Hao, newly appointed Warden and freshly advanced Highlord of the Veilwardens, stood on the prow of the black skyvessel as it sailed through the cloudy skies, heading toward the direction of the Shadowscar Peaks. His black hair was neatly tied behind his head as he gripped the medallion of the Imperial Clan tightly in his hands. His sharp gaze pierced the horizon, a slight frown creasing his face.

  He had barely had time to savor his advancement—at least in the way nulls like him could. The strength of his swirling aura within his core had briefly lightened his mood. That was, until the mission had come straight from a direct descendant of the Talahan Clan, a Master no less. To have his skills recognized personally by a member of the Imperial Clan was nothing short of astonishing.

  This was the life they trained for—to serve as the public blade of the Empire, just as the Whispering Phantoms were the hidden dagger for surgical strikes.

  At least, that was what Hao had thought until he read the message hidden within the mission scroll handed to him by his direct superior, Thalor Vayne, though they now shared the same rank.

  The message was simple, almost chilling in its brevity:

  “Do not trust the Phantoms.”

  No explanations followed. Nothing to elaborate on what he should watch for—until it happened aboard the ship.

  Hao glanced back at the corpses of the Phantoms behind him, their bodies arranged neatly in a line. They were pale, ashen, and riddled with black veins—a telltale sign of the poison they had used when they realized they couldn’t kill him. Not with his skill, nor his strength. It was an embarrassment for would-be assassins of the Empire’s most elite hidden sect.

  One of his subordinates stepped forward, his left hand wrapped in a sling from the Phantoms’ surprise attack. The sentinel bowed respectfully.

  “We are approaching the Peaks. However, the barrier that was meant to contain them seems to have been broken,” he reported.

  Hao nodded solemnly.

  “I sensed it too,” he replied. “This,” he added, glancing at the medallion, “won’t be necessary anymore.”

  He supposed he should have suspected something when the Phantoms had sent mere Adepts to accompany him on this mission. He had foolishly taken it as a gesture of goodwill—a sign of the sect’s subservience to the true guardians of the Imperial Clan. How na?ve he had been.

  Turning back toward the gray clouds, he focused on the powerful Ethras emanating from the Peaks.

  Why had the Master sent him to retrieve a single Lord? What use could an insignificant cultivator from the borderlands possibly have to the Imperial Clan? And what had happened to the Ashen Flame Sect?

  As the skyvessel broke through the clouds over the mountains, Hao’s eyes widened at the sight before him. Destruction stretched from one end of the range to the other.

  “Wardens,” he said simply.

  Two dozen Lord-realm cultivators appeared behind him in silence, awaiting his command.

  “Go,” he said again, his voice calm but firm.

  The ship began to descend, and the Wardens vanished, leaping off the edges of the vessel and heading toward the destruction below. Hao spread his aura outward as he stepped off the vessel before it landed. His black robes, marked with a white eye painted on the back, flapped in the ash-laden wind.

  The air smelled of blood, soot, and ash. Crouching, Hao scooped a handful of ash and sand into his fist, clenching it before releasing it, watching as the wind carried it away.

  A sentinel knelt before him, the official rank of any Lord-realm cultivator within the order. Until recently, Hao himself had held that rank. The sentinel bowed low.

  “Venerable Highlord, you should see this,” the man said, his voice grave.

  Hao nodded and followed the sentinel, shooting through the ashen winds toward the western mountain—the last one still standing, while the other three peaks had been obliterated. The destruction was immense, almost as though wrought by a Master—or something even greater.

  At the foot of the mountain, hastily erected shelters offered little protection to hundreds of huddled survivors against the biting ash wind. Hao paused, coldly observing the fearful, trembling faces staring up at him.

  What kind of calamity had befallen them so close to the capital? Then again, the Peaks had long been declared off-limits, even to the Veilwardens, by decree of the Imperial Clan itself.

  “I am Hao of the Veilwardens, Highlord of the Empire,” he began, his aura amplifying his voice to carry over the howling wind. “You have nothing to fear from us, should you be loyal servants of the Empire.”

  His sharp eyes scanned the crowd.

  “Who speaks for you all?” he demanded.

  A murmur rippled through the gathered people as the crowd began to part, revealing a group of individuals stepping forward.

  Hao raised an eyebrow at the assembled multitude, his aura giving him a clear sense of who they were despite the injuries they seemed to have incurred. Two Masters stood among them, both in states of extreme fatigue. One was the Sect Leader himself, Veyra, alive but missing an arm—thankfully, not his sword arm, from what Hao could observe.

  The other Master was unfamiliar to him, and what was even more shocking was the bloodied state he was in. A Master, beaten to such a degree? What had transpired here?

  The rest were Lords, with not a single Highlord in sight, despite Hao knowing that the sect boasted many. Among them was a monk of the Luminous Path Sect, leaning heavily on his cracked staff for support, visibly exhausted. A silver-haired girl in dirtied robes glared at Hao with cold, haunted eyes that seemed utterly indifferent to his rank or presence. Beside her stood a strikingly large female Lord who radiated pure bloodlust, though it didn’t seem to be directed at him.

  Hao raised a hand as his subordinates instinctively drew their blades, reacting to the oppressive tension in the air. The silver-haired girl subtly bumped the blood Ethra cultivator—a woman whose affinity was banned within the Empire. Hao noted this with a flicker of distaste but maintained his composure.

  With the exceptions of the Masters, Hao was confident he could take on the rest singlehandedly. Even the Masters, if he went all out, though it would undoubtedly end in his death.

  He flashed the medallion of the Imperial Clan, and the blood Ethra cultivator snorted, her disdain evident even as she lowered herself to her knees like the rest of the group, Masters included.

  “I come at the behest of the Imperial Clan and Master Varis Talahan,” Hao announced, his voice steady and commanding. “I am searching for a Lord known as Tunde of the Dark Fist Path.”

  At this, the blood Ethra cultivator stiffened, her expression shifting momentarily.

  The bloodied Master stepped forward, his face grim and shadowed.

  “Greetings, Highlord. Tunde will not be able to greet you properly,” he said, his tone heavy.

  From the corner of his eye, Hao noticed a child peeking out from one of the shelters. The boy had green hair, green eyes, and patches of jade-like scales covering parts of his body. Hao’s mind registered the sight with quiet curiosity.

  “A true beast,” he thought silently.

  “And why is that?” Hao asked calmly, his piercing gaze fixed on the Master.

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  “See for yourself,” the Master replied, stepping aside to reveal a body lying on the ground behind them.

  Hao’s eyes widened at the sight.

  The body was badly burned, wisps of smoke still rising from it. Visible white lines—undoubtedly the cultivator’s Ethra lines—shone faintly, even as the figure lay unmoving, eyes rolled back into his head.

  “Sect Leader…” Hao whispered, horrified. His gaze darted to Veyra Talahan, who met his eyes with a hollow, weary expression.

  “What happened here?” Hao asked, his voice low, almost reverent.

  The Sect Leader swallowed hard; his gaze distant, almost empty. A pale-faced young woman stepped to his side, and he instinctively pulled her into his embrace, holding her tightly as though she were his last tether to sanity.

  “Evil came,” Veyra finally replied, his voice barely more than a whisper.

  Tunde found himself in a grey world, like a painting rendered in the deepest black inks. A landscape unfolded before his eyes, barren and bleak, and where the sun should have been was a black void, endlessly leeching color and life from everything beneath it. He sat atop one of the mountains, legs folded at its pinnacle, eyes closed, his breathing labored and heavy.

  He could feel it—the tether to his life, frayed and fragile, the thread tying him to existence stretched to its absolute limit.

  Opening his eyes, he surveyed the ever-shifting landscape, ink swirling and coalescing beside him. A figure manifested, drawn from the black ink itself.

  It was a woman, dark-skinned like him, with the brightest blue eyes he had ever seen. Her black, tiny dreads were plaited neatly, and a motherly smile graced her lips. The name came to him unbidden, even though he had never met her—how could he? She had died eons before he was born.

  Alana.

  The figure cocked her head, as though hearing his thoughts aloud. She nodded at him and crossed her legs, sitting beside him as she nodded again.

  Follow my breathing...

  The words weren’t spoken. They weren’t whispered. And yet, Tunde understood them deep within his being. He nodded, though his mind was crowded with questions. So much had been left unsaid between them—countless centuries separated them, and yet her presence here felt…right.

  Was this a gift from the heavens, a reward for his deeds in life? He didn’t know. He didn’t question it further.

  A hundred leaves, all falling to the earth, drawn by unseen gravity.

  Stars traverse the heavens, yet all orbit the infinite void.

  All must return to a source; all must gather at a point.

  Tunde glanced down at his bare chest. Where his core should have been, there was now a white hole, stark and empty. His Ethra lines, fractured and glowing faintly, sprawled across his body like cracks in glass—broken, irreparable, leaving him a husk of a cultivator.

  A sharp whack to the head startled him.

  He turned to Alana, water filling his eyes from the sting of the strike—a funny thing, considering he believed himself already at death’s door. She nodded firmly, drawing his focus back to the present.

  He followed her breathing, allowing the rhythm to guide him. Slowly, he felt a chill settle into him, permeating every part of his being. Above, the black orb in the sky began to radiate power—a vast emptiness that he could only describe as empty Ethra.

  In emptiness, there is fullness. In stillness, there is motion.

  From the void, all is born. To the void, all shall return.

  The final words of the mantra resonated deep within him, vibrating through his very soul. The landscape began to shift, the black sun’s rays focusing on him. Alana stood, a black sword in her hand, and took a stance.

  Tunde’s eyes locked on her, unable to look away as she began to move.

  Her movements were unlike his—where his had always been aggressive, hers were peaceful, precise, almost still. Yes, still. That was the only word he could use to describe what he was witnessing. Every step she took was deliberate, every swing of her blade purposeful.

  The black sword came down once, cleaving the black sun in two. Both halves of the void’s light were immediately sucked into Tunde.

  He shuddered violently, his fractured white Ethra lines glowing brighter, filling with light.

  The last thing he saw was Alana, her gentle, motherly smile still on her face, before the painting of the world faded into nothingness.

  Somehow, the ship had survived the demolition of the northern mountain with minimal damage—a phenomenon Ifa suspected was due to the workings of the Soul Saint.

  The Highlord, Hao, had outright refused to let them take custody of Tunde’s body, declaring that he was the property of the Master of the Talahan Clan. The statement had not sat well with Sera, the blood cultivator, who had nearly lost her life attempting to draw her blade in defiance.

  Ifa had slammed her head straight into the ashen ground, the sudden act drawing shocked gasps from Zehra and Daiki, though Zhu remained characteristically impassive. Poor divine beast.

  Ifa reflected on the situation bitterly. He had lost. No, he couldn’t think that way. Tunde was still alive, even if just barely. As minuscule as that thread of life was, it existed. He would not allow someone as precious to his acolyte’s legacy to die in such a way.

  Acolyte? No, that wasn’t correct. He wasn’t Tunde’s teacher—merely a guiding voice. A voice Alana had entrusted with the legacy of the entire cult.

  And what had become of that legacy?

  Broken promises. Failure.

  Ifa allowed Zehra and the others to pilot the vessel, trusting them to follow closely behind the Wardens’ ship. The Wardens’ hold was now empty of life, where it had once been filled with survivors. The people of the city had refused to return to the capital, a decision met with nothing but indifference from the Highlord. His mission was to retrieve Tunde and uncover the events surrounding the Ashen Flame Sect. Benevolence had no part in it.

  Veyra had also refused to leave, stating that his place was with his people and that he would die alongside them if it came to that. Hao had reacted to this with the same indifference, simply handing Veyra a communication construct before retreating to speak privately—no doubt contacting someone from the Imperial Clan.

  Ifa could have spied on the conversation if he wanted to. But what would have been the point? The Imperial Clan’s problems had already spilled far too deeply into their lives, with devastating consequences. It was never Varis or anyone closely tied to him who suffered—only those used as pawns.

  As Tunde’s body had been carried toward the vessel, Ifa felt a wave of regret wash over him. Regret for so many things.

  Perhaps he should have taught Tunde the void breathing technique. He had withheld it out of fear—the technique could inspire something within Tunde that might draw too much attention. For all the times he had berated the boy for being a meathead, Tunde was undeniably gifted, blessed with a body tailor-made for void Ethra.

  Ifa had only wanted to wait until Tunde was in a position of power, strong enough to defend himself. The world of cultivation was a river teeming with sharks. A cultivator with power was like blood in the water—prey to all others. Without the strength to defend it, one would surely die.

  And what of the sword techniques Tunde had a right to? Had he refrained from teaching them simply because Tunde wielded a naginata instead of a sword? Yet the boy had adapted on his own, creating a technique that Ifa considered one of his proudest moments.

  Empty Silence.

  A powerful technique that would have driven any Lord-rank cultivator in the sect—if it still existed—to envy. Apart from a few refinements Ifa had intended to suggest, it bore almost no difference to the Silent Edge technique he had planned to teach Tunde.

  And there was more. Core cycling techniques, endless knowledge he had withheld out of fear of burdening the child too soon.

  Ifa took a deep, shuddering breath as he stopped in front of the infirmary door. Tunde’s body lay unattended—unsurprising, as the Wardens had not thought to bring a rejuvenator. With a sigh, he pushed open the door and stepped inside, only to freeze.

  His breath came out as mist in the chilled air, a frown forming on his face.

  One step forward, and his gaze locked onto Tunde’s upright body. His eyes were wide as disbelief flooded through him.

  “Impossible,” he whispered.

  Behind him, footsteps echoed, stopping a few meters away. Ifa turned to see Hao, the Highlord standing with arms folded, his expression carefully neutral as he stared at Tunde’s body. Though he masked his surprise well, Ifa could sense the confusion radiating from him.

  “Master Ifa,” Hao began, his voice calm but curious. “Perhaps you and I need to discuss just what sort of cultivator Tunde is to have attained the Dying Ember Meditation technique.”

  Ifa turned back to Tunde, his white eyes open, the shimmering lines of Ethra glowing faintly before retreating back into his body.

  “Keep fighting,” Ifa thought, his heart swelling with renewed hope as a grin tugged at his lips.

  “Indeed, esteemed Highlord,” he replied cheerfully. “Might I interest you in some tea?”

  On the third day of the trip, Tunde Dark Fist opened his eyes to the world once more. He took a deep, shuddering breath, his emaciated form feeling unnaturally light, before exhaling slowly.

  He stared down at his palm, clenching it as he allowed his refined aura to circulate around him.

  Highlord realm.

  His Ethra, his essence flame—everything had advanced, leaving his physical body behind in the realm of a Lord. He felt hurried footsteps approaching, their urgency clear as they neared the door.

  Tunde understood now that they were far from the Shadowscar Peaks. The vessel he was aboard bore no resemblance to those used there, which meant another power had intervened. He could already guess where they hailed from.

  The door slid open, revealing a familiar face and a new one.

  Ifa entered first, his eyes alight with joy but tinged with a flicker of shame that Tunde could see clearly. The second figure was a stranger—a Highlord, though a low one, with a surprisingly powerful aura. However, the complete absence of Ethra around him was telling.

  A null.

  His robes were unrecognizable, but the way he carried himself made it obvious he was accustomed to being obeyed.

  “It is good to see you alive, Emissary Tunde,” the stranger said, his tone calm and formal.

  Ifa stepped forward, handing Tunde a cup of water.

  “Do not strain yourself. Your body is still recovering,” Ifa cautioned.

  Tunde gave the faintest of nods, the effort reminding him of just how weak he felt.

  “I am Hao of the Veilwardens,” the stranger continued, his gaze steady and impassive. “And I am here under the orders of Master Varis Talahan of the Imperial Clan.”

  Hao spoke as though Ifa were not present, paying no mind to the elder’s rank, even though Ifa made no effort to hide it.

  Tunde considered replying, but his body suddenly gave out. Slack and unresponsive, he fell back into a deep sleep, the world fading around him.

  The last thing he heard was Hao’s impatient, irritated tsk.