Rain had come in the night—slow at first, then steady—soaking the slate roofs and turning the stone paths of the Lei Clan into dark, gleaming rivers. Now, just past dawn, the world dripped with it. Bamboo leaves hung heavy, their tips weeping into puddles. Mist clung low across the courtyards, shrouding the world in damp hush.

  The atmosphere was quiet for now. But not still. Beneath that quiet, the clan pulsed.

  Windows clicked open. Low voices murmured behind wooden screens. Somewhere, a boy retched into a basin. Somewhere else, a father whispered urgent words that sounded far too much like final prayers. The air carried no celebration—only the scent of wet earth and the weight of judgment.

  Today would decide fates.

  For the sons of elders and inner-circle elites, it was a formality—a performance, not a test. But for everyone else, today was a knife’s edge. A single misstep could brand one useless, fit only for the menial labour designated for mortals. But excellence—true, undeniable excellence—might be a doorway. A chance to lift not just oneself, but generations.

  So there was fear in the clan this morning.

  Fear… and hope.

  But in a small house, isolated on the outskirts, there was neither.

  Only calm.

  The meal was simple: steamed rice, grilled rootfish, and sliced gourd steeped in ginger. The room was lit only by pale light filtering through the misted windows, soft as breath on glass. Rain tapped faintly on the paper screens, more whisper than rhythm. A kettle hissed low on the hearth.

  Veylan sat across from Liora and Rhen.

  The silence between them was no longer sharp—it had softened over the days. Became companionable. Safe.

  Liora reached for the bowl and gave Veylan another scoop of rice, steam curling upward.

  “You know he’ll have to fight shortly,” Rhen said without looking up, voice level.

  Liora didn’t miss a beat. “If you’re done, then get up. Don’t interrupt my son’s meal.”

  Her tone was dry, pointed.

  A flicker passed across Veylan’s lips. Not quite a smile. But close. A shadow of one. Like something remembered, not worn in years.

  She was so different from his mother on Earth. Liora had fire in her spine. No hesitation, no apology. Where his past life’s mother had endured in silence, Liora struck back with heat. And he—he wasn’t used to being defended like that.

  He wasn’t used to being defended. Or shielded. That warmth sat in his chest—unfamiliar, too close to something he couldn’t name.

  Liora’s voice cut softly through the quiet again. “I’ve made something for you,” she said. “Wear it today. And show them that my son is the absolute best.”

  Veylan nodded, finishing the last of his rice without a word. But something stirred under his ribs—quiet, but rising. When he entered his room, the scent of cedar and steamed cloth still lingered faintly. On his bed, carefully laid out, was a white tunic.

  Its fabric was clean and crisp—linen, but finely woven, with faint stitching in silver along the sleeves and collar. A sigil was embroidered just beneath the throat: three jagged lightning bolts, the mark of the Lei. Yet the design was simple, dignified. Proud, without shouting.

  He ran a hand over it. The fabric cool beneath his fingers.

  Then, slowly, he changed.

  When he stepped back into the common room, Rhen and Liora both turned.

  Liora blinked, then grinned. “Oh my. Didn’t know my son looked so handsome.”

  Veylan stood still for a moment, the tunic clinging to his tall, narrow frame, faint morning light pooled around his bare feet, catching on the weave of the tunic. His eyes met hers. Then Rhen’s.

  “Thanks,” he said softly.

  Liora reached to straighten a crease—though it didn’t really exist.

  Because that one word was enough.

  For all three of them.

  ?? — ? — ??

  The stage had been erected at the base of Greenveil Mountain—broad, polished, and ringed with spirit-carved columns that shimmered faintly in the damp air. Banners of the Lei Clan fluttered in uneven wind, their silver-blue threads slick with rain. Clouds hung low, smothering the peak, and the scent of wet pine and trampled grass filled the air.

  Today was not just a test.

  It was a performance.

  A declaration of strength and pride, made grander than ever by Chief Varian’s invitation to neighbouring clans. Outsiders had gathered in the front rows—chiefs in heavy robes, stewards in wide sashes, and heirs draped in ceremonial silks. Their faces held only polite interest—sharp-eyed, silent, unreadable.

  By the time Rhen arrived with his family, the outer seats were already full. A soft murmur ran through the crowd as they approached. Not loud. Not open. But it spread like dye in still water.

  “So he really brought the boy.”

  “He’s actually letting him compete.”

  “If the child fails...”

  Veylan walked a step behind his parents, silent. The damp pressed against his collar. His heartbeat was steady—but only because it hadn’t yet begun to rise. His presence didn’t feel out of place—only unspoken. Like a word everyone had forgotten how to say.

  Some looked with veiled curiosity. Others with quiet discomfort.

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  A few didn’t bother to hide the pity in their eyes—tight-lipped, fleeting.

  No one said a word. Not with Rhen beside him.

  They bowed—stiffly—to Rhen as he passed. Despite his rift with Varian, he remained one of only three Foundation Establishment experts within the clan. Varian might pretend that meant little, but the others could not afford to.

  Rhen returned the bows with a nod, scanning the seating tiers. His eyes narrowed slightly when he spotted their names carved into the wooden slats—last row, far edge. Liora noticed too.

  “That—” Liora’s jaw tensed. She bit back the rest of her words, but the anger hung sharp in the air, like iron in rain.

  Rhen shook his head once. Brief. Final.

  And so they climbed the wet stone steps in silence, water slicking the soles of their boots. No escort. No announcement.

  When they reached their row, Liora wiped the rain off the wooden bench with her sleeve before Veylan sat. She didn’t say anything further, but her eyes were sharp.

  Below, the crowd continued to swell. Robes swished. Old men muttered. Children pointed. And then, at last, a subtle shift in the air—as if even the clouds held their breath.

  Lei Varian arrived.

  He strode like he owned the mountain. Gold embroidery marked his rank, but it was the silence that followed him which spoke louder. Elders fell in behind him like shadows. One of them, an aged man with long silvered brows and a sharp nose, slowed as he reached the middle rows.

  His gaze locked on Rhen.

  It lingered.

  A flicker of something unreadable passed through his face—recognition, maybe regret. Maybe not.

  Liora rose slightly and offered a small bow. Rhen did the same.

  The old man’s lips parted—then shut.

  He turned away without a word.

  Back straight. Hands still. As if Rhen and Liora didn’t exist.

  In the upper seats, Varian watched the entire exchange from the corner of his eye. He didn’t speak. Didn’t move.

  But a smile—thin and fleeting—crossed his face.

  A hush spread across the gathering.

  From the distant path, five figures emerged, the rhythm of their steps heavy and synchronized like war drums muffled in mist. At the front strode Meng Baoyin chief of Ironhorn Mountain Clan, towering and broad-shouldered, his presence as immovable as the cliffs his clan called home. Thick crimson-black robes draped his scarred arms—like the pelt of some beast slain in another life. His every step sent small vibrations through the wooden platform beneath.

  To his right walked Meng Tieshou, already massive despite his age—barely thirteen, but built like a grown warrior. His long braid swung behind him like a chain, and his gaze swept the crowd with cool detachment. Three Ironhorn elders followed behind, faces stern, expressions carved from the same stone their mountain fortress rose from.

  The Lei clan elders rose as one. Varian stepped forward, smiling with the precision of a man who weighed every gesture. “Chief Meng,” he said, dipping his head.

  Baoyin offered a nod—just enough to acknowledge. “Varian,” he replied, his voice deep and rough, like boulders grinding in a riverbed. “You’ve chosen a fine site. The mountain feels alive.”

  “I hope it does more than just feel,” Varian said smoothly. “Please, sit. These seats are for you.”

  Meng Baoyin grunted, amused or dismissive—it was hard to tell. He took the seat beside Varian, his bulk casting a long shadow over the dais. Tieshou stood behind him for a moment before sitting, back straight, gaze forward, as if already preparing for the test ahead.

  Whispers stirred at their arrival, quickly swallowed by hush.

  Moments later, the mood shifted.

  Where the Ironhorn Clan arrived like thunder, the next entourage came like drifting smoke—subtle, composed, and polished. Lian Chengzhi, branch director of the Stonegold Pavilion, moved with the grace of a man used to closed-room negotiations and silent victories. His robes shimmered faintly under the overcast light, silver threads catching the eye just long enough to remind onlookers of wealth.

  His hair was streaked with silver—not age, but refinement. His smile, when he greeted Varian, was softer than Meng Baoyin’s nod, yet somehow more dangerous.

  A softer murmur passed through the seated crowd, but silence reclaimed it just as quickly.

  “Chief Varian,” he said, hands folded in a courteous bow.

  “Director Lian,” Varian returned the bow with measured respect. “I trust your trade routes were not troubled?”

  “Smooth as always. Gold flows better when peace holds,” Chengzhi said, voice calm. Beside him stood Lian Ruo, a youth with an elegant bearing and sharp features—unthreatening at first glance, but every bit the serpent behind silk. He bowed politely, his eyes sweeping across the crowd.

  Varian gestured to their seats, and Chengzhi nodded. “An excellent turnout this year. I’m curious to see which flames burn brightest.”

  “Aren’t we all,” Varian said, the smile never quite touching his eyes.

  As the two factions settled, the air grew heavier—not with storm or wind, but with anticipation. The stage below stood quiet, and the mountains watched. Somewhere behind them, a small wind stirred the grass.

  The last few murmurs faded across the seated crowd, Third Elder Lei Fenhai stood slowly from his seat near the front. His white robes hung heavy with age and rain-drawn moisture, and the faint creak of his joints as he bowed low toward the clan chief echoed louder than it should have.

  Varian gave a single nod, fingers drumming once against the armrest of his ornate chair.

  Fenhai straightened and turned, his voice slid through the hush like a knife through soaked cloth—soft, sure, inevitable. “We begin the ceremonial test.”

  He raised a hand. Another elder stepped forward, a scroll unfurling between his fingers. One by one, the names echoed across the wet hush. Some youths strode up with stiff-backed pride, others moved like their legs were weighed down by stone.

  One after another, chosen names stirred to motion, feet slipping slightly on the rain-slick steps of the central platform. Some walked with barely concealed excitement, others with a tension that rode their backs like a weight. The sun hid behind low gray clouds. Thunder mumbled somewhere in the distant hills.

  “Lei Arin.”

  “Lei Han.”

  “Lei Suri.”

  Thirty now stood, their presence tightening the air like the hush before thunder. Then—pause.

  The elder calling out names hesitated. Only slightly. Barely enough to notice.

  “Lei Veylan.”

  Silence. A ripple passed through the crowd.

  Heads turned. Near the back, where only the common families sat, one figure rose—tall for his age, straight-backed, dressed in pristine white. Rhen’s head inclined, calm and unreadable. Liora leaned forward, brushing Veylan’s shoulder lightly. “Be careful,” she whispered.

  Veylan gave a small nod. Then walked.

  Through the murmuring sea of attention, up the long steps, onto the platform. His gaze didn’t waver. His pace didn’t falter. But as he passed by the seated elders, words followed in his wake.

  “So it’s true,” murmured Lian Chengzhi, tone mild but laced with interest. “The son of Lei Rhen enters the field—at ten years old, no less. Like father, like son.”

  Varian’s smile twitched at the edges. He didn’t turn.

  From the Ironhorn section, Meng Baoyin said nothing, but his gaze followed Veylan’s path with slow, thoughtful weight. Meng Tieshou, seated beside him, cracked his knuckles once.

  As Veylan reached the platform, Elder Fenhai continued. “Now, the guests.”

  New names. Each landed like a dropped stone.

  “Lian Ruo.”

  “Meng Tieshou.”

  Both youths walked to the platform—one lean and graceful, the other a massive silhouette, iron-bound in posture. The contrast between them and the Lei youths was stark. The message in their presence, unmistakable.

  Forty now stood.

  Fenhai raised two clay jars, each bound with red twine. “Draw your tokens. Match numbers will be assigned accordingly.”

  Veylan stepped forward. The token in his hand read: 3.

  A quiet breath left him—not relief, not dread, just a sharpening. He slipped the token into his sleeve and turned back.

  Once the tokens were distributed, Fenhai gestured. “Return to your seats. Matches will be held five at a time—four on the side stages, one in the centre. Elders will preside over each.”

  Four more elders rose, dispersing like slow-moving shadows toward the side stages.

  But before anyone could move—

  A sudden tremor passed through the ground, subtle at first, then building.

  From beyond the edge of the mountain path, the sound of hooves—no, not hooves. Claws, talons, weight crashing through wet stone.

  A streak of movement.

  Then ten riders emerged from the fog-laced ridge, mounted on spirit beasts. Broad-backed, horned creatures with smoke curling from their nostrils. Their hooves—or claws—struck the earth with a hollow clatter, leaving faint trails of dust in their wake. The riders wore cloaks of black and jade, their emblems very much familiar to most.

  A hush fell, heavy and expectant. The banners stilled. Even the mountain seemed to hold its breath.

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  Destiny Reckoning. It’s set in the same universe, and you definitely don’t want to miss it, because the stories will eventually crossover.