Tunde stared at the remnants of the dead Mistwalker, silence reigning all around him. Sera sagged to one knee, using Slaughter to hold herself up, avoiding looking at the room’s carnage. Most of the dead cultivators were unfamiliar to him—just faces in white robes, their only crime being at the White Crane. Tunde wiped his face, blood smearing his cheek, as he staggered to his feet. His relic vanished into dark smoke, returning as a tattoo on his body. He walked toward the wall where his impaled naginata was lodged.

  Drawing the weapon from the wall with a soft scratch, Tunde heard the sound of dozens of footsteps. Cultivators rushed into the building, horrified by what they saw. Some immediately emptied their guts, looking away from the grisly scene. Among them, Tunde recognized a face—Zehra, stepping through, her eyes wide, face pale. A tall, muscular man followed her.

  The figure immediately released his aura, a terrible, powerful force that drove Tunde to his knees. He said nothing. Zehra took tentative steps forward as the cultivators surrounded both him and Sera, weapons drawn and projection techniques at the ready.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Zehra asked softly, her voice shaky but with an undertone of steel. She was the lady of Clan Acacia—her fa?ade of ruthlessness and brutality could not waver in public. Tunde knew that better than anyone. “What have you done to the Pure Fist School?” she asked again, drawing her blade. The temperature in the room dropped, frost forming on the walls, and everyone’s breath turned misty.

  “Mistwalker,” Tunde breathed, struggling to speak—not just because of the peak Highlord’s aura, but because it seemed to suppress his cultivation as well.

  “You dare lie to our faces?” the man behind Zehra snapped, the sharpness of a blade affinity filling the air, a tiny cut opening on Tunde’s cheek as a drop of blood hit the ground.

  “Father,” Zehra said, as the man waved her aside. Tunde noticed the flash of rage and embarrassment in her features as she quickly clamped it down.

  “Did you think you could use the technocrat as a cover to get away with this? Did you think we wouldn’t know what your plan was?” Zehra’s father, the Highlord, said as he stepped closer.

  “He’s from the Brotherhood, I—" Sera began, but the Highlord glanced at her, slamming her into the ground with his aura. Tunde held back the urge to struggle against the pressure, knowing deep down he could either lessen it or, at worst, throw it off.

  “He speaks the truth,” Ujin’s voice rang out from outside, cutting through the tension as he and Bajun made their way to the front. Both winced at the sight of the carnage, turning their gaze to where Tunde and Sera lay subdued. “It wasn’t them, Tian,” Ujin said slowly, addressing the Highlord who held them down. The man glanced at them as he spoke.

  “Very well. Take their weapons and bind them. They will answer to the clan for their crimes,” he ordered, turning away without a second glance. The pressure lifted, and Tunde took a shuddering breath. Cultivators stepped forward, taking his naginata and Slaughter from Sera before binding them.

  “Hold, I will escort them myself,” Ujin said. One of the cultivators in deep blue robes hesitated, bowing low.

  “I beg your forgiveness, venerable Highlord, but Highlord Tian—"

  “I know what Tian said,” Ujin barked, making the lord jolt in shock, quickly retreating and nodding before scurrying out of the building.

  Bajun dragged a body pinned to a table aside, tossing it away before sitting down on a chair. He took a long drag from whatever he was smoking before speaking.

  “Can’t say I envy the situation you’re in,” he said. “I’m sure you understand the position you’ve put not just yourself but your sect in as well, don’t you?” Ujin asked, wearily eyeing Tunde.

  Tunde remained silent for a few moments before asking, “What happens now?”

  Ujin sighed, sitting down on a chair, grimacing as he touched the blood on the table. He wiped his hand on the robes of a dead Pure Fist Sect member before answering. “You’ll be presented before Clan Acacia and the patriarch,” he said. Tunde nodded slightly.

  “And Sera?” Tunde asked, glancing at her, her eyes still locked on the Highlord.

  “The same fate, I presume,” Ujin replied, staring at him. “I had no choice. He wanted me dead,” Tunde said.

  “Why?” Bajun asked. “What makes you so special that an artificer and a Mistwalker—two vastly opposing cults with no ties to each other—would want a mere lord dead?”

  “Because of my former teacher, Elder Joran of Jade Peak,” Tunde replied.

  “The Blind Tiger of Verdan was your old master?” Bajun asked, incredulous.

  “You knew who that was?” Ujin asked, confused.

  “In passing. A simple but strong adept... well, as far as adepts go,” Bajun replied.

  “That still doesn’t explain it. What could a mere adept have done to draw the attention of two cults?” Ujin pressed.

  “He was the one who killed the hidden artificer within Jade Peak who had plans for the Wastelands,” Tunde explained. “Elder Joran died in turn, and I’m guessing Borus, the artificer in question, had ties to the Brotherhood—hence the Mistwalker.”

  Tunde kept his expression cold and neutral. The explanation should suffice.

  “A Mistwalker as an assassin... that’s not something I’d wish on anyone, especially with their unorthodox arts and techniques. Vile creatures,” Bajun spat. “So, not only is Borus’ ally after you, but she believes you possess some relic of his as well. Either she or someone else gave the Brotherhood a job to end you,” Ujin summarized.

  Tunde nodded. “What advancement stage was Borus at?” Ujin asked, and Tunde stiffened slightly.

  “Probably Lord. My knowledge of cultivation back then was... limited,” he lied.

  Ujin stared at him for a moment before nodding. “We best leave before we draw too much attention,” he said, gesturing for Tunde and Sera to rise. Tunde nodded in silence, and Sera slowly got to her feet.

  Outside the White Crane, the entire street was surrounded by cultivators of Clan Acacia, watching for any signs of trouble. The once-quiet buildings now had doors and windows cracked open, their inhabitants watching with visible fear on their faces.

  Tunde wondered what they had seen, what they had heard, to make them that scared. He said nothing, merely walking toward the transport that awaited him—a metal construct with wheels and horses. Soon enough, they were leaving the pleasure district and the horrors that had unfolded there, heading toward Bladewater itself.

  *******************

  Artificer Yun staggered through the darkened passageways of the street, dripping blood as she crept about like prey. She had been lucky—lucky enough to distract the Highlords by detonating the weapons various cultivators had bought from her. It was a shameful thing to do, but shame was the first lesson artificers of the Sculptors learned to discard if they wanted to advance.

  Panting softly, she used her lightning Ethra to seal a wound on her side, gritting her teeth at the smell of cooked flesh and melting metal. Her metal limbs retracted as she took a steadying breath, assessing what had just happened. The child had grown stronger—stronger than she had realized. He hadn’t even used the relic she was sure he possessed, and yet he had almost overpowered her. And what were his ties to the girl who was obviously an acolyte of the Asuras?

  In fact, what was an acolyte of the Asuras doing in Shimmersteel, so far from the central plains? Too many things didn’t make sense. Just what had happened between Joran’s death and now? The way Tunde fought—with ruthless yet refined movements—it spoke of true training by one of the larger, more established factions.

  "Joran, what have you done?" she whispered harshly.

  “Bahataba, it is wrong for one to be alone in the dark, for it hides many things, does it not?” A calm yet powerful voice interrupted her thoughts. Yun lashed out with an electric whip, watching as the figure easily sidestepped it.

  “Tsk tsk, violence should be a last resort, young woman,” the figure said as the pale glow of the moonlight revealed a heavily robed figure clad in white and yellow. His bald head reflected the moonlight, and around his neck hung heavy prayer beads, each painted with words in stylish black ink.

  Eyes closed; the figure bowed at the waist to the artificer. “Bahataba, you have caused great anguish and pain tonight on innocent citizens, my friend,” he said solemnly, as Yun tried to gauge his strength.

  “Life, pain, everything comes…,” the man began, then paused as if forgetting the words. He sighed, and Yun, growing irritated with his blabbering, made her move. One of her metal limbs shot out, carrying a full blast of lightning Ethra toward the man. But he seemed to predict her every move, easily sidestepping her attacks before producing a staff out of nowhere.

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  It was an ornately crafted staff of wood and metal, both ends wrapped in gold, flowing with a serene, calming aura that effortlessly deflected her attacks as he spun it with graceful precision.

  Yun, her injury worsening and being pushed back by this apparent Highlord, looked for a way out. This was not how she had imagined the fight would go. She had to retreat, get back to her master, and inform him of the madness surrounding the Seeker.

  “Bahataba, I would have spared you, but you took too many innocent lives with your reckless lust for power,” the man said as he began to glow gold, his aura flaring to life with a deadliness that made Yun retreat further. Her void ring spilled out various defensive and offensive constructs.

  “Ah, I see... a mere puppet. You may return through the paths and think on what you have done. Bahataba’s Palm!” he said, as the golden glow took the form of a giant figure with an outstretched palm aimed at Yun. It tore through her defensive constructs as if they weren’t there, her offensive constructs powered down and snuffed out, devoid of Ethra or aura. The glowing palm slammed into her.

  As her very essence and life force were forcibly ripped from her body of metal and flesh, Yun cursed the Seeker, her cries of rage and anguish filling the night air before vanishing entirely.

  The man watched as pieces of metal and wire clattered to the ground. He clapped his palms together and whispered silent words before turning away, his staff vanishing from sight along with his figure.

  ********************

  Tunde stood in chains in the vast hall of the keep, eyes on the manacles that bound his hands, where glowing crystals jutted from the cold iron. The manacles were pitch black, their glowing blue inscriptions pulsing with each breath he took. Cut off from his Ethra, Tunde found even deep breaths difficult. Yet, the strength in his body was enough to shatter them if he truly willed it.

  This was a test. The patriarch had laid it out carefully to measure his patience and resilience. Or perhaps, the patriarch had no issue with putting him down should he try to escape. Either way, it was not an ideal time for rash decisions—not with so many Highlords present, their eyes on him, each representing different parts of the clan and its vassals.

  Tunde had never seen so many Highlords in one place. Their auras felt... dim to him, as though they wore their rank as an accessory rather than as a testament to battles won. He kept this observation to himself, wary of giving them more reason to act against him, especially with Sera glaring at him from the sidelines. He pointedly ignored her indignation.

  “You’ve placed me in a rather precarious position, young lord,” Patriarch Juga Acacia said, tapping his finger on the wooden armrest of his throne. To his left sat his son, Zehra’s father, while Zehra herself sat on his right. For a brief moment, Tunde wondered about her mother and grandmother, but it was just another unanswered musing.

  “While I thank you for closing the peak tier 4 rift, you’ve brought harm to my city on more than one occasion, costing me face.” Juga’s voice was calm, yet carried an edge. Tunde remained silent, his eyes fixed on the elder, who regarded him coldly.

  “I offered you our hospitality, yet you’ve brought bloodshed and shame to my clan. You’ve robbed the Pure Fist Sect of their adepts and lords. Tell me, why shouldn’t I order your death and invade Black Rock for this?”

  Tunde knew the patriarch’s threat was hollow. Black Rock had ties to the imperial clan, something Juga was well aware of. But in front of his clan and vassals, the threat served its purpose, stirring murmurs of greed and ambition as they whispered among themselves, eyes glaring at Tunde.

  Sera began to speak, but a pointed cough from Tunde made her stop. She bit back her words, and he nodded gratefully. Turning back to the patriarch, Tunde’s gaze passed over Ujin and Bajun, who lingered in the corner, a trail of smoke drifting from his lips. This was more than just a test of his character—it was a test of his wit. The patriarch knew the truth; none of the events were truly Tunde's fault. In fact, he was certain the patriarch expected trouble to follow him, especially with Varis aware of his location.

  Tunde inhaled deeply, bowing at the waist before speaking. “I greet the venerable and esteemed Patriarch of Clan Acacia, the Highlords, and vassals of this great city of Shimmersteel.” Straightening, he met the patriarch’s gaze, steeling himself. “I was once a slave, far from the shores of my land. I begged for death and witnessed bloodshed that no sane man should endure.”

  A Highlord with bushy brows sneered. “Oh? And what exactly did you witness?”

  Tunde glanced at him calmly. “Forgive me, Highlord, but have you ever witnessed the wrath of a grand Ethralite and a true beast, both at master rank?”

  The Highlord blinked in confusion. “No.”

  “Terrible things to behold. Their battle tore the wastelands apart, life and death carved into the very earth.” The Highlord fell silent, realizing the gravity of Tunde’s words.

  “And you survived such a battle?” Ujin asked quietly.

  “The Battle of Black Rock,” Tunde replied with a nod. “The second one, at least. The first was an invasion of rift creatures, a sea of them crashing against our walls. The second battle saw Rhaelar and Varis Talahan, two masters, crush the Wasteland King. The memory of that fight will never leave the people of Black Rock.”

  A murmur swept through the hall. Zehra’s eyes widened, and Tian, her father, gripped the armrest of his chair in surprise. Ujin gave a slight nod, and Bajun smiled faintly from his corner. Even Juga Acacia seemed intrigued, a twinkle in his eye.

  “Good,” Ifa whispered in his mind. “Now, go for the kill.”

  “Two scions of the imperial clan were at Black Rock?” an elderly man asked.

  Tunde nodded. “Yes, and I witnessed blood on a scale I never wish to see again. Not by my own hands.” He paused, bowing his head. “I apologize for what happened to Shimmersteel, for the damage caused by a misguided technocrat and a Mistwalker. But it was not I who sought the relic, nor did I cause the deaths of the Pure Fist Sect’s adepts.”

  The room fell silent. The patriarch could not simply forgive Tunde without some semblance of justice, not with the convergence looming.

  “Bah!” an elder spat, rising from his seat. He bowed to the patriarch in respect before glaring at Tunde. “My lord, I say he lies! Even if the scions of the Talahan Clan were there, why would mercenaries and assassins assume he had anything to do with them? Surely the head of Black Rock would be a more likely target!”

  Juga’s eyes narrowed. “Well? What do you say to that? Are you a fool, hoping to dazzle me with tales of power, seeking to buy more time?”

  Tunde sighed. “No, venerable patriarch. I was Black Rock’s strongest cultivator. I earned the favor of two masters of the Talahan Clan.” Reaching into his void ring, Tunde pulled out a golden medallion, holding it high for all to see.

  “I, a lowly lord from Black Rock Sect, am the acolyte of Master Varis of the Talahan Clan.”

  The room fell into stunned silence, pale faces staring in disbelief. Sera laughed in their faces.

  Juga Talahan stood at the top of a building, shrouded from view, as he watched the docking station in silence, his hands folded behind his back. The bright Irun sun shone with all its glory, yet a frigid chill had settled over Shimmersteel. It had been nearly a century since he had witnessed such a convergence—the last time being when he had risen to the rank of Master.

  A full century later, and he was still struggling to break through to Paragon, his advancement having all but stalled. It was a necessary sacrifice. It wasn’t how fast one advanced but how far, or at least that was what he kept telling himself.

  “Poor alms for a humble monk?” a voice said from below. Juga sighed, rolling his bright blue eyes before glancing down at the bald-headed man in white and yellow robes squinting up at him.

  “Aren’t you a little too old for this, Anzan?” Juga asked. The monk sighed, seemingly vanishing before appearing next to the patriarch, wooden bowl in hand.

  “A poor monk has no one to call his friend, no home to call his own, Bahataba,” the monk named Anzan said.

  “The women of the pleasure district finally throw you out?” Juga teased, watching as the monk seemed mortified.

  “Bahataba! May we never witness such a day,” Anzan exclaimed, and Juga shook his head with a laugh.

  “I’m not sure what’s more embarrassing—your attempt to hide from me in my own city or shrouding yourself as a Lord ranker. You have my gratitude for dealing with the technocrat, by the way,” Juga said.

  “Bahataba, don’t mention it. She merely paid with her puppet life for the innocents she took,” Anzan replied.

  “Puppet? Figures. Those metal abominations would hardly risk their own lives. I should have expected as much,” Juga said as the monk nodded.

  “I’m guessing she spoiled your chance at a win? From the fighting pit, I mean,” Juga asked.

  “Bahataba will repay me a dozen times for the loss,” Anzan replied with a straight face, and Juga laughed. “What brings a Master of the Sect of the Luminous Path out here in these parts of the empire?” he asked.

  “Bahataba guides my steps, old friend,” Anzan muttered. “Rumors of the False Lights on the move reached us at the Temple of True Light.”

  Juga frowned. “The Keepers? Within Bloodfire? Are they mad?” he asked, surprised.

  Anzan shrugged. “Something is stirring the old cults. Perhaps it’s this… event we’ve been summoned for by the imperial clan, but the winds of fate tell me there’s about to be a major shift in this world of ours,” Anzan muttered.

  “And the Sage? What does he make of all this?” Juga asked.

  The Sage—the head of the Temple of Light—was rumored to be a Paragon on the verge of breaking through to the realm of Regent. He was a truly ancient yet powerful being, hidden away within their temple, his identity and image lost to time, known only as the Sage.

  Anzan bowed at the waist, clapping his palms together, the large prayer beads around his neck shaking. “Praise be to the Light. The Sage has told us to keep watch,” Anzan said.

  Juga nodded, turning his gaze back to the large vessel at the docks. “Keep watch,” he muttered to himself. “Will you stay for the convergence? I might need your help finding enlightenment,” he asked the monk, who squinted at him before shaking his head.

  “Bahataba, the enlightenment you seek, you already know the answer to, do you not?” Anzan said softly.

  Juga sighed. “Indeed.”

  “The path of cultivation severs our ties to mortality the higher we go. You, of all people, should know that,” Anzan chided.

  “And yet the Talahan clan gets to keep its ties,” Juga said frostily.

  “It is not our place to question fate nor its numerous methods, Juga,” Anzan replied. “The path of flame and lightning wielders is… murky, even to our eyes. It’s not a path I would envy, my friend,” Anzan warned.

  Juga glanced at him. “You know something,” he said.

  “Bahataba, I know many things, like the fact that you’re stingy to a poor monk,” Anzan said, and Juga rolled his eyes. The monks were as tight-lipped as ever, keeping whatever secrets of the world they knew to themselves.

  “Then your acolyte is aboard that vessel, is he not?” Juga asked.

  “Indeed. He will travel ahead of me. It will be beneficial for him to mix with cultivators of his age and build bonds,” Anzan replied.

  “So you’ve heard about the Dark Fist, then?” Juga asked with a chuckle.

  “Word of a Master of Talahan taking an acolyte travels fast, my friend. Besides, something about that Dark Fist seems to draw the webs of fate together, Bahataba,” Anzan replied.

  “I see. The four of them should make quite the company until they reach Talahar—so long as nothing happens to them, that is,” Juga said.

  Anzan blinked. “You sent your dearest along as well? Perhaps there’s hope for you yet,” the monk said, and Juga chuckled.

  “Being coddled will do her no good. Dark times are coming,” he replied.

  “Indeed, my friend,” Anzan agreed.

  The two watched the ship finish its preparations before Juga spoke. “Coming over to Bladewater? You could eat to your heart’s content,” he suggested.

  “Bahataba, I must maintain my weight for the Light,” Anzan replied.

  “And there’s infused wine as well,” Juga added with a smirk.

  “Bahataba, perhaps just a sip, as a courtesy to you, of course,” Anzan quickly said.

  “Of course,” Juga replied, as both men vanished from their spot.