drives them into a murderous rage. And yet… here you are. Calmly staring back. As expected of a Master.”

  He gave a slight nod, respectful despite himself.

  “There’s nothing new you can show me about my fate. You’re not the only one blessed—or cursed—with the sight of divination,” Ifa added, folding his hands into the voluminous sleeves of his robe.

  The Scholar’s Sight was feared for good reason. It revealed fate’s cruelest threads. It never softened the truth. It showed only what must be—what will be. And yet, for Ifa, that vision had long ago revealed only one path.

  One inevitable end. He had accepted it, worn it like a shroud. There was nothing left that the boy across from him could reveal.

  “Tunde is in serious peril,” Liu said again, his voice a touch more urgent.

  Ifa sighed and casually wiggled a finger in his ear.

  “I heard you the first time. But if there’s anything I know about the Scholar’s Sight, it’s that you must also know peril follows that child like breath follows life. No matter how far or high he climbs, danger will always walk beside him.”

  “That’s just it,” Liu replied, eyes narrowing slightly.

  “I see nothing.”

  Ifa paused mid-sip, one eyebrow slowly rising.

  “Oh?”

  “It’s not the absence of fate,” Liu said carefully.

  “That’s still there. But the strings—the threads—they’re... unraveling. Struggling to stay cohesive. Like his very nature refuses to be bound by a path laid out for him.”

  “Ah,” Ifa murmured, a soft, almost imperceptible smile curling on his lips.

  “So you do know who he is.”

  Good. That was very good.

  Tunde’s resonance with the concept of the void was growing deeper, to the point of rejecting even fate itself. That meant teaching him the ways of divination would be a waste of time. But it also meant he could no longer be tracked.

  His path was now mist and contradiction, impossible to trace unless one wielded power akin to the very youth before him—a cultivator so potent his mere presence tugged at the threads of reality.

  Liu nodded, blinking slowly, his head tilting.

  “You’ve figured out who I am as well,” he said.

  Ifa shrugged, unconcerned.

  “I was going to ask eventually, but there’s no need now. The power you exude speaks volumes. Your core—by all accounts—is a resource. A walking treasure trove. And I might be old, but I haven’t gone senile. Eyes like yours only bloom in one bloodline.”

  He leaned forward slightly, voice hardening.

  “So tell me… why are you running from them?”

  Liu’s hands curled together tightly.

  “Because fate is shattering at this banquet. Because I’ve seen what’s coming—only a fragment, but enough to know I want no part in it.”

  Ifa laughed, though there was no humor in the sound. He shook his head slowly.

  “Whatever it is you saw, you must understand—there’s nothing I can do to change it. And dragging Tunde into it? I strongly advise against that.”

  Liu shook his head, eyes burning with urgency.

  “No. It involves you. And what you and Tunde stand for. It is… the unraveling.”

  Ifa stilled.

  His body froze as the words echoed in his mind, ancient instincts flaring. His eyes ignited with deep, ancient power.

  “What are you talking about?” he demanded.

  Liu began to cycle his Ethra, slowly raising one hand.

  “Be at peace,” Ifa said softly, watching the movement.

  “I do not harm guests who come to me in truth.”

  Liu nodded, but kept the flow going. Smart boy. A guest, yes—but one never knew when peace would break like thin glass.

  “They’ve found a way,” Liu said slowly, “to shatter the seal. Without the aid of the Seekers.”

  Ifa’s eyes shut tight, his chest rising and falling with growing intensity.

  Of course.

  Of course, that was it.

  The pieces began falling into place one by one, forming a pattern even the Scholar’s Sight of Liu hadn’t fully grasped.

  “So… the gathering of the Regents,” he whispered.

  “The Black Thunder holds them. Hegemony… plural. I don’t know how they’ll do it, only that it will happen.”

  “This world cannot survive the presence of so many Hegemons,” Ifa growled, his teeth clenched. “Their mere existence will be a disaster. Their conflict would be a cataclysm.”

  “I know,” Liu said, voice firm.

  “That’s why I’m gathering allies. Those who understand what’s at stake. Who are willing to stand against the storm.”

  Ifa looked at him with grim amusement.

  “Then I hope your allies are Paragons, because anything less than absolute legends won’t even slow down those beings.”

  Liu smiled, just faintly.

  “Well, I’m sta—”

  He didn’t finish. Ifa snapped his fingers and sealed the Highlord’s mouth shut with a single gesture, a soft flare of golden scripted Ethra silencing him instantly.

  “I don’t know how you know,” Ifa said quietly, “or how you found out. But that name will not pass your lips again until I say otherwise. Are we clear?”

  Liu nodded quickly; his eyes wide.

  With a sigh, Ifa released the seal, then leaned back and shut his eyes.

  “And leave Tunde alone. He has enough burdens on his shoulders. The world can wait… just a little longer… for him to grow strong enough to carry them.”

  Together, they turned their eyes to the viewing constructs—silent, watching, waiting—for the banquet was far from over.

  “Now, tell me about these allies of yours,” Ifa said.

  **************************

  Tunde’s empty silence detonated in concert with a technique of undeath and another of blood and fire, the collision tearing the battlefield apart in a cacophony of force, all three dominions unraveling under the weight of raw intent and power.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  “This is pointless, Tunde. Why don’t you help me save face and just hand over the pearl?” Thorne asked, his voice light, almost amused, even as Tunde wove another empty silence into his weapon.

  With a single fluid motion, he swung it toward the Highlord of Undeath.

  Aura and Ethra surged into being, manifesting in a skeletal colossus wielding a massive bone blade that intercepted the blow. It shattered in an instant, both it and the technique rupturing into fragments of decayed essence. Tunde barely had time to twist, deflecting a brutal strike from Shui. The force of it thrummed in his muscles, sending a tremor through his entire arm.

  “Careful! You almost killed me there!” Thorne laughed, the gleam in his eyes both manic and joyful, his tainted blade arcing for the Asura’s throat.

  She flipped midair, trailing a red-hot comet of flame and aura, her entire arm transformed into a furnace of power as she retaliated. Her blade screamed through the air toward Thorne’s exposed neck.

  Tunde didn’t wait to see the clash—Void Realm burst forth from him, a cold, devouring tide of silence. At the same time, Thorne unleashed his Dominion of Undeath, a fetid world of rot and bone. Shui responded with her Bloody Battleground, the ground beneath them oozing red as reality twisted and warped.

  Three dominions collided.

  Space screamed.

  Reality folded.

  For an instant, the world turned into a chaotic sphere of obliteration—bone rising from blood, silence strangling fire, death clawing at existence itself.

  Amid the chaos, the Asura and Revenant clashed with murderous precision, throwing strikes that cratered the terrain and split the very sky. Tunde moved like a ghost, eyes locked on the Origin Pearl. The moment he surged forward, the other two followed—instinct driving them, desperation pushing them.

  Then, a gong sounded.

  It was deafening.

  A wave of raw, oppressive aura rolled out like a storm. Every dominion shattered; their anchors torn asunder by the arrival of a new presence. Scripts of golden Ethra filtered down like starlight, overlaying the battlefield with sanctified power.

  “Bloody Keepers,” Shui spat through gritted teeth.

  Astradriel’s Keepers had arrived.

  Five of them appeared above the pearl, cloaked in flowing white and gold. Each wore golden masks now; masks Tunde swore hadn't been there at the beginning of the competition.

  “Unworthy cultivators,” said the one in front. A golden sash floated behind him, looping around his arms in a show of divine elegance. The authority in his voice was absolute.

  “This relic is not for consumption. It is ours to keep,” he declared.

  “Excuse me one moment, Tunde,” Thorne said with a smirk, vanishing in a flicker of black and gray as he hurled himself toward the Keepers.

  They turned in unison, their golden eyes fixing on him—and then on everyone else, as realization dawned that they were not just observers but guardians. And threats.

  Shui had no interest in the pearl now—her blood boiled with anticipation. She launched herself at Tunde once more, blade poised for a decapitating strike. But it never reached him.

  A crimson blade clashed with hers, sparking a shockwave.

  Sera stood between them, aura burning like molten steel, her entire body rippling with strength.

  “Go. Secure the pearl. Let me deal with her,” Sera said calmly.

  Shui laughed as she stepped back, her eyes gleaming with battle lust.

  “Sera of the Wastelands. Good.”

  Her next attack was a whirlwind of blood and fire, tearing forward in a wave. But Sera’s body glowed as her aura condensed into visible muscle and sinew. Her counterattack struck like a hammer, colliding with Shui’s wave in an explosion that lit up the sky.

  Tunde didn’t wait. He trusted Sera. He had seen what Shui could do—and knew that this fight, this chaos, was precisely the trial Sera needed to advance further. He turned back toward the pearl, only for a creeping presence to cut through the air.

  A scythe arced through the space before him, almost slicing across his face.

  Tunde’s naginata met it with a violent clang, knocking the blow aside. And then she was there.

  Anaya.

  Pale, robed in black, her gaunt face impassive, one arm trembling with spasms. Her aura whispered of graveyards and endless sleep.

  Tunde leveled his weapon at her.

  “Haven’t I beaten you before?” he said softly.

  Her aura flared—and behind her, a massive skull formed in the air, grinning with the cruelty of death itself. A black lance of energy—pure soul technique—fired from its maw.

  His aura responded instinctively, shaping into a spectral wolf. It howled and lunged, devouring the soul attack with violent hunger. Before he could breathe, three new presences locked onto him, and a projected golden spear, inscribed with glowing scripts, shot toward his chest.

  It shattered.

  A golden wall of script had appeared before him, shielding him.

  “Nice to see you again, brother,” said a warm voice behind him.

  Daiki floated down, radiating calm and power. Golden light drifted from his skin like sunlight, and his monk’s staff hummed with ancient rhythm.

  A Keeper with a golden spear and forehead scripts stepped beside Anaya. She went still, on guard.

  “Be at peace, Envoy,” the Keeper said, his tone cool.

  “The Cult of Astradriel has greater concerns than pretenders to death. Like the false Keepers.”

  He turned to Tunde, golden eyes burning.

  Daiki’s face twisted into fury.

  “Bahataba’s fury be upon you. You are the false Keepers,” he growled. Tunde blinked, startled by the venom in the monk’s voice.

  Prayer beads coiled tightly around Daiki’s arms; muscles taut. His staff spun with divine force.

  “For centuries, you’ve corrupted the path of light. Brahma? Enlightenment? You claim righteousness?”

  “You dare sully the name of truth?” the Keeper snarled, scripts blossoming around him in a spiral of golden flame, Ethra, and essence.

  “Bahataba is the truth. Bahataba is the light. As the heavens stretch into eternity, so does the light of righteousness. Come, false brother,” Daiki said.

  His aura expanded into a four-armed golden being, each hand forming a different sacred mudra.

  Tunde’s soul screamed at him to leave. Now.

  His weapon burned with essence flame as he wrapped empty silence and Joran’s Wrath around it. Ethra Sight activated—what he saw horrified him.

  In the distance, Zhu’s aura took the shape of a massive insect, its shrieks clashing with a silver tiger’s roar. Earth quaked beneath them. Lightning rained from the sky. The very air bent and cracked as Zhu punched the atmosphere itself, rupturing it.

  And the Origin Pearl vanished.

  Sound died.

  For a heartbeat, there was only stillness. Then—

  Instinct took over.

  Tunde launched forward, others doing the same. Void Realm flared. Gong after gong rang out as the Keepers called for order, but their cries were drowned beneath the fury of Daiki and his brothers, who had appeared mid-battle, tearing through golden defenses.

  A colossal Skyvessel ripped into reality above, hull glowing with Ethra. At its mast, a golden-furred True Beast laughed as the belly of the ship opened wide, siphoning shards with a thunderous pull.

  Too many factions. Too many variables. But Tunde had only one goal.

  “Harumi!” he roared.

  He appeared at his side in an instant.

  One swing of the Zao Blade—space warped. Screams followed. Fingers were severed as he moved like wind and death, targeting only the unorthodox cultivators who weren’t protected by sect oaths.

  One by one, the Tempest Shards were claimed.

  Then—

  A final gong, deeper and louder than all before it.

  And with its sound, they all vanished.

  *************************

  Jaito scratched his beard, gaze fixed on the Go board with a furrowed brow, the weight of a thousand unspoken thoughts settling across his shoulders. The game, once a casual pastime, had become ritual—one laden with intent and strategy, a mirror of the battlefield beyond. He ignored the calm, almost serene expression of the man seated across from him.

  Kaius Talahan—his father, the Black Thunder, the founding blade of their lineage—sat bare-chested on the silken mat, the ancient runes etched into his skin faintly glowing with slumbering power.

  They pulsed in rhythm with his breathing, like the low, steady hum of a storm waiting to break. His soulbound blade, forged from condensed night and lightning, lay resting across his lap like a sliver of midnight—quiet now, but never truly asleep.

  “We’re caging ourselves in,” Jaito muttered, placing a black stone near the center.

  The tap echoed unnaturally loud in the chamber, a chamber hidden behind veils of silence and illusion formations of the highest grades, sealed from the outside world.

  “We’ve gained ground at the banquet,” he continued, eyes scanning the board, “but the ones calling themselves allies…” His voice trailed off, lips twisting into a scowl.

  Kaius exhaled slowly, the breath carrying with it a deep thunder that seemed to roll beyond the veiled edges of the room. Outside, the sky responded in kind, faint rumbles echoing as if the heavens themselves awaited his command.

  “Sometimes,” Kaius said, lifting a white stone and rolling it between weathered fingers, “one must play the fool… to draw out the true enemies.”

  He placed the stone with surgical precision. A soft click against the polished slate. A trap set in stillness.

  Jaito smiled faintly, a spark of something close to admiration flickering in his eyes. His father’s moves were always unpredictable. Calculated madness disguised as simplicity.

  “Even so,” Jaito murmured, placing another black stone with care, “the heavens do not like their threads neglected. They often toss pebbles into the stream… to redirect the flow of the world.”

  “You speak of the seeker,” Kaius said, a slight smile tugging at the corner of his lips. But his eyes—those ancient, thunder-forged eyes—remained cold.

  Jaito nodded.

  “I was surprised by your decision to let him live, knowing what we know.”

  “One does not kill a cub simply because it might become a tiger,” Kaius replied with a dry chuckle, the sound like distant thunder chasing heat across a plain.

  “Even tigers can be tamed.”

  Jaito paused mid-move, stone suspended between his fingers. His eyes lifted, piercing.

  “You intend to tame the seeker? He’s already tamed.”

  “Ah, my grandchild did fine work,” Kaius said, voice low and thick with satisfaction.

  “Bringing him into the clan’s service. Cleaning up your mess at the border.”

  “That thing was a failed bloodline fusion experiment,” Jaito snapped.

  “Its death served the clan.”

  “True.” Kaius’s hand hovered above the board, then descended. A white stone landed like a blade, neatly trapping one of Jaito’s flanks.

  “But I wonder,” Kaius added, voice suddenly laced with steel, “why you would risk polluting our bloodline with that of beasts?”

  Jaito froze. His eyes scanned the board anew, trailing along the shape of the encirclement. And then understanding bloomed—slow, cold, and sharp.

  “So that was your end goal,” he whispered, more to himself than to his father.

  Kaius laughed, deep and thunderous, the sound shaking the chamber. The very profound laws of the world seemed to ripple in response. Light bent at odd angles. Ethra trembled. The air itself thickened with the scent of ozone and storm.

  Jaito’s lip curled. The weight of his father’s presence pressed against him, against his pride. He hated coming here—into this sanctum of mastery where Kaius's will warped reality itself. His father had harmonized with more than one profound law, etched them into his techniques and very existence. Here, even silence bore Kaius's mark.

  And it reminded Jaito of the bloodline he could never escape nor bend completely to his whims.

  “The First Blade and the High Warden have advanced,” Kaius said, almost idly, tracing thin strands of lightning through the air with his fingertip.

  The crackling lines pulsed with information, sketches of war and prophecy interwoven in electric runes.

  “This is the time to begin the unraveling.”

  “The clan still isn’t prepared,” Jaito countered, jaw tight. But in his chest, he already knew the answer.

  “One can never be fully prepared, son,” Kaius said softly.

  “One must adapt. And the heavens have already spoken.”

  “They’ve begun gathering,” Jaito warned.

  “The other factions. The saints. The echoes of the old world.”

  Kaius only nodded, his gaze drifting upward, as if listening to voices carried on lightning bolts from a storm beyond the heavens.

  “And we have our own tiles,” he murmured.

  “So many saints now walk the world… I have been in seclusion too long.”

  “Too long,” Jaito agreed, placing a black stone with grim finality.

  Kaius’s eyes opened again—bright and sharp as twin lightning bolts.

  “Oho! A fine move!” he said with a grin, slapping his thigh.

  “Bold. Aggressive. But see here—”

  He leaned forward, sliding a white piece across the board. It landed with a soft, fateful click—reclaiming a corner Jaito had long forgotten. A lesson. A warning.

  “It is inevitable,” Kaius intoned, his gaze locking with his son’s.

  “Ages rise and fall. The sun is born and devoured. Nature is a cycle of blood, death, and rebirth. And it must continue.”

  “When?” Jaito asked quietly, tapping his knee once.

  The gesture sent a pulse of power outward, invisible but felt. The Veil Wardens stationed beyond the chamber received the signal. As did the Phantoms hidden in the shadows. One by one, they vanished—silent as falling snow.

  “Soon,” Kaius replied.

  “Yara tells me the High Convergence draws near. A pity this banquet will not end as it should.”

  “There will always be banquets, Father,” Jaito said, rising, his voice steady despite the pulse of excitement beginning to coil in his chest.

  “Yes,” Kaius whispered, placing the final white stone on the board.

  “After the blood and ash has cleansed the world.”

  His laughter followed—low and rumbling—carrying with it the promise of storms to come.

  And above the Go board, the storm answered. It trembled.