Uriel had not come to the Azure Forest by chance. He was here for the pocket realm, the gateway that opened once every century and a half. Within it lay treasures that could elevate his cultivation, treasures he desperately needed to grow stronger. He had not come alone—four guards had accompanied him, two at the Foundation Establishment stage and two at the Core Formation stage.

  But the ambush had been merciless. The assassins descended without warning, blades of Metal Qi flashing in the dark. His guards had stayed behind, fighting to buy him time. Uriel fled, yet the killers pursued relentlessly. That was how he had ended up wounded, poisoned, and on the brink of death—until Nathan intervened.

  He did not tell Nathan any of this. Some truths were better left unspoken.

  In his heart, Uriel suspected the ambush was no random strike. It reeked of palace scheming—perhaps one of his royal brothers, eager to erase a rival, or some noble with hidden ambitions who wished him dead.

  Nathan broke the silence. “Since you don’t want to tell me, fine. You could at least tell me your name.”

  “I am Uriel.”

  Nathan raised a brow. “Uriel.”

  “Is there a problem?” Uriel asked, his tone sharp.

  “No,” Nathan chuckled. “Nice to meet you.”

  Uriel’s gaze narrowed. “So why is a servant wandering the Azure Forest alone, where dangerous beasts roam? Aren’t you afraid the beasts will leave nothing of you—not even a corpse?”

  “The same reason you are here,” Nathan retorted.

  Uriel studied him for a moment. “So you’re not a mere servant after all.”

  Nathan shrugged. “Since you won’t tell me your story, I don’t see any need to tell you mine.”

  Uriel hesitated, then said, “I don’t owe debts. Tell me what you want, and I’ll pay it. Cultivation herbs, spirit stones—you name it.”

  “Really?” Nathan asked, skeptical.

  “Yes.”

  “Alright then. I could use some new clothing.”

  Uriel scoffed, disbelief flashing in his eyes. ‘Clothes? I offer treasures, and you ask for rags?’

  “You said anything I want, right? So what if I want clothes?” Nathan replied evenly.

  Uriel sighed, then reached into his pocket bag and produced a fresh set of garments. Nathan accepted them with satisfaction, stripping off his ragged rags without hesitation and burning them in the fire.

  An hour later, Uriel’s cultivation had stabilized. His blocked meridians and dantian were free once more, qi flowing steadily through his veins. At once, he turned his senses toward Nathan, attempting to probe the boy’s cultivation. Yet no matter how he tried, he could not discern Nathan’s level.

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  Two possibilities presented themselves. Either Nathan was stronger than him—so strong that he would need to unleash his own cultivation fully for Uriel to glimpse his realm—or Nathan was using a spirit tool to mask his presence. The latter seemed impossible; judging from his ragged clothes and destitute appearance, Nathan looked far too poor to possess such a treasure. And yet the former, though more likely, seemed absurd. How could someone who looked like a servant conceal such strength?

  “Alright, now that you’re better, it’s time to get going.” Nathan rose, brushing the dust from his hands, ready to leave.

  Uriel’s voice stopped him. “Since we’re headed to the same place, why not travel together?”

  His tone was casual, but behind it lay calculation. Uriel did not trust easily—he had been betrayed too many times before. Yet Nathan’s intervention gnawed at him. Why would a ragged stranger risk himself to save a poisoned prince?

  He was curious about Nathan’s origin, and more than that, he wanted to witness the boy in battle—to see for himself how strong this ragged cultivator truly was.

  Nathan studied him for a moment, then gave a short nod. “Fine. I don’t mind.”

  Nathan and Uriel pressed through the dense forest until the trees parted, revealing a vast clearing. At its center shimmered the portal—a rippling gate of azure light, its surface bending like water yet radiating the pressure of ancient laws.

  Around it gathered cultivators from every corner of the Azure Region. Experts from major clans stood in proud clusters, their disciples clad in robes embroidered with sect insignias. Mid?tier sects lingered nearby, their faces taut with anticipation, while disciples of minor sects and wandering cultivators kept to the edges, eyes filled with both longing and resentment.

  Nathan frowned. The portal was open, yet no one moved to enter. “Why are they just standing there?” he muttered.

  A grizzled cultivator nearby gave a low chuckle. “Because the gate isn’t for the likes of us—not yet. The ten major sects claim the first seven days. Only when their disciples have had their fill are the rest allowed inside. That’s the decree. Break it, and you’ll be crushed before you take a single step.”

  Nathan’s jaw tightened. So even if he had arrived sooner, the realm would have barred him. The chance had been stolen long before he reached it.

  His gaze swept the crowd. The tension was palpable, a storm of ambition and suppressed fury. Then his eyes froze. Madam Ronda Richardson of the Azul Sky Sect stood among the nine elders of other top sects, her royal blue robes gleaming, her presence commanding. Nathan’s heart clenched, fire surging in his chest. Memories of the grove, of betrayal, of pain and silence flared like embers. She had been there when Elder Albert cast him into the abyss. She had watched, complicit in his erasure. And now she stood radiant, untroubled, as though he had never existed.

  To her, he was dust. Forgotten. Not worth a glance. Her eyes swept the crowd, but they did not linger on him. Nathan’s fists tightened, silver qi threatening to flare, but he forced it down. He was no match for her—not yet. She was Core Formation, seventh stage, a gulf of power that would crush him in an instant. Rage would mean death. Patience would mean survival.

  He calmed himself, breath steady, vow silent. One day, he would stand equal. One day, she would remember. But not today.

  Uriel stepped boldly toward the portal, his presence drawing every eye in the clearing. Whispers rippled through the crowd—who was this reckless youth, and did he truly have a death wish?

  The elders of the major sects turned their gazes upon him, cold and unyielding. One figure advanced—Lionel Flown of the Blue Raven Sect. His cultivation flared, a seventh?stage Core Formation aura pressing down like a mountain. The crushing weight slammed into Uriel, forcing the breath from his lungs; his knees buckled as blood spilled from his lips, the very air around him warping under the pressure.

  Disciples from the mid and lower sects exchanged glances. Some pitied him, murmuring that the boy was reckless, courting death. Others smirked, whispering that arrogance deserved punishment.

  Nathan’s jaw tightened. Stupid kid, he thought. Why stir trouble here of all places? Yet beneath his irritation flickered a trace of sympathy. He wanted to step forward, but the truth was undeniable—before a Core Formation master, his strength would shatter like an insect crushed beneath a boot.