The great chamber was carved of black stone, its walls etched with dragons that seemed to writhe in the torchlight.

  At the center rose the Dragon Throne, a seat carved from a single block of obsidian, towering above the half-circle of elder seats below.

  As the heavy doors boomed shut behind us, Daeryon’s chi flared like a storm breaking against the sky.

  The weight of it pressed down on the chamber, a silent reminder of who stood before them.

  The six elders stiffened in their seats. Even they, hardened by decades of cultivation and arrogance, lowered their eyes for an instant.

  “Master, Daeryon…” one of them muttered under his breath, but the word cracked in the air, half-respect, half-fear.

  Beside me, Daeryon’s chi pulsed, growing sharper, hungering to strike.

  I leaned close, whispering so low it was barely thought at all. “No. Not now. Don’t give them suspicion. I know you’re angry, but hold it back.”

  His eyes flicked my way. Then, with a slow exhale, Daeryon’s chi receded like a tide. The suffocating weight lifted. The elders raised their gazes again, some with relief, some with irritation.

  Daeryon strode forward and mounted the obsidian steps without hesitation. When he sat upon the Dragon Throne, the entire chamber seemed to steady, as though the stone itself knew its rightful master had returned.

  Jinhai stepped to his side, posture straight, hands folded behind his back. Unyielding. Unmoving. His presence was a blade drawn but not yet swung.

  I let my gaze sweep across the half-circle of seats. Six figures sat there, draped in the robes of their station, each face worn with years, each pair of eyes sharp with calculation.

  Their titles whispered themselves in my mind, like ink on an old page. I grew angry just remembering them.

  My hand tightened into a fist as my eyes locked on Elder Hwan, gaunt and hawk-eyed. His tongue was sharper than any blade, his words always pressed for blood. A predator who cloaks his hunger in righteousness. Seeing him breathe made my chest burn.

  My jaw clenched when I turned to Elder Cho, broad as a bear, voice thunderous, patience thinner than glass. He had led countless purges, never once trembling as lives were cut short. I could almost smell the smoke of his past victories, the stench of bones ground into dust.

  The breath caught in my throat at Elder Myung. The oldest of them, voice like dry paper, a false sage. He dressed savagery in the language of honor, cruelty wrapped in tradition. He was the worst kind of liar, one who convinced himself his blade was mercy. “The asshole who tried hardest to sway Soryn.”

  A chill skittered down my spine when my gaze fell on Elder Ryu. Sharp and sly, more politician than warrior. His schemes ran deeper than rivers, every word dipped in poison before it left his lips. I hated him the most. “He is the bastard who focused on Jarin, thinking Jarin was just like him.”

  My teeth ground together as I looked at Elder Sun. Thin-lipped and cold, his eyes gleamed with only one truth: strength above all. To him, compassion was weakness, restraint a disease. I had written monsters like him before, men who called cruelty clarity. “The other bastard who trained Giron. He made sure to keep Seohwa’s words alive.”

  And then there was Elder Naerin. My fingers curled so hard they trembled. The only woman among them, still beautiful, but her eyes were knives. The most brutal of them all, her words dripping in blood, her strategies carved from suffering. She smiled as if cruelty was her only joy. “Well, she’s a bitch. She’s Seohwa’s friend, after all. She looked at Areum as if she were a disease to the sect.”

  I felt bile stir at the sight of them. These were not wise protectors of the sect. They were carrion birds in silk robes, waiting for flesh to fall.

  The silence stretched until Jinhai’s voice broke it, steady and clear.

  “Masters of the Council. The Kang Sect stands strong, but threats gather beyond our walls. It is my duty to present these matters before you.”

  He stepped forward, bowing his head briefly, then began.

  “First, the Black Serpent Sect has stirred again in the east. Their raiders encroach upon border villages. Reports claim they have allied with mercenaries from the Burning Plains.”

  A low murmur rippled through the elders.

  Elder Hwan scoffed. “Then we strike first. Burn their villages. Let their warriors choke on ash, and their elders remember the price of defiance.”

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  Elder Cho slammed a fist on his armrest. “Agreed. Crush them before their alliance grows teeth. A single palm from master Daeryon could level their halls.”

  Jinhai looked at him with anger, but he continued. “Second. The Northern Empire has stationed troops dangerously close to the western borders. They speak of ‘protection,’ but the villagers whisper of extortion and forced conscription.”

  Elder Ryu’s lips curled in a thin smile. “An opportunity. Let them entangle themselves in the mud of border towns. When their boots grow heavy, we move in and break their lines. Their arrogance will be their undoing.”

  Elder Myung cleared his throat, voice brittle but loud. “Do not forget the Empire’s weight. If we provoke them too soon, we risk a war that could drain us. Better to take their coin and their tribute, as our ancestors once did.”

  Elder Sun leaned forward, eyes gleaming cold. “Cowardice. Every year we delay, they grow stronger. We should sever the snake’s head before it can coil. March on their border forts, and paint their banners red.”

  Jinhai continued, undaunted. “Third. Reports from the southern mountains speak of demonic beasts in restless numbers. Hunters have vanished. Caravans go missing. Some claim the beasts are being driven, directed by unseen hands.”

  Elder Naerin’s voice cut through the chamber like steel. “Then we hunt them down to the last claw. Rip out the nests, salt the earth, burn the forests if we must. Beasts or men, all threats burn the same.”

  Her eyes glittered as she spoke, and even the other elders shifted uneasily at her ferocity.

  Jinhai stepped back, his report finished. The chamber was thick with voices now, elders snapping over each other, demanding war, blood, and fire.

  And above them all, Daeryon sat in silence upon the Dragon Throne, his eyes shadowed, his expression unreadable.

  The storm raged below, but the mountain did not move.

  Daeryon’s hands rested in his lap, but the muscles in his forearm twitched as if trying to pry open the world itself.

  His eyes, fixed on the elders, held the same cold stillness they had worn since he entered the throne room, only now something coiled behind them, patient and precise.

  He did not speak. He did not need to. The storm of voices crashed around the chamber, the elders snarling over each other like wolves circling prey.

  And yet… Daeryon did not move. His hands rested on the armrests of the Dragon Throne, his gaze steady, his breath slow.

  Then, without a word, something pierced into me. A thread of chi, precise and controlled, slid into my consciousness like a whisper against the marrow of my bones.

  “Daniel.”

  The voice was Daeryon’s. But not spoken aloud. It rang only in my head, clear and cold, a private bridge no one else could walk.

  I froze, my ghostly chest tight. “Daeryon…?”

  The voice came again, measured, deliberate. “Tell me. How many of these people betrayed the sect?”

  My head lowered before I realized it, breath catching. Memory clawed up, jagged and merciless. The fires. The blood. The moment of ruin I had made before.

  I forced the words out, voice trembling. “If I remember correctly… all of them did, Daeryon.”

  The weight of that truth sank into the silence between us. And for the first time that night, the mountain stirred.

  Daeryon let his gaze sweep the semicircle once, slow and collected. He spoke aloud then, voice low but carrying clear as a bell.

  “You propose burning villages, pressing borders, slaughtering beasts, and each plan is loud with the scent of triumph. Yet I hear only teeth and claws where a leader should hear minds and hands.”

  Elder Hwan bristled, heat flaring on his cheek. “We guard the sect...”

  “You guard yourselves,” Daeryon interrupted, his words measured. “You look for prey where none should be needed. You speak of war like the hungry speak of feasts.”

  Elder Naerin’s lips twitched, the smallest flash of amusement. “Are you doubting the courage of this Council, master Daeryon? Or are you trying to teach us charity now? We are a demonic sect.”

  Daeryon’s gaze sharpened on her, and in that look lay the quiet memory of what Daniel told him. “I am asking only that you consider cost. Not coin, not men, but what we will be after the flames die down.”

  Ryu, Sun, and Cho shifted, pride and greed crawling across their faces.

  Elder Naerin’s voice sliced through the chamber like a blade dipped in poison. “Master Daeryon, you don’t understand. We must keep our enemies on a leash and never waste time. Hesitation breeds weakness. Is that not what you have been doing these last days? Sitting idly with the heirs… and Madame Saeryun?”

  The chamber seemed to freeze, her words rippling outward like a stone breaking still water.

  A subtle accusation, cloaked as strategy, but sharp enough that every elder’s eyes shifted toward Daeryon, their curiosity stoked, their suspicion roused.

  Jinhai’s jaw tightened, just about to draw his sword, but he said nothing, his stance unshaken at Daeryon’s side.

  Daeryon did not move. His gaze, steady as a mountain, fixed on Naerin. Silence stretched, heavy and suffocating.

  Then he spoke, voice as calm as falling snow: “You speak of leashes, Elder Naerin. But tell me, who is holding yours?”

  The words struck like thunder.

  In the next heartbeat, Daeryon’s chi erupted, crashing through the chamber like a tidal wave, black and suffocating, heavier than stone, sharper than steel.

  The elders gasped, their faces paling as the weight crushed their lungs, forcing them half to their knees despite the strength of their cultivation.

  Even the torches sputtered, shadows shivering as if they feared to touch him.

  Slowly, so very slowly, Daeryon rose from the Dragon Throne. Each step down the obsidian steps rang like a judgment tolling from the heavens. His eyes never left Naerin.

  She tried to keep her chin lifted, but the tremor in her body betrayed her.

  Daeryon lifted a hand. His black chi coiled and roared, condensing and shaping, until a blade of pure abyssal fire formed in his palm, shimmering like divinity, yet dripping with terror. The chamber itself seemed to shrink before it.

  In a single stroke, he moved. The blade carved the air with silent precision.

  Naerin screamed, her voice tearing through the hall, as her right hand fell to the stone floor, blood splattering like red rain across her robes.

  The other elders froze in horror, their bravado shattered, their seats no longer thrones but cages.

  Daeryon stood before her, sword still humming in his grasp, his chi a storm none could withstand.

  And above it all, his voice, cold as judgment.

  “Speak again of leashes.”