Sera and Elyria had been defeated.

  Tunde said nothing as he reached his waiting room, the silence around him heavy, his steps slow but deliberate. Sera sat inside, bloodied yet composed, her body wrapped in a cocoon of discipline and pain.

  She was meditating, blood aura rising around her in slow, deliberate pulses. A blood-red pearl pulsed beside her, rich with vitality-rich Ethra, its glow feeding her injuries, knitting flesh, and stabilizing her essence.

  Tunde clenched his fists at the sight.

  The rage came in waves—controlled, but undeniable.

  Elyria was nowhere to be seen. No doubt she was already under the care of her faction, receiving the full breadth of their support. But Tunde had seen what Rhyn had done to Sera with his own eyes, and if that was any indication, he could only imagine what Thorne had done to Elyria. Still, he didn’t have to imagine for long.

  The replays arrived.

  Projected into the air with perfect clarity, they painted the truth in cruel detail. Tunde sat and watched, jaw tight.

  Thorne’s deadly, venomous techniques had moved as if with their own will—serpentine strands of decay and undeath slithering through the battlefield. Elyria had brought forth the Rust Tyrant Art, a masterpiece of corrosion and metal… but it was useless.

  There was nothing to rust. Thorne’s energies were already lifeless, already ruined. Even her flawless metal-based techniques fell short, unable to pierce or outmaneuver the relentless decay that consumed the field.

  “That’s not Thorne,” Tunde murmured.

  Zhu, standing beside him, turned with a sharp glance. “What?”

  Tunde didn’t repeat himself, but his eyes didn’t leave the projection.

  The differences were stark—undeniable. From the stance, the control, the fluidity… Whoever was in that arena may have looked like Thorne, but the essence was foreign. Tunde had seen Thorne fight before. He remembered the savage fury, the overwhelming brutality. This? This was different. Precise. Calculated. Clinical.

  It was the difference between a brawler and an expert honed by decades of war.

  Technique after technique was executed without waste. Authority flowed seamlessly. Elyria was crushed—not just in spirit or strength, but in principle. Her own conceptual tree-like authority was unraveled from within, withered and rotted at the roots, as if the very laws of her cultivation had been poisoned.

  Someone else had worn Thorne’s skin.

  Sera’s defeat, in contrast, had come at the hands of pure martial prowess. There had been no tricks, no overwhelming poison or corruption—just Rhyn. Ruthless, brilliant Rhyn. His movements had been two steps ahead at all times.

  Each of Sera’s techniques, no matter how lethal, were answered with cold efficiency. His blade became a living extension of his intent, responding before her attacks even landed.

  Blood arts were no joke. Tunde knew that better than most. But Rhyn… Rhyn was on another level entirely.

  Tunde sat before her, studying her face. Though her breathing was steady and her wounds already closing, he could still feel the echo of her pain. Whatever damage she had taken hadn’t reached her bones or her spirit—at least not deeply. Her aura was intact. Strong, even.

  Sera opened one glowing eye, its crimson iris catching the dim light.

  “Ah,” she muttered, wincing as she inhaled more Ethra from the pulsing blood pearl. “Figured you’d show up eventually.”

  “I’m sure you did your best,” Tunde said gently, offering her a soft smile.

  Sera scoffed, shaking her head. “You could have taken him.”

  Tunde blinked, caught off guard by the certainty in her voice.

  “How do you know that?” he asked quietly.

  Her eyes opened fully now, fixed on him with fierce clarity.

  “Because I know you. I fought him,” she replied.

  “Rhyn’s strong. Absurdly strong. But you? You always come out on top.”

  Tunde didn’t speak. He merely nodded.

  Sera closed her eyes again, sinking deeper into her healing trance.

  “Now leave me to my recovery,” she sighed. “That bastard took more out of me than I care to admit.”

  Tunde stood slowly, reassured by the steadiness of her aura. She was still recovering—but she would live. That was enough for now.

  He turned to Zhu.

  “I might need to check on—”

  He never finished.

  The great valley lit up again, brilliance flooding the space as the announcer’s voice boomed like thunder from the heavens.

  “Cultivators, one and all!” the voice rang. “The Paragons have spoken. The next round will begin in one hour!”

  Zhu’s breath caught in his throat.

  “That… that can’t be right,” the Ethralite muttered.

  Tunde’s frown deepened.

  Something was wrong.

  Terribly wrong.

  The speed of the announcement, the urgency behind it—it didn’t add up. For the Paragons to issue an order so quickly meant something had changed, and fast. He looked at Zhu, who now wore a guarded, almost grim expression.

  “Furthermore!” the announcer’s voice continued. “Rewards for the previous matches will be included with those of the upcoming battle. If you lose the next round, you will receive nothing, regardless of your prior victory!”

  Tunde’s jaw tensed.

  “They’re forcing the pace,” he said under his breath. “Something’s definitely wrong.”

  He switched to Ethereal Speech, his voice a whisper of intent that only Zhu could hear.

  “Get in touch with Ifa. See if anything’s happened with our… friend.”

  Zhu gave a curt nod and turned to move, but the announcer’s voice rang out again, thunderous and inescapable:

  “All four remaining contestants, report to the stage!”

  Tunde froze.

  Sera stirred again behind them.

  “Go,” she said, exhaling a slow breath.

  Her voice was tired, but her will remained unbowed.

  “I can see the two of you thinking, probably about whatever storm’s gathering out there. I’ll get to the Elder.”

  She stood with effort, grimacing as her body readjusted to weight-bearing. Still, she didn’t falter.

  “Be careful,” Tunde said softly, eyes flickering with genuine concern.

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  He could feel it now—whatever was coming, it was no longer a matter of possibility. It was here. The edges were fraying, and the center would not hold.

  Sera turned and departed, her figure quickly disappearing through the veil.

  Tunde and Zhu stepped onto the stage.

  The moment they did, Tunde felt it.

  The sky above them was thrumming with power—raw, unfiltered, and on the verge of breaking. Grand formations shimmered like vast celestial circuits, stretching out across the capital, glowing with strain as they held back something even the heavens themselves feared.

  It was like standing at the center of a dam just before it burst.

  He glanced at Zhu.

  The look on the Ethralite’s face said everything: worry and the unspoken certainty that something ancient had begun to stir.

  And worst of all…

  Tunde still hadn’t seen Elyria.

  Thorne and Rhyn emerged from the opposite end of the stage, clad in the robes of their respective factions—symbols of power, prestige, and deadly intent. Their steps were unhurried, deliberate. They moved like warriors certain of their place in the world, exuding the quiet confidence of those who had already triumphed.

  They stopped opposite Tunde and Zhu, a silent wall of tension forming between the two pairs.

  Then, from above, the announcer descended in a graceful arc, landing lightly between them. In his hands was a silver scroll, shimmering with authority seals that pulsed faintly as he unfurled it. His smile was wide—perhaps too wide—with anticipation gleaming in his eyes, as though he knew something the rest of them did not.

  “You four,” he began, voice rich and formal, “represent the very best of what Adamath has to offer. The future of our world. And it is only fitting that we push you to the very edge of your abilities… and beyond.”

  He paused, letting the moment sink in before continuing.

  “Thus, this draw has been chosen—on merit and merit alone,” he declared, with an emphasis that rang just a touch too hollow.

  “Tunde of House Talahan,” he said, eyes locking onto him, “you will face Zhu of House Talahan!”

  A collective gasp swept across the valley.

  Silence followed. Utter, breathless silence.

  Even the floating platforms housing the audience froze in stunned disbelief. The very air seemed to go still.

  Tunde’s gaze snapped to the announcer, his expression unreadable at first—then confusion, then fury. His eyes widened before darting upwards, beyond the stage, beyond the arena, to the heavens above. To where he knew the Paragons and Regents watched from their lofty thrones behind veils of divine formation.

  His fists clenched tightly at his sides, the tendons straining beneath his skin.

  “…Why?” he growled under his breath.

  The announcer merely smiled, unfazed.

  “Why?” Tunde roared, his voice reverberating across the valley. His authority flared for a heartbeat, shaking the edge of the stage as his rage boiled over. “Why!”

  And as though the heavens had merely been waiting for his cry, the skies rippled—distorted like water being struck. Then a figure descended in a shaft of ethereal light: a being Tunde knew far too well.

  Ugad.

  Paragon of the Cult of Astradriel.

  And the one whom Tunde had killed his student.

  He descended like judgment itself.

  Rhyn dropped to one knee immediately, head bowed in reverence. Thorne scoffed, but remained standing—barely. Even his defiance had its limits.

  Ugad’s eyes scanned them all with disdain. With nothing more than his presence, he unleashed a wave of pressure so crushing that it slammed all of them—Tunde, Zhu, Rhyn, even Thorne—straight to their knees.

  The announcer, of course, remained untouched. He watched on with thinly veiled amusement, hands folded behind his back.

  Tunde gritted his teeth, straining under the suffocating weight of the Paragon’s gaze. It felt like gravity itself had increased tenfold, his spine threatening to crack beneath the weight of divine authority.

  “You presume too much,” Ugad said coldly.

  “Throughout this tournament, you have acted as though there were no rules. As though your power alone entitled you to dictate the terms of this sacred contest. You have threatened fellow contestants. Disrupted the order. Challenged our will.”

  His voice was calm. Too calm.

  “Do not think we have overlooked it.”

  The words hung in the air like blades.

  “Honored Paragon,” the announcer said smoothly, interrupting just before Ugad could continue.

  His tone was polite, but his timing was deliberate.

  Ugad’s attention flicked to him—and just like that, his presence withdrew. The pressure vanished in an instant as Ugad hissed and then exploded upward in a flash of power, vanishing into the skies as abruptly as he had come.

  Silence lingered like ash after a storm.

  “…Well,” the announcer said at last, straightening his scroll. “That was… interesting.”

  He adjusted his posture as if nothing had happened and moved to resume the proceedings.

  “I willingly forfeit my match,” Zhu said.

  The words hit the stage like a thunderclap.

  The announcer’s eye twitched.

  “I… I’m not sure that’s allowed,” he said carefully, glancing at the scroll as if to double-check some forgotten clause.

  Zhu folded his arms, calm and resolute, his gaze rising to the heavens just as Tunde’s had moments before.

  “Well,” he said evenly, “it seems they don’t mind.”

  Above, no judgment descended. No Paragon appeared. No wrath followed.

  Only silence.

  The announcer sighed, shoulders slumping slightly as he rolled the scroll back up.

  “Very well,” he said, tone tight. “The next match shall be between Rhyn of the Heralds… and Thorne of the Revenants!”

  A roar exploded from the audience—excitement, confusion, disbelief. The tension broke like a wave crashing down, flooding the valley with sound once more.

  Tunde and Zhu left the stage without another word, walking side by side toward their waiting quarters.

  “We don’t have time,” Tunde said quietly. “Go after Sera. Get in touch with Ifa. See if we can begin.”

  The weight of his words was clear. This wasn’t about the tournament anymore.

  Zhu nodded sharply; the signal received and understood.

  “Be careful,” he said.

  Tunde gave a small nod in return, watching his brother vanish in a streak of motion.

  He’d like to be careful.

  But he doubted the Paragons would allow him such a luxury.

  *******

  At the eastern edge of the Talahan Empire’s heartlands, a towering pillar of silver and gold stood—a relic of ambition, crowned in myth and adorned with inlays of Ethereon that shimmered even in death.

  It had once reached toward the heavens like a promise, a symbol of unity and awakening. The Empire had called it the Beacon of a New Age, an Ark, a name whispered in reverence by nobles and cultivators alike. But that had been long ago. Now, it stood silent, dead and inert—an obsolete monument to a future that never came.

  Once, it was hope.

  Now, it was ruin waiting to awaken.

  The Cheng Clan, one of the Empire’s four grand clans, had once built its dreams around that promise. As the eastern wardens of the Empire, they held dominion over the valley straights that led directly into the inner sanctum of the Empire—Talahar itself.

  Their jewel, Plum Rose City, was a thriving sanctuary of cultivation, protected by generations of Cheng patriarchs and nourished by the loyalty of their vassal sects and subordinate families. It was a city of prestige and power, a bastion of legacy.

  During the last convergence, Plum Rose had flourished. Ethra-rich crystals, rare herbs, and strange cultivation resources had flowed into their hands. The Cheng Clan’s influence had soared, and for a time, it seemed nothing could threaten their place beneath the heavens.

  But today, under this convergence, all of that meant nothing.

  Without warning, the ancient Ark Pillar at the city's eastern edge began to stir. Soft at first, no more than a gentle thrum, a hum of energy long thought lost. Then it rose, rising in resonance, its deep pulse drawing the attention of cultivators across the city. Scripts long dead sparked to life across its metallic surface, ancient runes flaring with a language of power no one alive, maybe the arcanists, remembered how to read.

  Word reached Patriarch Cheng Taisho quickly. He stood in silent confusion, surrounded by his advisors and core elders, staring into the distance as the pillar surged again—alive for the first time in more than a year.

  Then, with no warning…

  A pulse.

  Blinding light.

  Unspeakable power.

  In a single breath, half the city was gone, reduced to ash. Those beneath the realm of Lord-rank disintegrated without so much as a scream. Plum Rose, once a garden of cultivation, became a grave of silence.

  The survivors reacted instantly. Taisho and the remaining clan elites struck the pillar with everything they had—techniques born of ancient knowledge, forbidden arts unleashed without hesitation. Yet nothing worked. The pillar drank their power, devouring it as though it were nothing more than morning dew.

  Then it struck again.

  Lightning surged upward from its crown, arcs of power ripping through the sky. And in its wake, a grand formation unfurled—an enormous seal that blanketed the sky and horizon in every direction. The heavens turned black, and storm clouds descended in an unnatural spiral, folding around the city like a cocoon. Plum Rose was severed from the world.

  Everything outside vanished—every road, every outpost, every soul.

  Plum Rose no longer existed.

  Across the Empire, chaos erupted.

  In the ruins of Jade Peak, cultivators investigating ancient vaults left by the Verdan clan were consumed by fire and lightning, reduced to smoke and cinders. In the central plains, entire strongholds disappeared with no trace. Madness swept the Empire, confusion giving way to desperation as faction after faction realized the scale of what was happening.

  The Revenant Cult, deep within the Wastes, sealed their rifts to the Necropolis, retreating into their hidden home.

  The Asura, high in the Blood Mountains, triggered layer upon layer of defensive formations, entire peaks vanishing under the weight of their own barriers.

  And yet, none of it mattered.

  City after city vanished in a blink, erased by searing bolts of lightning infused with an unfamiliar, terrible Ethra. Every arc of destructive power traced the skies in a singular direction.

  Toward Talahar.

  The capital.

  And it wasn't just within the Empire.

  From beyond its borders, power surged as well.

  In the Technocracy, alarms sounded as their crystal matrices shattered one by one. The Enclaves of the Heralds launched beacon flares into the skies as the same arcane lightning tore across their dominions.

  Even the Boundless Seas trembled.

  The very world of Adamath seemed to quake underfoot.

  And in Moonshine City, where the scattered resistance had gathered—where those who still dared to oppose what was coming prepared for a war none of them truly understood—a great pillar of light surged into the storming skies above.

  A final warning.

  Rifts tore open across the heavens.

  Massive Skyvessels, engineered for war and legend, emerged from within. Hundreds of them. From all across the fractured factions of Adamath. Banners of impossible alliances hung from their sides, waving in the rising winds.

  The silver skull of the Revenants on green tapestry.

  The glowing sun of the Luminous Sect.

  The cascading rivers of the Acacia Clan.

  Even minor sects, schools, and hidden families long thought dead had sent their ships. They poured into the skies, not for glory, not for dominance, but because they knew.

  This wasn’t politics.

  This wasn’t conquest.

  This was survival.

  War had come to Adamath.

  And it had brought with it the wrath of the heavens.