There was a tale about a floating island in Adamath, which might have seemed irrelevant considering the numerous floating constructs of similar size scattered throughout the skies. While spotting one was rare, the tales persisted—from the shrouded floating city of the Arcanists, veiled completely unless they wished it revealed, to the magma forge of a rumored paragon of forge-smithing, and even to tiny mountains held aloft by sheer fortunes in runic inscriptions possessed by powerful cultivators.

  This particular mountain, however, stood out due to the legends of who and what resided upon it. Tales spoke of a powerful aura that could split the heavens and make it rain Ethra. Of course, most of these tales were far-fetched; none of the Highlords there would ever do such a thing, knowing who truly owned the mountain.

  The floating island was a marvel of natural and mystical engineering, suspended high in the sky. Its sheer, unyielding presence cast an imposing silhouette against the endless expanse of blue. The island itself was a vast, almost barren expanse of land, sparsely populated by clusters of hardy, wind-swept flora that clung to the rocky soil.

  At the heart of this floating isle rose a solitary mountain, an awe-inspiring structure dominating the landscape. The mountain was a stunning juxtaposition of pure white and amethyst-black rock, both polished to a crystalline sheen that glimmered under the sun and moonlight alike. The dichotomy of colors intertwined, creating a mesmerizing, almost ethereal visual effect as light played across its surfaces.

  Midway up the mountain, an abrupt, jagged shear cut through its majestic rise, revealing an interior meticulously hollowed out. This gorged-out section formed a colossal coliseum, a grand amphitheater carved from the mountain's core. The coliseum's seats were fashioned from the finest black marble, their smooth, glossy surfaces reflecting the ambient light and lending a regal air to the entire structure.

  In the center of this monumental coliseum rested the crest of Clan Talahan, a symbol of immense pride and heritage. The crest depicted a large black cloud, ominous and powerful, with striking white lightning bolts zigzagging through it—a testament to the clan's might and resilience. This emblem was a constant reminder of the clan's history and strength, etched indelibly into the heart of the mountain.

  Flanking the coliseum were towering braziers filled with black flame Ethra. The flames burned eternally, casting a warm, inviting glow throughout the space. The fire not only illuminated but also radiated a comforting heat, ensuring that the coliseum remained warm even in the chill of the high altitudes.

  Surrounding the mountain, the sparse landscape of the floating island stretched out in all directions. Pockets of hardy plants and small trees dotted the terrain, their roots gripping tenaciously to the rocky soil. The flora was uniquely adapted to the high-altitude environment, with leaves that shimmered with a silver hue, reflecting the island's mystical ambiance.

  The air around the island was crisp and fresh, imbued with a faint, almost electric scent that spoke of the powerful Ethra keeping the island aloft. From the island's edges, one could gaze down into the endless sky below—a breathtaking, vertigo-inducing view that reinforced the island's isolation and mystical nature.

  To most of the empire's population, few would ever get a glimpse of the mountain as it floated past their homes in the skies above. The tales were more hearsay than true descriptions; some said the Regent himself lived within it, ever vigilant and watching for the enemies of the empire.

  It was as absurd a tale as any, making no sense. No one would risk the life of the Emperor and Patriarch of the Empire and the Talahan clan for such a display of wealth. Not that anyone within the empire could harm the Regent himself, but the imperial clan wouldn’t risk it—not at this time. Still, it didn’t hurt to inspire hope in the people, especially in these trying times.

  It was why Thalor Vayne, head of security and intelligence of the Veilwardens, couldn’t understand the need for the competition about to take place. He frowned as he stepped through the nexus key path that brought him straight into the amphitheater of the floating island, standing amidst the assembled masters from all over the empire.

  All at once, he felt the dozen and more auras settle on him like the crash of a wave. He brushed it off easily with a brief shrug of his Ethra. With pure black hair slicked back, a bushy black eyebrow, and a trimmed moustache, Vayne cut an imposing figure. His muscular frame looked as if it had been carved out of stone, his tanned skin and black robes with a white eye on them signifying his position.

  Before him were the Highlords, all dressed in the bright and luxurious robes of their respective clans and sects. From the representatives of the four great clans and sects to the lesser clans, sects, and outer powers of the empire, each master held their own in seclusion, training their members to reach nothing short of the pinnacle of cultivation.

  Vayne wondered if they realized how futile that pursuit was—the ever-scaling heights to reach the pinnacle. He tsked silently to himself. Of course, they knew. These masters, more than any others, knew that their prodigies, if they ever reached that far, would hardly get past the realm of Master unless favored or blessed by the Hegemons above.

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  However, it was not his business. His duty was to ensure that Talahar itself was secure, along with the other members of his own organization. That was their mandate from the emperor himself. Drawing himself to his full height, Vayne released a brief burst of his aura, the powerful gray-colored Ethra flashing in and out of existence, drawing their attention to him.

  “Welcome, Highlords of the Empire,” he began, his eyes moving over their numbers one by one. **“You have all been summoned here by the order of the imperial clan itself, Talahan, as I’m sure your respective masters must have informed you.”

  He watched for any change in their moods as they stared at him with passive indifference. Good, he preferred it that way. “I stand before you and speak with the voice of the Black Tempest himself,” Vayne continued, and the Highlords sat up, ears perked, some even wary of their surroundings.

  It amused Vayne, as if the esteemed heir had nothing better to do than spy on a bunch of lowly Highlords. It spoke to the ignorance and inflated sense of importance they had. “Why then didn’t he send one of the Masters? Why you?” a man in cream robes asked calmly, staring at Vayne.

  Vayne’s eyes flicked to the figure in the first row. “Would you like to question his decision? Perhaps you might impart some of your profound wisdom?” Vayne said calmly, and the Highlord froze, eyes wide as he controlled his nerves. He was relying on the unspoken rule that those of significantly higher ranks didn’t harm those beneath them—a pity. Vayne also knew that power decided all, and if the heir decided to immolate the Highlord where he sat, his sect or master would send gifts in return to thank the heir for “enlightening” their foolish Highlord.

  Vayne turned his attention away, snapping his fingers. A figure dressed in all black, with the same white eye sigil on his robe, stepped forward with a black scroll in hand. Black hair tied behind his head neatly and a cold look on his face, he handed the scroll to Vayne, who nodded as the figure stepped back.

  Vayne raised the scroll for all the Highlords to see. “This is the message, proof of the imperial seal of Clan Talahan. Would anyone like to protest that this is not so?” he asked, for formalities’ sake. It was nice to see them shift uncomfortably in their seats—one of the few joys of his job. Nodding to himself, he broke the seal and unfurled the scroll, a rush of power filling the room.

  As one, the Highlords fell to their knees, heads bowed where they sat. “We salute the Paragon!” their voices rang out in unison. The aura condensed into a featureless humanoid form, and the air around Vayne seemed to freeze. The mere presence of the aura-conjured figure was enough to warp reality itself.

  Not for the first time, Vayne marveled at a cultivator close to the peak, the very room smoldering as runes carved into the building’s walls burned to life, activated by the faintest hint of the Paragon’s aura. “I suppose I must do this,” the deep yet almost playful voice began. “A month from now, I’ll be hosting a grand competition to celebrate the young talents of the empire.” The figure of the Paragon and heir spoke, and the Highlords froze, ears perked as they refrained from looking up.

  “The nature of the competition and celebration I cannot divulge to you; it is of no importance to you all. What is important, however, is that you bring a single Lord-realm cultivator from your sects and clans—one alone to represent you,” he said.

  “The event will be hosted within one of my more…impressive rifts. There will be enough resources within it to raise your sects to lofty heights, enough advancement resources to ensure your chosen one, whoever wins, can obtain a smooth ride to the Master realm.”

  Vayne raised an eyebrow, surprised by the Paragon’s benevolence. What could the Paragon gain from sponsoring a cultivator to such heights? What was there for the clan to gain? Still, he said nothing, merely watching. “And to spice it up, I have decided that all sects and clans within the empire, and outside its territories, will participate as well,” the Paragon said as Vayne watched the Highlords twitch, “even the unorthodox or forbidden sects and cults as well,” he finalized.

  No one uttered a word, but Vayne could feel the profound shock that spread across the room in that instant.

  The forbidden sects and cults? The Revenants, the Envoys, and all the other myriad powers that had been termed “evil.” It was at this point that Vayne knew that a month from now, his life would become a whole lot more stressful. He sighed inwardly. At least, on the bright side, he would get to watch the young ones put on a flashy display.

  “One month. I await you,” the Paragon finished as the aura dispersed and a breath of fresh air poured back into the room. The Highlords inhaled as if gasping for raw breath. Vayne raised an eyebrow at them, no doubt amused as they struggled to cycle their Ethra and auras. The scroll burned away with black flames, leaving nothing but ash.

  He produced a black rock with a carved rune on it, putting a bit of his aura into it as the rock vibrated before shattering into a swirling black flaming vortex. “The imperial clan provides a path home for you all,” he simply said, pointing at the artificial rift opening in silence. One by one, the Highlords passed through, saying nothing as they went, their minds no doubt filled to the brim.

  When they were all gone, the rift opening pulsed for a second before closing again. The male figure who had stood behind Vayne stepped forward in silence. Vayne cracked his neck, staring at the empty seats even as clouds passed them by. They were an illusion—one so strong that even the Highlords who had been summoned to the floating island couldn’t pierce it with their auras. It had been placed there by a high-ranking Arcanist anyway.

  They were above Talahar, with its towering spires of gold and Ethereon. “Inform the High Warden that it is done,” Vayne ordered. The figure nodded before walking towards the edge of the building and simply jumping off. Vayne watched him go, aware of just how high they were. He would be fine, Nulls that they were. Instead, Vayne turned his gaze to the wall and the large crest of Clan Talahan emblazoned on it.

  Yes, the coming period was going to be nothing if not interesting.