Chapter 219
Kai had expected Killian to advance before they reached the treant. He had hoped for it, even planned around the possibility. But he hadn't thought it would happen mid-battle—right in the middle of the chaos.
Even after the fighting ended, the image remained vivid in everyone's minds. Soldiers who saw it first started whispering. By nightfall, it had become the story of the day—how one of their own rose like a storm-god, untouchable and fierce.
Kai heard the talk as they marched. Some called Killian a demi-god, others spoke of him with a mix of awe and disbelief. He understood the reverence. Unlike Kai or the other Mages who were very different from them, Killian felt like someone who had rose from among them.
It wasn’t common knowledge that Enforcers had two organs and had a separate pathway to cultivation. To the men, Killian’s strength seemed to be born of grit alone alongside whatever blessings Kai had given him for him to use magic. In truth, grit played a large part. Even with Kai's Enforcer manuals, strength wasn’t guaranteed. Talent, willpower, and relentless effort were still major deciding factors.
And Killian had plenty of all three.
The days ahead were hard. More breaks, more skirmishes—hour by hour, the land tested them. And through it all, Kai kept catching sight of Killian sitting with closed eyes, cultivating in quiet corners during every pause. He was stabilizing the third rank, and Kai didn’t disturb him. That newfound strength would matter soon. It might even turn the tide.
But Killian wasn’t the only ace he was counting on.
There was also Magus Elias.
When Elias told him they were only an hour away from where the treant lurked, Kai knew it was time. The conversation he’d been putting off had to happen now. A war council with just the Magus was what he wanted. Maybe it was preposterous to want a Magus to do his bidding as a Third Circle Mage, but Kai was a Magus himself, if not in circles and powers, he was, in knowledge.
He found Elias marching along the right flank, slightly ahead of the main line. The old Magus looked as calm as ever, robes dragging across the mossy ground.
Kai walked beside him and said, “If you’re free, I wish to discuss our roles in the battle.”
“Just us two? No full council?”
“The others know what to do,” Kai replied. “We prepared for this. The treant won’t give us time for a meeting when it shows itself.”
“So I’m the variable.”
“A good kind. I have something I need you to do—something only an Earth Mage can.” Kai said with a smile. His last words made Elias chuckle.
“I never imagined I’d be taking instructions from someone so young.”
“Age doesn’t matter. Knowledge does.”
Elias let out a deeper laugh at that. “Well, then tell me, have you studied the ways to bring down a treant?”
“I have,” Kai said firmly. “And I have a very specific role for you in it.”
“Oh?” Elias asked. He leaned toward Kai even while working, now interested in what he had to say. “And what might that be?”
“Do you know the fifth circle spell [Create Golem]?”
“I do. It’s not easy… but I can cast it.”
“Good,” Kai said without missing a beat. “I’ll need half a dozen of them.”
Elias stopped mid-step. “That’ll take a good chunk of my reserves.”
Kai reached into his satchel and pulled out a small glass vial. The potion inside shimmered faintly.
“This will fill it back up,” he said, handing it over. “The golems will be important.”
Elias took the vial, glancing at it before looking back at Kai with narrowed eyes. “You already have a few golems, don’t you?”
“They can’t dig underground,” Kai said simply. “I want you to modify the spell—to make them mining golems. But strong enough to hold their own like a regular earth golem.”
Elias slowed his pace as realization began to settle over him. His brow lifted. “You want them to hit the treant from beneath. Underground?”
Kai nodded. “Exactly.”
“That’s dangerous,” Elias muttered. “The roots will kill them instantly.”
“They’re not alive. That’s the point. All we need are distractions. There are thousands of roots. If your golems can keep even a few hundred busy, we’ll gain enough breathing room to strike.”
Elias exhaled, clearly thinking it through.
Before Elias could say something, Kai spoke up.
“I had other ways planned to distract the roots, but your earth golems will do better. And you’re the only one who can cast that spell.”
There was a pause. Elias tapped the rim of the potion bottle against his knuckles. “It won’t be easy,” he said eventually. “Modifying the spell will take effort, and even with this potion, I’ll be mentally drained after making that many.”
Kai looked ahead toward the supply column, where a few carts trundled slowly behind the soldiers. “That’s fine. After that, I just want you to act as a wall between the treant and the wagons.”
“The wagons?” Elias blinked and scoffed. “You want your strongest Mage to defend supply carts? That’s not a decision most commanders would agree with.”
“There’s a reason,” Kai said. “Your earth spells won’t hurt the treant as much as my flames. You’ve seen how it reacts to them. It hates fire. I need to stay mobile. You’ll hold the line.”
Elias slowly nodded, though the skepticism was still written on his face. “Do the wagons really matter that much? Food won’t help if everyone’s dead.”
“They don’t only carry food.”
“Then what do they carry?”
“You’ll see during the battle,” Kai said. “Just keep them safe. They’re our best chance at taking the treant down.”
For a moment, Elias looked genuinely confused. Kai could see the gears turning behind his expression. The man hadn’t paid much attention to the wagons—they’d been ordinary at a glance, covered and unremarkable. But inside them, Kai had stored what he hoped would turn the tide of the battle.
Weapons the treant had never seen before.
Rather than asking more on the wagons like Kai had suspected, Elias changed the subject when he spoke again, more softly this time. “You know,” he said, “I’ve been in war before. Not recently. It’s been decades. Maybe longer.”
Kai looked at him in surprise, but said nothing.
“I was a Second Circle War Mage back then,” Elias continued. “It was a campaign against the cave-dwellers. Vanderfall got tired of them, and decided to wipe them out. Full force.”
Kai didn’t interrupt. He had learned early on that when older men started talking about war, it was best to just listen. Most of the time, it wasn’t about the story—it was about remembering. Therefore, he stayed hushed and noticed the way Elias’s voice was even as he spoke.
“It was a brutal battle,” the old Magus said. “Lots of people I knew died. Friends, rivals. Hell, even the ones I didn’t like. And the whole time, through all the blood and chaos, I kept thinking one thing.”
Kai glanced at him. “What was that?”
Elias smirked. “That my commanding officer was a fucking idiot who didn’t know shit about strategy.”
Kai blinked. He had expected anything but that.
“He thought ‘Mage’ meant ‘blow things up,’” Elias went on, spitting his words with bitter amusement. “So he kept sending us in first—blast and die, blast and die. We lost more Mage in that campaign than in the last three wars before it combined.”
Kai didn’t quite know what to say.
“When I finally climbed the circles… when I became who I am now,” Elias said, “the first thing I did was find that man and punch him right in the face for being so damn incompetent.”
Kai hadn’t expected that ending. He raised an eyebrow. “And why are you telling me this?”
Elias gave him a look. “Just wondering if you’ll be someone I feel like punching after this battle too.”
Kai gave a half-smile. “I’ll probably feel the same… if something happens to those wagons.”
“Huh? Are you talking back to me?” Elias raised his brow. “Being this weak?”
“It doesn’t matter right now,” Kai said. “The treant’s our focus.”
Elias studied him, then asked, “And after that? You think you’ll still have that attitude?”
“Maybe.” Kai shrugged. “You say I’m weak—but who knows if I really am? Could be arrogance… or competence.”
Elias didn’t reply, and Kai didn’t wait. He turned and walked away, leaving the older Mage to his thoughts. His part of the conversation was done. Elias wasn’t the type to take orders easily, but Kai had learned something about him during their battles. He might grumble, but if he respected your judgment, he’d follow through.
And over the course of this march, Elias had done just that. Without needing constant direction, he’d always ended up exactly where he was needed. Sometimes, that was the sign of a real veteran—not someone who barked orders, but someone who moved where the battle called.
Now, only the final confrontation remained.
The air had changed. Kai could feel it, and so could the soldiers. There was a tension in the way they moved, a quiet awareness and the absence of attack.
There were no roots that burst from the ground, or weavers attacking from the brush. The rest of the grasslands were eerily silent.
And that was the first sign that they were too close to the treant. Maybe it had finally decided to stop sending pawns. It had watched his minions fall and now probably wanted to act itself.
The wagons rolled quietly behind. Somewhere in them, his weapons waited. He just hoped the treant would hate what was coming for it as much as he intended.
Either it would bury them all… or they would burn it to ash. Kai was betting on the latter.
***
Kai had once come across the skeleton of a wyvern during his early years as a Mage. It was sprawled across an entire hill, its bones jutting from the earth like the ribs of a ruined fortress. Even in death, it had been massive—its skull alone large enough to fit a wagon inside. A necromancer's pet, he had learned, left to rot after its master was slain by someone even stronger. The story was old, the bones older, but the impression had stayed with him.
Back then, he had only just become a Second Circle Mage. That skeleton had felt like the largest thing in the world. Since then, he had grown, fought, and survived—seen monsters of every shape and scale. That awe of size had faded as he became stronger. But now, staring across the open land, that same feeling returned.
At the heart of a vast, cracked field, the treant stood. It wasn’t moving. fuck, it didn’t need to. The very earth around it felt like it was holding its breath.
It overshadowed everything—it was thick, bark-armored trunk rose high enough to challenge even the tallest trees of Sylvastra. Perhaps only the ancient Elder Tree surpassed it in height. Its branches stretched wide like outstretched arms, their limbs creaking. And for a moment Kai could swear that it was waiting for them, looking, and sensing every single movement.
With a quiet breath, Kai activated [Hawk Eye].
Instantly, his vision sharpened.
Every detail came into brutal clarity. The branches were crawling with life. Hundreds of weavers, twitching with anticipation, and smaller fiends nested in the boughs like carrion birds waiting to feed. His stomach churned at the amount of turned creatures that were under it.
Below, at the treant’s roots, even more stronger creatures waited. Grade 3s and even Grade 4 fiends—hulking brutes, sinewy beasts with jagged hides, eyes glowing with hunger. Any one of them would be a deadly encounter for a regular squad. There were dozens. And that wasn’t counting the roots hidden beneath the ground, poised to lash out the moment someone stepped too close.
Still, the treant didn’t move.
So Kai stood as well, giving his men time to take it in—time to feel the weight of what they were about to face. No one said anything. No one ran. But they all stood tall and simply took it all in.
Kai turned around, looking at everyone. For a moment, his breath hitched, but he inhaled through it—these men had placed their trust in him, shaped by months of training and shared hardship. They stood ready, willing to walk into death at a single command. But no—they wouldn’t be walking to their deaths. He had a plan. And now, he would honor the trust they had given him, raising his voice so his words reached every soul on the field.
“The time is here.”
They all turned to him, waiting.
“We’ve traveled a long way,” he said, “A long fucking way. We crossed forest and field, climbed hills and carved through beasts. We did it without stopping—without sleep, without rest—for one and one reason alone.”
He raised a hand toward the treant.
“To face the thing responsible for everything. For the rot. For the dead. For the poison in the soil. For the lives lost in Vanderfall and beyond.”
He stepped forward, voice rising with conviction.
“And now it stands before us. A treant… and its army. Look at that!”
Some clenched their weapons tighter. Others glanced toward the sky, whispering prayers. Kai continued. If this moment counted, he had to be real with them, about what he truly felt and what he could see in their eyes. So he spoke with his heart.
“I know you're afraid. I am too. No one looks at that thing and feels nothing. But courage isn’t the absence of fear. It’s choosing to fight in spite of it. And we are strong. We are brave. And today, we burn that monster to the ground. For the glory of the kingdom,” he shouted, “and the light of our goddess, Lumaris!”
A cheer broke through the silence—raw, shaky, but growing louder by the second. Their fear hadn’t vanished, but it was no longer out of control.
Kai spotted Magus Elias standing off to the side, calmly clapping with a faint smirk on his face. Behind him, six massive earth golems—freshly formed over the past two days—had already begun digging. Their stone-hewn arms tore into the dirt with steady rhythm, vanishing underground like ancient guardians returning to the earth. Kai gave the old Magus a brief nod, hoping the man would stay true to his word.
Then his eyes found Killian. They shared a look. No words. Just understanding. Kai raised his voice, loud and clear for all to hear.
“Let’s begin the final march to glory!”
At once, the troops stirred.
The soldiers and the clerical knights of the church surged forward, falling into practiced formations. Killian took the lead, his lightning-clad figure a beacon at the front line. The air grew tense, heavy with magic and anticipation as Mages across the lines began shaping spells, runes lighting up beneath their palms, glowing symbols arcing through the air.
But they didn’t rush. They advanced slowly. Measured steps. Waiting and watching.
And then, there was movement.
Dozens of weavers screeched and leapt from the branches of the treant, their limbs twitching unnaturally. Fiends howled and pounded across the field, claws raking the ground as they built up to a full charge.
Kai didn’t flinch. Neither did Killian.
“Drones—now!” Killian ordered.
At his word, four gleaming constructs whirred to life from behind the front lines, shooting out toward the oncoming horde. The enemy forces didn’t hesitate. They barreled toward the drones like animals sensing prey—ignorant of the death they were running into.
That was the advantage of fighting something new. They had no idea what they were facing. The drones zigzagged across the battlefield, drawing in more and more weavers and fiends like bait.
Kai waited. Just a bit more. Then—he gave the order. The ground quaked.
All four drones exploded in a fiery blaze, the shockwaves tearing through the gathered enemy with devastating force. Blackened earth cracked open. Limbs and gore flew in every direction as the air filled with the smell of burning flesh and scorched rot. The explosions had landed square in the middle of the densest clusters of the enemy, cutting their numbers by a quarter within seconds.
Across the field, Kai caught sight of Elias watching with wide eyes, stunned by the brutal efficiency of the strategy. But there was no time for admiration.
The ground began to tremble.
Elias’s eyes snapped toward the treant and he shouted, “Prepare yourselves! The roots are coming!”
Then they came. Roots. Not one, not two, not hundred, but thousands of them!
Thick, gnarled, and writhing, they shot into the air and smashed down with terrifying force.
Kai reacted instantly, hurling a blazing firestorm toward the nearest roots. To his side, Mages unleashed a mix of elemental fury—ice, flame, lightning, earth—colliding with the roots mid-air. Each blast forced them back, but only for a moment. More and more of the roots came.
Bishop Maurice raised his staff and sent a ray of searing light slicing through the writhing mass. Some of the gunners joined him and fired explosive rounds to buy time. It helped—but not enough.
For every root destroyed, two more emerged. From the left, from the right, from right beneath their feet. The real battle had begun. And the treant wasn’t holding back anymore.
Kai’s eyes snapped toward the front.
“Get it out,” he said.
Killian didn’t hesitate. “Now!” he barked over his shoulder.
At once, the signal passed down the line. The Enforcers, who had been guarding the wagons pulled all the way from the plague lands, sprang into motion. The supply carts—three of them, bulky and reinforced with metal plating—were dragged to the center of the formation, past startled footmen and Mages who turned to stare.
With a mechanical hiss, the roof of the lead wagon split open.
Out of the wagon rose a weapon.
A gleaming mana cannon, its barrel long and curved with precision-forged runes glowing down its length. This was no crude prototype. This was the culmination of months of work.
It gleamed under the pale sky like a divine relic. Its rotating base allowed it to turn like a turret, and its upgraded core pulsed with concentrated energy drawn directly from aetheum stones.
The treant, looming in the distance, seemed to sense the shift. Its branches trembled. Its roots surged faster, angrier.
But it was too late.
“Fire!” Killian shouted.
The cannon ignited with a sound that shook the air.
BOOOOM—!!
A lance of pure mana and flame erupted from the barrel, cutting across the battlefield like a god’s fury. The beam struck the incoming roots just seconds before they could slam into the front lines. A massive explosion followed.
Kai’s vision went white for a brief second.
2025-05-08 23:40:36 +0000 UTC
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Chapter 111
Waking up a severed head wasn’t exactly something that was on Chen Ren’s portfolio.
He’d picked up a lot of strange skills since arriving in this world—talisman, formations, alchemy, the art of dealing with young masters—but "head reanimation" hadn’t made the list. Still, one more skill in his ever-growing portfolio couldn’t hurt.
The only problem was… there was no instruction manual. No hidden switch. No whispered incantation to bring the sleeping thing to life.
Just a silent vault and a waiting head.
For the next ten minutes, they scoured the room again, looking for any clue that might help them. But finally, it was Chen Ren who spotted it. A faint shimmer in the stone. Right beneath the thick shadow of the pedestal.
He crouched and brushed his fingers across the platform’s edge. There—etched in fine, ancient lines—was a small runic array. Barely the size of his palm. It had no glow, no pulsing life. It looked dead, but he was sure it wasn’t broken.
More importantly, it wasn’t drawing on ambient qi. Which meant it needed to be activated manually.
So that’s it, he thought, squinting at it. A dormant trigger array. Push qi in, and it lights up?
He didn’t know if it would wake the head. But with the way it was positioned, and the lack of any other mechanisms in sight—it was the best guess he had.
“I think I found something,” he called out. The others quickly gathered, crowding around the podium. Chen Ren explained his theory, pointing to the array.
They didn’t waste time overthinking it. A quick plan was formed, Yalan would prepare an attack, just in case things went sideways. If the head woke up and started casting curses or screaming in demonic tongues—they'd vaporize it before the situation could escalate. It should work.
Yalan nodded and stepped back. Fire gathered, swirling into a crackling orb—twice the size of a football and burning hotter than any furnace on her tail. It was ready.
Chen Ren crouched once more. “Here goes nothing.”
He placed his hand over the array and let his qi flow.
The rune lines responded slowly—sluggish, like someone waking from a hundred-year nap. But they drank in his qi greedily. Far more than he expected. He narrowed his eyes, adjusting the pressure, feeding more in with careful control.
Behind him, he could feel the temperature rise. It was Yalan’s tail and the flickering ball of fire, pressed against the still air.
Chen Ren ignored the searing heat and focused on pushing more qi.
Should be a little more… he continued until there was a click in the air. It was so faint that he almost missed it. But he knew he activated the array.
He immediately pulled his hand back and watched. His eyes squinted to see any movement. And for a few pregnant seconds, there was nothing. Not even a hum of energy.
Maybe it don't work like—
Before he could finish thinking, the runes flared! It was so sudden and so sharp, that he had to take more steps backwards that his back hit the wall.
His eyes went to the lighting on the base of the pedestal that glowed a dull crimson.
And slowly… the head stirred.
“That’s scary,” Hong Yi muttered under his breath but it was audible to everyone.
“Is it going to be okay?” Anji asked, following up.
Chen Ren didn’t take his eyes off the head. He was already spooked with the head's presence, and he honestly didn’t know the answer to that question.
“We can just hope,” he said quietly.
For a few long moments, nothing happened.
The crimson light pulsed gently under the severed head, but it didn’t move again. No change, no breath, no twitch. He began to wonder if they had only half-awakened it—if the soul within was trapped deeper, buried in a coma, and they needed something more to stir it fully.
Then, just as he leaned forward slightly to check the runes again, he saw it. There was a twitch—barely perceptible—beneath the eye.
And then, slowly, the lids opened.
Golden irises peered up at him.
Chen Ren blinked, startled for just a heartbeat. They all stood in silence, giving the being time to acclimate.
The head’s eyes flicked about the vault, scanning the walls, the chamber behind the vault door… but always returned to their group. And specifically, to the massive fireball swirling just above Yalan’s tail.
Chen Ren briefly debated whether to speak first, but before he could open his mouth, the head beat him to it.
“What’s going on here?” the man rasped, his voice cracked and old—like parchment catching flame. “And who are you sorry lots?”
Chen Ren straightened. “My name is Chen Ren.”
The head stared at him for a moment, then muttered, “A Chen? I only knew one Chen in my life, and he sure as hell didn’t belong to the glorious Void Blade Sect.” His gaze narrowed, scanning them more intently now. “None of you carry void-aspected dantian signatures either. Not a trace. Who are you really?”
He sounded less curious than disturbed. Unsettled by their presence. But to Chen Ren, those words revealed more than intended.
He’s related to Void Blade Sect, Chen Ren realized. And he can sense our cores. That means… he still has some cultivation. Even now. Even like this.
The head scowled. “You’re all grave robbers, aren’t you? Come to take a look at my grave to see if there's any treasures here. Let me tell you, there’s nothing you’ll get out of this. Not a scrap. Not even a sliver of jade!”
Chen Ren tensed slightly, but held his ground.
“And another thing—how the hell did you survive the [Pulverizing Array?] I set that thing to reduce any intruders to molten ash. Even that cat there—” He jerked his gaze toward Yalan, who did not look amused. “—who might be somewhat decent, compared to you, sorry lots. Two weak cultivators… and a mortal slave? Really?”
Anji’s jaw clenched. Yalan’s fireball burned just a shade hotter.
“I’m no slave,” Anji snapped, her voice came out sharp. “And what grave are you even talking about?”
The head blinked, then answered plainly, “My grave.”
His golden eyes swept the room again, slower this time, more searching. Then his brows furrowed.
“…Wait,” he muttered. “This… this isn’t my grave. Where am I?”
Chen Ren let out a breath through his nose. Great. So much for thinking that it was a wise soul here to pass on knowledge. This was turning into something far messier.
He took a step forward. “You’re in the sect vault of the Void Blade Sect. I’m Chen Ren, sect leader of the Divine Coin Sect.”
He gestured behind him. “That’s Hong Yi. Yalan. And this is Anji—daughter of the previous sect leader of Void Blade Sect.”
The head’s gaze snapped back to her. “That can’t be. She’s mortal.”
“I was adopted,” Anji said coolly, chin lifted.
“That still doesn’t make sense,” the head muttered, but didn’t argue further. His eyes narrowed instead. “You said… sect vault? What vault? There was no sect vault when I went to sleep. What the fuck is going on here?”
Chen Ren rubbed his temple, then gestured vaguely. “Hell if I know.”
The head grimaced, muttering something under his breath. Then his voice rose again. “Get me Wang De. He’ll have answers. Tell him to come here immediately. I don’t know what that fool’s doing stepping down from the sect leader position.”
Anji blinked. “That’s… that’s not the name of my father.”
The head turned sharply to her. “It’s not?”
“No,” she said, slower now. “That’s the name of our founder. Wang De established the Void Blade Sect centuries ago. He… he perished two hundred years back.”
There was a beat of silence. Then, at the exact same moment:
“Perished?” the head said.
Another loud silence passed over them. The runes under the pedestal dimmed, but the tension between those present only thickened. And for a long moment that followed, the head didn’t speak.
His eyes no longer darted around—they were distant now. He looked deep in thought. The kind of stunned, hollow silence that only came from the slow collapse of everything you believed.
Chen Ren turned his head slightly, looking at Yalan. She looked back at him, ears drawn slightly down, tail coiled low in uncertainty.
For once, she had no answers either.
“What… are we dealing with?” Chen Ren murmured.
Yalan didn’t reply.
Chen Ren rubbed a hand over his own forehead, a dull throb forming at his temples. This is a mess. Whatever this man had been, whatever he still was, they were never going to understand anything if they didn’t even know who he was.
And there was only one way to understand. He stepped closer. “Can you introduce yourself to us? And… if you remember it, the year in which you put yourself in that grave.”
The head didn’t reply immediately. It was almost as if he couldn't believe what he was hearing.
“You’re standing before me, seeing my face, hearing my voice… and you don’t know my name.” He gave a dry laugh. “That’s all the confirmation I need that something terrible has gone wrong.” He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again. “Very well. I am Wang Jun, cultivator of the domain manifestation realm, one of the founding members of the Void Blade Sect. Keeper of the [Void Marching Scroll], Defender of the Thirteen Peaks, and bearer of the soul-severance technique [Silent Crossing].”
He paused, then added, “There are more titles, obviously. But I think that’s enough for you to recognize me.”
Chen Ren didn’t recognize any of them. Not one. He looked at others, Hong Yi’s brow was furrowed deep, Yalan was still, her lips pressed into a thin line. And Anji… she looked pale.
“I made my grave in the year 772 of the New Era,” the head added. “I went into dormancy voluntarily, with the sect’s blessing.”
Chen Ren felt the confirmation hit like a stone. It was Year 1978 of the New Era right now.
He’s ancient. He was likely older than most cities still standing today. And domain manifestation? That was one step below the legends. One breath away from breaking into the mythic nascent soul realm—something the world had not seen in centuries.
And yet… no one here had ever heard of him.
Before Chen Ren could speak, Hong Yi stepped forward. “I’ve never heard of any of those titles. Or your name. Not in any scroll, sect record, or historical archive.”
Wang Jun blinked. “What?”
Anji nodded slowly. “Same for me. I’ve lived my whole life inside the Void Blade Sect. I’ve studied our history, read every book I could find. We only have one founder. Wang De. Your… brother, if what you said earlier is true. But you? There’s no mention of you. Anywhere.”
The old cultivator’s mouth fell slightly open. Then closed. He stared past them for a long moment. His voice, when it came again, was quiet.
“…They erased me.”
The words came out painful. His voice became low and his eyes went to the ground.
“I was written out.”
Chen Ren felt the weight of it settle in his gut. A cultivator of domain manifestation, one of the founders of a sect, a man who’d created his own grave to preserve himself… gone from history.
And they had no idea why.
Chen Ren gave the old man a final, steady nod. “This is the year 1978 of the New Era. The Kalian Empire rules most of the known world now. Most sects—those that still exist—have been forced into a subordinate relationship with it.”
The head—Wang Jun —stared at him blankly at first. Then his brows creased.
“Kalian… Empire,” he echoed softly. “I’ve heard that name before. Back in my time, it was nothing more than a growing border city. Ambitious, sure, but small. It became an empire?”
Chen Ren nodded. The head didn’t speak again. His golden eyes drifted off, unfocused now, staring at the far wall as if trying to look through it—through stone, time, and memory. Slowly, his lids closed. Then opened. Then closed again.
Chen Ren didn’t interrupt. None of them did.
They all watched in silence as the ancient cultivator processed the truth, the passage of time had not only changed everything—it had erased everything. His titles. His deeds. His name. And still, none of them had the heart to tell him the Void Blade Sect was gone.
That was a truth for later. Chen Ren inhaled quietly, his thoughts drifting again—this time to something else entirely.
How was this man still alive? He was literally speaking, thinking and conscious. That shouldn’t have been possible.
From the way he spoke, it was clear he’d intentionally put himself into this state. A severed head resting on a podium in the middle of a vault. Was it a kind of preservation? A ritual? Or something tied to soul cultivation? But… What was the plan? Would he regrow a body? Could he?
Chen Ren frowned, imagining the man’s flesh twisting and extending, bones snapping into place as a torso reformed from pure soul energy. The image was so grotesque he had to shake his head. And then, his mind drifted elsewhere.
The spectre that followed Gu Tian…
He still didn’t know the full story. But he could guess. That spectre hadn’t been bound—it had chosen to follow Gu Tian. It had watched, taught, and protected. For what? Perhaps for a future promise.
Maybe, Chen Ren thought, the spectre had hoped Gu Tian would one day craft it a body. Restore it. Give it flesh again.
And maybe… He looked at Wang Jun . Maybe the head was no different.
If this was soul cultivation… then how powerful did your soul need to be to survive like this? It was obvious that Wang Jun had no qi. Only sheer will—and some technique Chen Ren couldn't comprehend.
And that… was terrifying.
Just as Chen Ren was lost in thought—half in theory, half in dread—the golden eyes of the severed head suddenly snapped open.
“THAT FUCKING SNAKE-HEARTED PIECE OF ROTTING DOG SHIT!”
The vault echoed.
Everyone jerked in surprise as Wang Jun exploded in a storm of curses. Spittle didn’t fly—Chen Ren didn't know if the head produced saliva—but the force behind his words felt like spiritual pressure all on its own.
“Demon-spawned mole-eyed jelly spined lich! Half-blooded turd maggot! Lying green-gilled pig-hearted wretch!”
Chen Ren blinked. Half of those insults didn’t even make sense, and he was fairly sure one of them might have been a spell incantation disguised as an insult.
Yalan lowered her fireball slowly, brows furrowed. “Is… he okay?”
“No idea,” Chen Ren muttered. “Let’s give him a minute.”
And sure enough, after one final muttered, “toad-eating, scroll-forging charlatan,” the head finally said something coherent.
“That bastard Wang De.”
The name dropped like a stone.
“My brother,” the head growled. “He betrayed me. I knew he was jealous—everyone was—but I never expected that short, gremlin-looking bastard to do this.”
He turned his eyes sharply to Anji. “How did he die?”
She blinked. “What?”
“My brother,” the head snarled. “How did that bastard die?”
Anji glanced nervously at the others, then answered, “According to sect records… he died valiantly. Fighting off dozens of demonic cultivators. He gave his life defending the sect.”
A silence stretched. And then Wang Jun laughed. It wasn’t a happy laugh. It was dry, sharp and bitter. And loud.
He scoffed in the end. “Yeah, sure. The man who wouldn’t even spar me properly without hiding behind his bodyguards took on a dozen demonic cultivators? What next—he flew into the heavens and became a star?” He scoffed. “I’m pretty sure one of his devoted lackeys wrote that tale after his death. Probably to polish the turd and make him look like a legend.”
Anji scowled. “That can’t be true.”
“Propaganda,” the head said firmly. “I’m sure you understand that word. Sect records aren’t holy writ—they’re political tools. No sect ever records its founder dying badly, even if they pissed themselves and ran straight into a pit.”
Chen Ren gave a thoughtful nod. “That… does sound like something a lot of sects would do, honestly.”
And now that the shock was wearing off, he could see the edges of truth in the head’s words. If Wang Jun was right—if he had been erased from history—then maybe Wang De hadn’t died a hero. Maybe he’d just made sure no one would ever know there was someone greater.
Chen Ren didn’t blame the man for being furious. If someone had stolen his work, his achievements, his legacy… he’d be breathing fire too.
But still—
“Look,” Chen Ren said, raising a hand calmly. “I get that you’re angry. Maybe you’re right. Maybe you were betrayed. But I want to understand how. What exactly happened to you and how are you even speaking right now?”
His eyes locked on the head. “Did you… choose this state? Are you alive because of soul cultivation?”
Wang Jun's golden gaze focused on him again, sharper this time. And the ancient soul that had once defied death went silent. But something in his eyes told Chen Ren,
They were finally getting to the truth.
Yalan stepped forward, tail low but alert. Her eyes narrowed slightly as she studied the head.
“You said this was a grave,” she said. “What exactly did you mean? Did you… cut your own head off and bury it?”
Wang Jun let out a dry chuckle. “Not quite. It’s a long story. But I can see you’re all curious, so I’ll try to explain it—briefly.” He lifted his chin slightly, regal despite his disembodied state. “I was the strongest cultivator of my time. Born into a middling clan, no legacy, no fortune. But I rose. Fast. Hit the domain manifestation realm at a record age—one hundred and sixty-nine years.”
He paused.
“They called me Heaven’s Child.”
Hong Yi made a sound between a cough and a groan. “I don’t think the question required bragging.”
“I’m coming to it,” Wang Jun snapped, annoyed. Then he continued, undeterred. “The point is—I hit the bottleneck early. Too early. There was no path to the nascent soul realm. Not anymore. No manuals, no teachers. The old world was ash, and I was stuck. Worse, I had already mastered everything available to me. Techniques, arts, domains—nothing pushed me forward.” He exhaled softly. “So I turned to soul cultivation.”
That caught everyone’s attention again.
“In one of my expeditions,” he said, “I found fragments of a lost legacy. Manuals. Incomplete, scattered, but enough. I began studying them. Practicing. And what I found… it changed everything.”
He paused.
“Soul cultivation didn’t just work with my void affinity—it enhanced it. Balanced it. I began to see things others couldn’t. Perceive more than spirit and flesh.”
He looked at each of them in turn. “Years turned to decades. Then centuries. Eventually, my brother and I created the Void Blade Sect. I shared what I’d learned with him. I wanted him to rise with me.”
Chen Ren raised a brow. “That still doesn’t explain why you’re just a head.”
Wang Jun went quiet for a beat.
“Because the world was too jealous of me.”
The bitterness in his voice was thick.
“I had both. Soul cultivation and body cultivation. I was already stronger than anyone alive. And that made me a target.”
His eyes gleamed with quiet fury.
“People fear what they can’t match. And so they plot. A group of domain manifestation cultivators—six of them—ambushed me. I killed two. The others… they destroyed most of my body. Nearly ended me.”
Wang Jun paused, the fire in his golden eyes dimming for just a moment. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter—but no less intense.
“That day… I realized I wasn’t immortal after all.”
He breathed out a soundless sigh. “One of the cultivators had a poison-aspected domain. A rare one. It didn’t kill me immediately. It was worse. It rotted me. Day by day, my body began to disintegrate. My flesh… my bones… falling away.”
“So… you cut your head from your body?” Anji asked, putting two and two together.
“Yes,” he said simply. “I poured as much of my soul into it as I could. And then let the rest of my body rot away. There’s an ancient soul cultivation technique—long forbidden, of course—that preserves the soul within the last intact vessel of the body.”
His voice dropped.
“I used it. I lost everything tied to my physical cultivation. But I retained what I could of my soul strength. And I survived.”
He paused, and something softened in his eyes.
“My brother promised to look for flesh puppet techniques. A way to give me a new body. He said it might take decades. Centuries. So I told him to seal me away. Build me a resting place. A tomb. I entered hibernation… and set the deadliest arrays I could to guard me.”
His eyes moved slowly across the chamber.
“But it seems all that’s undone. My brother… he changed it. Turned my grave into a storage vault.”
His face twisted—an expression of profound disappointment. Chen Ren could understand everything now. And he calmly watched the storm of emotions swirl and harden the head's ancient face.
“So you know a good amount of soul cultivation, then. Enough to teach?”
That drew his attention.
“I dare say,” the head said proudly, “I’m one of the best living experts in the art.”
“Good,” Chen Ren said. “Then you can teach Anji.”
The head blinked. “She’s a mortal.”
Chen Ren crossed his arms. “It doesn’t matter. She’s of the Void Blade Sect.”
“Surely,” Wang Jun scoffed. “Surely there’s someone better in the sect to take as a disciple—”
“There isn’t,” Chen Ren cut in. “She’s the best they have.”
There was silence.
Wang Jun stared at them.
“Everyone else—” Chen Ren said quietly, “—alongside your sect… is dead.”
The words struck like thunder. The golden irises dilated slightly. And then—
“SON OF A SNAKE-FANGED MAGGOT-HUGGER!” the head screamed toward the ceiling, launching into another furious storm of curses so vicious the vault itself seemed to vibrate.
“FOUL-BREATHED LIZARD-SPINE! BLOOD-SOAKED TRAITOR-PISSING FUNGUS RAT!”
Chen Ren stood calmly, arms still crossed.
Yalan just sighed and flicked her tail.
Hong Yi murmured, “He’s got a creative vocabulary.”
And Anji… stood silently. Staring at the man with an unreadable expression.
2025-05-08 23:38:15 +0000 UTC
View Post
Chapter 110
Chen Ren had expected a lot of things to be in the vault.
With everything he’d read and the boundless greed that pulsed in his soul—his Dao of Money—his imagination had gone wild. He’d imagined and hoped for ancient manuals, floating swords forged in the era of celestial warlords, maybe even a blade once wielded by a nascent stage cultivator with a kill count high enough to earn a seat in hell.
And maybe those things were here. At the back of the vault, among scattered piles of gold coins, there were weapons and scrolls—items that radiated a faint pressure even from a distance. But Chen Ren barely spared them a glance.
Because in the center of the vault, resting on a black stone pedestal, was a severed head. Its eyes were closed. Its hair was long and unmoving. It sat upright.
Chen Ren stopped walking.
His thoughts, his greed, his expectations—everything screeched to a halt as his eyes locked onto that single grotesque object.
“What’s a severed head doing here?” he asked aloud, reading the question everyone had on their faces and breaking the awkward silence. He turned toward Anji. “Is that the inheritance? I didn’t know the Void Blade Sect practiced necromancy… or whatever this is.”
Anji frowned. “No. My father never mentioned anything like this. If I knew, I would’ve warned you.” She stared at the head and grimaced. “It’s gross.”
“At least it’s not bleeding,” Hong Yi offered dryly. “Could it be some sort of final guardian?”
Yalan scoffed and flexed her paws. “I’d love to see a head try to fight me.”
Chen Ren stepped forward, keeping his eyes on the head.
“Careful,” Anji warned.
“I am being careful,” Chen Ren replied. “But we need to figure out what this is. A severed head sitting in the middle of a treasure vault makes no sense unless there’s a reason. I don’t think it’s just a corpse.”
“You think it’s alive?” Hong Yi asked and squinted his eyes, probably seeing if there was any sort of movement.
“Well, I’m guessing. But it’s either alive or an artifact. It looks too fresh to just be a decoration. And honestly, if it's an artifact that shoots energy beams at enemies, I won't complain. But for now, I'm tipping toward it being alive.”
He turned to Yalan. “Can you check if it has a soul?”
Yalan nodded. “Sure, but I doubt a severed head can store—” She stopped mid-sentence. Her eyes widened just slightly, lips parting—but no sound came out.
That was enough of an answer.
Chen Ren instinctively took a step back, a shiver crawling up his spine. First, a demonic cultivator. Now, a living severed head. It was like the heavens themselves were trying to mess with him.
Yalan exhaled slowly. “It’s alive.”
“I was afraid of that,” Chen Ren muttered.
“I don’t know how,” she continued. “I’ve never seen a soul gathered on top of someone’s head instead of their chest. But it’s there. Weak. Broken into pieces. One fragment’s keeping him alive… the rest must be tied into some kind of soul-binding technique. Maybe more than one.”
At her words, the atmosphere inside the vault shifted. Hong Yi looked visibly uncomfortable, like he was ready to bolt for the exit. Anji too seemed on edge, though she clenched her fists, reminding herself of why they were here.
Chen Ren shared their unease, but he forced himself to stay calm. If he wavered, they all would. He was their leader now—by choice and circumstances—and it was his job to make decisions.
“Can he be dangerous?” he asked Yalan, not moving his eyes off the head.
“I don’t think so,” she said. “Most cultivation techniques require a full body. He’s missing… well, everything below the neck. At most, he might be able to use a utility technique through his eyes. A glare, maybe, or soul pressure if he’s got something really weird. But I don’t feel any cultivation. No dantian, no flow. He can’t gather qi. So we’re safe.”
Chen Ren nodded, relieved that they weren’t about to start another fight. “Good. One cursed freak per day is enough.”
Then he turned to the others and clapped his hands once. “Alright, the head’s sleeping. Let’s not disturb him. Yalan, Hong Yi—help me loot the vault. There’s a lot at the back, and I’m not leaving empty-handed.”
He pulled out two small spatial rings, tossing one to each of them. “Found these on the Blazing Ember Sect cultivators. They're reset after death, so I’ve already emptied them. Should be good to use.”
Finally, he looked at Anji. “You focus on finding the inheritance while I get everything out, okay?”
Anji nodded, and Chen Ren found himself quietly relieved. Nothing had changed in their agreement. She would get the inheritance, and he would get everything else. He was curious about what exactly that inheritance was, of course, but he knew he’d find out soon enough. Being here meant he would witness it anyway.
They moved deeper into the vault, and for a brief moment, Chen Ren simply stood there—taking it all in. Gold coins. A sea of them.
The empire had stopped using them as official currency generations ago. But the gold market still burned hot among rogue sects, merchants, and traveling cultivators. To them, gold was weight, certainty, and value. And now, he had a treasure trove of it. Enough to buy a city, maybe even a small noble house’s loyalty.
Still, as tempting as it was, his gaze moved on.
His eyes drifted to the rack of weapons lining the wall. Axes, spears, swords, curved blades, glaives—they all radiated faint spiritual pressure. Some were clean and gleaming, others dusted with time. Spirit artifacts, without a doubt. And judging by the craftsmanship, inlaid runes, and reinforced cores, more than a few of them were likely Earth-grade.
He let out a low whistle. Then he looked at the manuals.
Scrolls and books stacked neatly in iron-crate shelves—most bearing the crest of the Void Blade Sect. Technique names jumped out at him as he picked them up: [Void Displacement], [Blade of the Empty Heavens], [Void of a Thousand Nights]. They read like core techniques. Sect secrets, no doubt. He almost felt guilty for taking them. Almost.
But the sect was gone. The legacy was shattered. If no one claimed these, they would rot here in silence. Better to let them breathe through new wielders. Even if his sect didn't have void element cultivators, Yalan might be able to help modify them. Or he could trade them.
Knowledge, after all, was currency too.
To his side, Hong Yi was bent over a container filled with dark metals that shimmered faintly under the vault’s light. They looked like obsidian—but not quite. They had a silvery gleam running beneath the black, like frozen moonlight embedded in stone.
Rare metals. Valuable. Probably rare materials for Earth grade spirit weapons.
Yalan was busy too, crouched beside a shelf of pill pouches and dried herbs. She picked through them with a discerning eye and wary paws. Chen Ren noticed none of them had decayed. Preservation arrays, clearly. Some ancient formations had been working silently for centuries… all in their favor.
He moved to another shelf and kept sorting: dried beast meat—possibly from spiritual beasts, old armor pieces that still shimmered faintly with enchantment, another pile of techniques, and then—Spatial rings.
A full box of them.
His breath caught as he picked through them, and then his fingers paused on one in particular. Simple in design, no ornamentation—but when he probed it with his qi, it felt… endless. Like looking into the sky at night. The space inside was massive, far beyond what the rings he had allowed. A Sky-grade storage ring. Empty. Untouched.
His hands trembled slightly as he slid it on. With care, he filled it with his qi to bind it, then began transferring nearby items into the ring one by one, testing to make sure it held.
Hong Yi and Yalan noticed. They turned, watching him with raised brows, and Chen Ren smiled. He pulled out two more large rings and tossed them their way. “Here. Use these. They’re bigger. Let’s split the haul—better than putting everything in one place.”
Hong Yi caught his ring and stared at it like it was a divine artifact. “By the heavens…” he murmured, eyes wide with childlike glee. “This alone could make me a guest elder in half the empire. It’s Earth grade.”
Yalan gave hers a once-over and nodded approvingly.
And for a moment, despite the eerie presence of the head behind them and the silence of a long-dead sect, the vault felt like a dream come true.
Anji’s voice broke the quiet hum of looting.
“I think I need some help.”
Chen Ren turned immediately, dusting his hands as he walked over to her. “What happened? I thought you were looking for your inheritance.”
“I am,” she said, looking around with a furrowed brow. “That’s the thing. I’ve searched everywhere. It’s not here.”
Chen Ren raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean not here? That doesn’t make any sense.”
“I know,” Anji replied, a hint of frustration creeping into her voice. “But I’ve gone through every section—behind the weapon racks, near the pedestals, even under the coin piles. There’s no sign of it. Nothing remotely like an inheritance.”
That was when Hong Yi approached, rubbing the back of his neck.
“You’re supposed to be looking for a glowing stone,” he said. “It’s called an inheritance crystal. Should look like a chunk of soul jade, kind of. When you touch it, all the knowledge and techniques stored inside pour straight into your mind. That’s how I got my puppet master legacy.”
Anji shook her head. “There’s nothing like that here. No glowing stones, no soul jades, no hidden compartments. I checked everything twice.”
Chen Ren frowned, glancing around the room. Despite all the treasure, despite all the artifacts, manuals, and rings—they hadn’t seen anything like a crystal. And in his own thorough search, he would have noticed something that obvious.
“Could it be somewhere else?” he asked, thinking aloud. “Maybe this room’s a decoy? A distraction, meant to make any intruders focus here while the real inheritance is hidden deeper in the vault?”
Anji looked uncertain, but shook her head slowly. “No. It can’t be that. My father was very clear. The inheritance was sealed in the main vault. This is the only chamber that fits the description. If it exists—it should be right here.”
Footsteps echoed softly on the stone as Yalan approached, her tail swaying behind her. She had just finished clearing out an entire section of the vault, and the spatial ring gleamed faintly where she had fitted it to the tip of her tail—It looked cute, Chen Ren had to admit.
“What’s this inheritance about?” she asked, pausing beside them. When no one spoke, she added, “If we know what it is exactly, we might have better luck locating it. Anji, by now you should trust us. We’re bound by oath. None of us are going to steal it from you.”
Anji seemed hesitant at first, her eyes distant, as though weighing the weight of the truth against the silence she’d carried for a long time. Then, slowly, she let out a breath.
“It’s an inheritance related to soul cultivation,” she said quietly. “A way to reach immortality… not through the nine realms of cultivation, but by growing the soul itself. Strengthening it, refining it—until it becomes undying.”
She looked at each of them as she spoke, like she was letting go of a truth held alone forever. Chen Ren had never heard of anything like that before. Cultivation, as he understood it, was rooted in the body. In dantian, meridians, the manipulation of qi, the pursuit of realms like foundation establishment, core formation, domain manifestation—and so on. The soul? It was part of the package, sure, but no one trained it.
He turned to glance at Hong Yi and Yalan, and their reactions told him just how serious this was. Hong Yi was staring at Anji like he had never truly seen her before. His usual aloofness vanished, replaced by something close to awe.
And Yalan—stoic, cynical Yalan—had gone still. Her tail flicked once, the fur along her spine raised. Her eyes were wide. It wasn’t often that something shocked her.
Chen Ren frowned, curiosity piqued. “Okay… but what is soul cultivation? I’ve never even heard of it.”
Before Yalan could answer, Hong Yi spoke up. Even his voice was low, as if something had spooked him. “It’s supposed to be a legend. About a cultivator who couldn’t progress past qi refinement realm. Too untalented. But instead of giving up, he found a way to bypass it. To cultivate his soul directly. Said he entered something called the soul realm. But most people think it’s nonsense—because no one’s ever proven its existence.”
“It’s not a myth,” Anji said, shaking her head. “It’s real. My sect is proof of it. Every Void Blade Sect leader practiced soul cultivation. It amplified their strength far beyond what their realm suggested. They could tear through cultivators in higher stages without breaking a sweat.”
“But that’s impossible,” Hong Yi said, brows furrowed. “If that were real, it would’ve spread—”
“It does exist,” Yalan cut in firmly.
Both men turned to look at her. Hong Yi blinked. “It… does?”
She nodded. “I can see souls. Not naturally—it’s a technique I learned a long time ago. I won’t go into how I got it, but the manual itself said the technique originated from a school of soul cultivation. One of the earliest ever recorded.”
She paused, something like regret passing across her face.
“Unfortunately, I was never able to find more on it. No follow-ups, no lineage, no other manuals… Until today.”
Everyone turned toward Anji again.
She nodded slowly. “The Void Blade Sect was one of the first sects to research soul cultivation after it began spreading in whispers. It started with our founder, centuries ago. But the truth of it—how to use it, what it really meant—was never shared widely. Only the sect leader was allowed to gain the knowledge of it. Even then, not every leader succeeded.”
Chen Ren tilted his head. “Why? What makes it so hard to learn?” Anji met his eyes. “Because you need a very strong soul to cultivate it. If your soul isn’t stable—if there are fractures, or weaknesses—it’ll collapse. You could end up crippled, or worse. Cultivation realms doesn’t matter. A core formation expert could fail just as easily as a foundation establishment one.”
She looked down briefly, her voice softening.
“Even my father… he only managed to learn one or two techniques. And he was the strongest man I’ve ever known.”
As Anji finished speaking, something clicked in Chen Ren’s mind.
He replayed her words, her story—what little she’d told him before. About being chosen as the next heir to the Void Blade Sect. About being adopted by the sect leader despite being a mortal at the time. That wasn’t normal. Not in a world ruled by bloodlines and cultivation potential. There could only be one explanation now.
“I’m guessing,” Chen Ren said slowly, “soul cultivation can be used even by mortals.”
Anji glanced at him, a little surprised. Then she gave a slow nod. “Yes. Everyone has a soul. That’s all it needs. Having cultivation helps—mostly for perception and stability—but in the end, it’s about the soul. Nothing else.”
Chen Ren hummed, thoughts racing. So that’s why. Her father must have seen something. Her soul… it must be strong. Strong enough to risk giving her a legacy that they had hidden for so long.
He looked at her with a new sense of respect. But for now, admiration could wait. They still hadn’t found the inheritance. And yet, now that he knew what they were looking for, where to look became obvious.
His gaze shifted to the middle of the room.
The severed head still sat on its pedestal. But Yalan had sensed it—there was still soul inside. And she was already staring at it again. Their eyes met.
No words were needed. They both turned to Anji.
“We need to try the head,” Chen Ren said.
Anji blinked. “The… head?”
He nodded. “If the inheritance is about soul cultivation—and that thing is still alive, soul intact—then he would know. His soul is fractured, but it’s still bound to the body. There’s a reason he’s still here. A reason he was placed in the vault, surrounded by all this.”
Yalan hummed, tail flicking behind her. “It lines up. The soul isn’t natural—it’s suppressed in the top of his head. Someone left it here for a purpose.”
Anji looked at the head, clearly uncomfortable. “So… you want to wake it up?”
“I don’t think he’s dangerous,” Chen Ren said. “If it was dangerous, we would have realised it. He’s just a head in the end. We’re not trying to fight him, just… speak. Try to find out what he knows.”
Anji took a breath, still clearly uneasy with the idea. “And how do we… wake up a severed head?”
2025-05-06 20:48:31 +0000 UTC
View Post
Chapter 218
Death was never an easy scene.
Not for the one who met it—and certainly not for the one who had to handle the funeral.
Killian had taken part in far too many of those.
It came with the job, he supposed. Being a knight meant seeing people die. More often than not, during every battle, they lost lives. They were men you trained with, drank with, fought beside. Men who laughed with you one day and turned to cold, lifeless bodies the next.
And no matter how long he wore the armor, no matter how many battles he had walked away from—Killian couldn’t remember a single time where it felt normal.
Now, three bodies burned in front of him.
Thick smoke curled into the sky from the pyres, but it was the smell that clung hardest. Burnt flesh and wood, mixed with the heavy guilt. The dead were Arlen, Darvis, and Thao. They had died when a swarm of nightbats descended on them during their march.
Thao had been snatched and dropped from above—his neck broken on impact. Arlen and Darvis hadn’t even gotten the chance to scream. The bats had latched onto them, sucking them dry before help could arrive.
Arlen and Darvis were from Veralt. Killian knew them well. He had sparred with Arlen just last week, and had spoken to his son that very morning. The young boy had always watched the drills with awe, and when they spoke, he’d told his enthusiasm about joining them someday, when he was ‘big enough’. Darvis was quieter, unmarried, but Killian knew his mother was still waiting back at him. She’d probably be expecting his letter.
Instead, she would get a pouch of ashes and a few coins, an extremely poor replacement for a son.
Thao was from Viscount Redmon’t lands. Killian didn’t know him well, but the men in the squad said he had a wife. Two children. Who will never see him again–not his face, not even his body. Just a bag of ash and a name on a list.
Killian stared into the fire, watching the flames fade and the smoke drift lower.
He couldn’t bring them back. He couldn’t ease the grief of their families. Killian knew there was nothing more he could do for them—even if he wanted to. Their bodies were gone. Their stories had ended. But for the ones still breathing, still marching, still trusting in his orders… there was something he could do.
He could be better.
He could become a better commander. And more than that, he could become a stronger warrior. He could become someone to stand at the front and cut down a dozen of those cursed fiends on his own. If he had that kind of strength, then Lord Arzan could focus on the greater threats. And the mortal soldiers without reinforced bodies wouldn’t die as easily.
That is my duty.
No one had asked it of him, but he had been given power. He was a knight who walked the part of an Enforcer. He had been given vaults, strength and potential to be something more than walking flesh.
Now, it was his responsibility to grow stronger and become a sword that protected the weak. It wasn’t as if he refused to try—to get stronger.
Deep inside, he could feel it. The tug. The rush that another breakthrough was close.
A breakthrough, Killian almost sighed in relief. His instincts screamed that a new branch of power was within reach—and when he looked at Lord Arzan’s eyes during their last exchange, he had seen it. No words were spoken. None were needed. He understood what this lord expected of him.
And Killain would rise to meet that expectation. Not just for Lord Arzan, but for himself.
As that thought settled in his chest, two soldiers approached. Each held a small pouch in their hands.
Killian turned to them. “Get it to the supply carriage. Same as before. Put it with the others. Make sure you know which one is which. We need to give them back to their families.”
Both men nodded and moved off. Their eyes didn’t meet his, but their steps were quick. The funeral was over. So was their brief rest. Time to march again.
Killian glanced ahead. Lord Arzan was speaking with Magus Elias. The old Mage’s words were low, unreadable, but his lord's face stayed neutral. Normally, Killian would’ve tried to listen in—but not today. His thoughts were elsewhere.
His vaults.
He had already unlocked the ones in his legs and right shoulder. Now, he was working on the vaults in his hands and the one in his chest. Unlocking them wasn’t the real challenge anymore. He needed to cultivate them—to feed them mana until they changed, until they birthed a new source of strength.
That was how he’d reach the Third Rank. At least, that’s what Lord Arzan had told him. So even as they walked, Killian’s focus stayed inside.
He exhaled slowly, channelling mana from his core and forcing it along his crude pathways into the vault in his chest. The process wasn’t smooth. Pain flared in his ribs as the mana scraped through flesh, muscle, and bone. He had no natural mana veins.
But this pain… he was used to it now. It was the path of an Enforcer.
Still, despite flooding the vault with mana, despite the heat, the pressure, the ache—it didn’t respond. It didn’t awaken.
He felt like he was missing something. Something that would help him to get his breakthrough. Even thinking about it made him focus on the vault that stirred with power, but not enough.
His muscles burned, and his instincts howled, but something was off. Filling the vault wasn't enough, he had to sync it with what he was. And he was lightning. He had trained with it, fought with it, let it surge through his legs and blade. But now… now he imagined more.
What if it didn’t just move along his limbs? What if it covered him? What if it was him?
He needed that. A shell of lightning. A force that could strike, move, and defend all at once. A living armor.
He pictured it clearly—bolts crackling across his skin, dancing over his shoulders, running like veins of light down his arms and legs. Not just a tool. Not just a weapon. A second skin. A storm forged into a body.
He had seen something similar before.
Magus Elias’ stone armor had clung to him and moved with him. Solid yet fluid, shifting around attacks, enhancing his presence. That was the image burned into Killian’s mind. That was what he wanted to become.
Not just a blade. A true warrior. A shield. A storm. Something that his men could rely on when Lord Arzan had his hands full.
He knew he would never match a Mage’s versatility or precision but he would surpass them in strength and sheer will. He would be something else—something more.
He was determined to forge that vision right here, in the plagued lands of Vanderfall.
They marched on, deeper into the rotted woods. The barren landscape was a constant companion now, but no one complained. They had grown used to the roots. The attacks. The treant’s games.
Suddenly, Magus Elias shouted. “Three—west side, moving fast!”
The old man’s voice sent shivers down their spines. It was gravery but insanely sharp. His mastery of the land was uncanny.
By now, those warnings had become a part of their march as the treant tried a lot to take them by surprise. It sent dead forces with the roots, but even with casualties, it made most of his forces desensitised and prepared. Every time the treant tried to surprise them, Elias would feel it before it happened.
And every single time, the men held on for a while, knowing Lord Arzan would burn them eventually. All they had to do was survive long enough.
Just as the warning implied, roots burst from the ground, gnarled and thick with dark energy. Out of the numerous ones, three thick roots surged toward Killian, the treant clearly recognizing him as a threat.
Good, he thought. Let it come for me.
He stepped forward, blade drawn. He slashed the bark with a ringing clash, sparks flew. His cuts were deep, but the roots were tough—dense and resistant to clean strikes. Still, he made them bleed dark sap. That was enough.
Lightning followed.
Yellow bolts licked along his arms, down his blade, arcing into the wounds he had carved. The roots jerked, convulsed, and smoked as the electricity seared through them. Two fell, writhing before curling into stillness.
The third came from the side. He didn’t see it—but he felt it. His instinct roared.
He leapt to the side, landing atop the root itself just as it lunged for where he'd stood. Without hesitation, he slammed his blade down, steel and lightning slashing through the wood.
The strikes sent flashes down his arms, and each crackle of thunder fed the fire in his chest. He wasn’t there yet. But he was close.
In a matter of seconds, the three roots lay broken, twitching on the ground like dying serpents. Killian stood over them, his chest heaving from the effort. Sparks flickered around his blade, faint arcs still jumping between the remains.
He looked up.
Lord Arzan hovered high above, carving through entire clusters of roots with fire-laced wind. Below, Magus Elias stood firm beside the supply wagons, stone rising and falling at his command to shield the Mages and protect the formation. Even Bishop Maurice had taken up a position near the front line, coordinating with the Enforcers and a handful of roaring barbarians.
Killian almost smiled, seeing how far they had come. These people had once been scattered survivors. Now they were a force. But then, he felt it.
A tremor. A shift beneath his boots.
His instincts screamed—jump—and he did.
The ground erupted. A violent blast of soil and debris took place as more roots tore out of the earth. They were thicker now, tougher. He slashed his sword, trying to push them behind but his eyes widened at the resistance.
Still, he had lightning.
He surged it through his arms into the blade, and let it do its work. Roots spasmed and recoiled, bark sizzling under the storm’s wrath. Yet even as he held his ground, more came.
One root struck from the side—he ducked just in time. Another swung from behind. He rolled, narrowly avoiding being skewered.
Too many.
He twisted back to strike another, only to feel a brutal impact slam into his chest. His armor held, barely. The force knocked the breath from his lungs as he stumbled. One of the roots coiled around his waist, trying to yank him off the ground.
He held on, gritting his teeth, straining against it until he spotted movement.
Another root. Headed straight for him from behind.
He made a snap decision.
Killian let the root pull him.
It yanked him up and through the air—right past where the second would’ve impaled him. He landed roughly on his shoulder, skidding across dirt and broken branches, but alive.
“Killian, are you alright?!” Lord Arzan’s voice rang out.
Killian looked up, seeing him still fighting, surrounded by countless more roots—yet steady, untouchable. That growing sense of inadequacy hit hard.
He nodded once, grunting his reply. “Fine.”
But even that felt like a lie.
Then Magus Elias called out, his voice louder than usual. “The treant is targeting you. It’s identified you as the third biggest threat. You need to fall back and defend until we’re done on our end.”
Killian froze.
Third?
He didn’t know what to say. The words left him winded more than the hit to the chest. Was that supposed to be a compliment—or a warning? Either way, it didn’t feel like enough. If he was truly a threat, then why couldn’t he keep up?
Why did the roots still push him this hard?
He gritted his teeth.
“No,” he growled under his breath. “I can deal with them.”
He stood tall, lifting his sword high, lightning crackling along the metal and dancing across his arms. The storm returned, brighter, fiercer. Sparks rolled from his shoulders, trailing down his legs. The vault in his chest hummed again, not bursting, but trembling, like something on the edge of awakening.
More roots surged toward him, angry that he’d survived. Killian charged straight at them. He wasn’t done. He pushed lightning through his legs.
The surge lit his body like a live wire, and in the blink of an eye, he was gone—dashing forward in a blur, faster than the roots could track. He was there one moment, gone the next, using his movement art to slip past attacks, his offensive flow to strike with deadly weight.
Roots burst from the ground in twisted snarls, but Killian was already ahead of them. His blade cleaved through bark and bone-like fiber, stabbing deep into stumps before he forced lightning into them—watching the inner veins sizzle and rupture. He jumped. Rolled. Cut through a thick coil and burst out the other end in a spray of ash and sap.
He gave himself to the rush. No thoughts. No hesitation. Only instinct.
Every time a root curled too close or lashed from behind, his body moved—not because he saw it, but because something deeper guided him. His limbs responded before his mind caught up. He was no longer trying to control the battle—he was part of it.
This is it.
Something inside him stirred. He felt it, bubbling in his chest—pressure, heat, something gathering in the vault at his core. Power coiled tighter, begging to be set free. But then—
His instincts screamed. Too many signals. Too many threats.
He slashed a thick root in half and looked up—just in time to see the ground around him erupt. Dozens of roots burst forth like spears, coiling in from every direction. He tried to leap, but they came too fast.
Roots wrapped around his legs, then his torso—twisting like a snake made of knives. One slammed into his side. Another drove toward his chest, puncturing the armor, digging deep. He snarled, trying to burn them off with lightning—but his arm wouldn’t move. His sword was jammed against a twisting coil.
He was trapped. Squeezed. Crushed.
“Killian!” Lord Arzan yelled, panic layered in his voice.
Killian saw him—a streak of silver and fire—slicing downward with wind blades that howled like wolves. But before they could reach, another root shot up from the earth like it had been waiting, blocking the strike entirely.
The roots around him tightened. He felt his ribs shift. Breath fled his lungs.
Is this it?
Panic hit like a cold wave. He had been reckless. Arrogant. He had pushed forward thinking he could hold his own—and now he was going to die, crushed like an insect.
Is this the end? Am I not strong enough after all?
He couldn’t even process as his vision dimmed. Armor cracked. Blood trickled down his back where a root had pierced through. Pain pierced through his body, he didn’t care about the pain, it was the guilt of not being enough.
He’d come so far—and was it all for nothing? Doubts clawed through his chest. Was his father right all along? Was he useless—was he just a knight who couldn’t even protect himself?
But even in that moment—something still burned inside him. The vault in his chest was still drinking mana, still glowing with that dense, searing heat. He could feel it. He was close.
No.
Not like this.
I won't die here.
His lips barely moved. “I-I won’t die here…”
And something shifted.
It wasn’t slow. It wasn’t subtle.
It erupted.
A pulse of light surged from his chest, bursting outward like a heart made of lightning finally beating. Chains of raw electric energy snapped from his body, shredding the roots coiled around him. Bark and vine exploded in every direction, reduced to charred fragments mid-air.
He fell to his knees, gasping—and then rose.
Lightning danced across his armor, wrapping him in a living shell of thunder. It crackled with each breath, moving with him like a second skin. More roots lunged at him—but they didn’t reach.
The lightning flared and burned them to ash before they touched.
Killian stood still, letting the weight of what had just happened settle. He had done it.
He had advanced. Power surged through his limbs—raw, real, and his. When he finally looked around, the battlefield had frozen for a moment.
Soldiers stared. Clergymen halted mid-cast. Even the air itself seemed to still. And among them, Magus Elias—battle-hardened and unshakable—watched with wide eyes. Not fear. Not confusion. But awe.
Killian’s grip tightened around his sword. His jaw set. This was just the beginning. As for Lord Arzan, he said nothing. But Killian caught the brief glance.
Surprise—yes—but beneath it, a steady current of approval. That quiet, wordless kind that meant more than any praise ever could. No nod, no cheer, no speech. Just a look.
But Killian understood. From now on, he didn’t need to wait for Lord Arzan to shield him. That chapter had passed.
It was his turn to carry weight, to protect, to strike forward without hesitation.
More roots burst from the dirt, rising like spears. But this time, he didn’t doubt. He gripped his sword, lightning surging through his armor in bright arcs. The storm didn’t just wrap around him—it was him now.
There was no more fear in his chest.
Without waiting for the roots to come for him, he charged—lightning crackling in his wake. He moved like a bolt loose from the sky, leaping into the air and crashing down onto the enemy before it could react.
His blade sang as it cleaved through bark and bone, while sparks burst from every step, every swing, every breath. Killian had become more than a knight. He had become the storm.
2025-05-06 20:47:17 +0000 UTC
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Chapter 217
Once Magus Elias joined them, the atmosphere of the party changed.
Kai could tell that most of his men hadn’t expected the old Magus to actually come along—especially with the deep-rooted rivalry between Vanderfall and Lancephil. Whispers began almost at once, cautious glances thrown toward the Magus riding silently near the front. It got bad enough that Killian had to discipline a few men for being too distracted.
No one spoke to Elias. No one even dared. Not even Bishop Maurice, who had offered a formal greeting and then kept a wide berth ever since.
Still, Elias’ presence, at least on the surface, proved to be a blessing. The old Magus was the strongest among them and even Kai couldn't compare his strength to him at least in pure raw power. And more importantly, he was confident Elias wouldn’t try anything—at least not until the treant was dead. The hatred Elias held for the plague’s creator, the one who had ruined his homeland, was real. That gave Kai enough assurance to let him stay close. For now.
And it paid off. Elias, an Earth Magus of terrifying control, took over the defense of the group.
Unlike Kai, he didn’t maintain a constant shield. Instead, he reacted when necessary. Whenever a fiend or weaver got too close, the earth would respond like a living thing—spikes erupting from below, impaling the enemy in an instant. It looked as if Elias could sense everything in a wide circle around them—a three sixty vision.
Kai noticed faint threads of mana running down Elias’ legs into the ground. That had to be [Deepward Eye]—a third-circle earth spell that allowed the caster to track any movement in the surrounding terrain. The size of its range depended on one’s affinity and control, but in Elias’ hands, it worked flawlessly. It was one of Kai’s favorite earth spells, a reminder that Earth Mages were truly versatile. From building things to tracking things, they could do a lot.
With Elias fending off sneak attacks, Kai was finally able to conserve his mana. And that was crucial, because the deeper they went, the more powerful their enemies became.
At one point, a group of weavers—twisted Mages whose minds had long since rotted from corruption—rushed them. Six in total. They had likely sensed the combined mana of the group and come hunting. Two of them carried the strength of a Second-Circle Mage, while the others hovered around the first. But even so, they were nothing to Kai. Unlike true spellcasters, weavers fought on instinct. No tactics, no defense—just rage and power.
Kai cut them down quickly, using efficient, clean spells. He didn’t want to reveal too much this early—not with Elias watching him so closely. The old Magus’ eyes never left him during the fight, studying every movement, every flick of his fingers. Kai responded by keeping his magic basic but controlled.
But as they passed through a long-dead grove where grade-three bone wolves had turned into starving fiends, even that restraint was tested. The massive creatures—twisted things with white bone jutting out of their backs—hadn’t tasted human flesh in a long while. The moment they sensed fresh blood, they descended with a frenzy.
They were surrounded. For a few moments, the entire force wavered. Panic threatened to take hold. But Kai and Elias moved. They kept them off, carving through the fiends with wind and stone. It was their first real test, the first time their forces truly felt the threat of loss. And yet, by the end, the two of them won.
And the men behind them began to believe. But the fiends kept coming as they walked.
Even with the Enforcers holding the line and Magus Elias intercepting most of the ambushes, it wasn’t enough. The fiends were relentless. Twisted, starved things that attacked with no fear of pain or death.
And though the trained fighters did everything they could, they couldn't protect everyone. At one point, a wild fiend leapt over a defensive line of Clerics and Paladins, crashing into them like a falling boulder. Before anyone could react, it had already torn through three of them—a Paladin and two Clerics—killing them on the spot. Five more, men from Viscount Redmont’s force, were injured trying to fend it off.
It was only thanks to Killian’s quick intervention, sword glowing with lightning, that the creature was brought down before it could tear through more of the formation. Even then, the damage was done.
The battle ended shortly after, but the losses left a mark. It made some of the men in the formation—especially Viscount Redmont’s men, move forward with doubt.
Though Kai considered them lucky, all things considered. Only three dead and a handful wounded—numbers that could have been far worse given the sheer number of fiends. Once the path ahead was cleared, they pushed forward until they found a cave nestled in a cluster of rocky hills. It was quiet. Isolated. A place to catch their breath.
They took a half-day break there—the longest they’d rested since the expedition began.
And as he finally sat down, the tension in his body hit him all at once. He hadn’t realized how tightly wound he’d been, how often he’d been running on the edge of collapse. Most nights he’d barely slept more than an hour, relying on [Refresh] spells just to keep moving. But now, with a proper rest, the exhaustion caught up with him.
He allowed himself to sleep, truly sleep, for the first time in days. And when he woke, he felt the difference. Clearer mind. Calmer body. The kind of rest that reminded him that he needed to sleep, more than he thought he did.
Still, no matter how sweet the break had been, they couldn’t afford to linger. The treant—the fiend that had started all of this—was still out there, spreading its rot. So they moved again.
Everyone was more alert now. The losses had shaken them. And when they finally reached an open field surrounded by sparse woodland, Kai allowed himself to ease up just a little.
Ambushes would be easier to spot here. And easier to crush. A place that they could manage.
Kai didn’t let his guard down, not even in the open field. His shoulders stayed squared, eyes scanning the edges of the tree line. Footsteps approached from behind. The air around them seemed to shift with each one, the way it did when earth mana pressed down on the surroundings.
Magus Elias.
“You handled the aftermath well,” the old Magus said, his gaze fixed not on Kai but the distant treetops swaying in the wind. “Calling for rest—most leaders don’t think of that. Not when they’re still young.”
Kai almost smiled. Almost. A response hovered on his tongue, something about not being as young as he looked, but it faded. He studied Elias instead. The man hadn’t come to talk about rest.
“I just knew they needed it,” Kai said finally, eyes flicking toward the group behind them. Some were walking drowsily, others sharpening weapons or whispering among themselves. “Losing people... doesn’t get easier. Not for soldiers. Not for Mages.”
Elias hummed. “Speaking of soldiers... yours are interesting.”
Kai knew what he meant. “They’re my knights.”
At that, Elias cleared his throat. “Knights,” he repeated. “Fitting. With how they fight.”
He waited, letting the silence stretch, clearly expecting more—details, an explanation, some glimpse behind the curtain. Kai offered nothing. Just met his gaze. A breeze passed. A few leaves twisted in the wind.
Five minutes crawled by.
“You’re different,” Elias said at last.
“Everyone is.”
“Not like this. You’re the most unusual Mage I’ve seen in decades. Everything about you—it doesn’t add up. I pegged you for fourth circle at first. But no. You barely use fourth-circle spells. And yet... if we fought, I doubt I’d win easily.”
Kai let out a low chuckle. “Thinking of going against me, Magus Elias?”
The old man’s lips twitched. “Maybe. Someday. A sparring match, nothing more. I’d rather be your friend.”
Interesting. Kai didn't know the man wanted to be friends. “And why is that?”
“Because you’re worth befriending. You’re careful. Too careful. You knew from the beginning I wasn’t just tagging along. I tried to speak with your people—more like interrogating them, really. They were shaken. But I didn't learn enough.” He paused, then added, almost thoughtfully, “You’re not naive.”
“I’m thinking maybe…” Elias began, then stopped.
Kai narrowed his eyes. “Maybe?”
But Elias didn’t answer. His entire body went still, and his gaze dropped to the ground beneath their feet. His voice changed.
“No time. Something’s coming. From below.”
Kai’s head snapped toward him.
“Everyone, guard up!” he shouted, voice slicing through the camp like a blade. “We’ve got movement—underground! Watch your footing! If the ground shifts, jump clear!”
All around them, weapons were drawn. Mages readied spells. Paladins raised shields. The field that had felt so open suddenly felt far too exposed.
Kai’s eyes stayed fixed on the ground, unmoving. He felt nothing yet—no mana tremor, no shift in weight—but his instincts screamed at him. A deep, crawling certainty that something was wrong. That something was near.
The ground in front of him bulged. He was already in the air before it burst.
Roots, thick as a man’s thigh, shot upward, thrashing like limbs trying to drag him down. They twisted, aimed to catch him mid-flight and slam him against the dirt. But he was faster. Flames erupted around him in a sweeping arc, incinerating the nearest tendrils. Charred bark cracked and curled in the heat.
Then another tremor hit—deeper, stronger.
“Fiend incoming!” Elias shouted, making all the heads turn.
The ground erupted again. This time it wasn’t roots.
Something clawed its way out from the earth, soil and stone falling from its shaggy form. It rose on two thick limbs, its back hunched, arms knuckle-dragging. Every inch of it was covered in dark, matted fur. At first glance, it looked like a gorilla—if a gorilla had been born in a nightmare.
But Kai knew better. It was a chimera. One that had turned into a fiend.
Gasps rippled through the ranks, and someone shouted the name aloud. Others followed, voices rising in alarm as the creature bellowed, baring jagged teeth.
Kai had never fought a chimera fiend himself—but he knew the stories. Grade-four beasts. Naturally strong. Unnaturally fast. Born in deep caves, where their claws carved tunnels and their senses sharpened in the dark. No ranged abilities, thankfully. Or so he thought.
The chimera reached down, grabbed a chunk of stone larger than a man's torso, and hurled it like a catapult. The rock sailed through the air, smashing into a line of Paladins. Their shields held—but the force knocked them backward, boots dragging deep grooves in the dirt.
Kai’s brow creased.
More roots lashed upward toward him, closing in fast. He veered hard left, ducking low and twisting mid-air. The vines snapped behind him like whips, always a step too slow—but always reaching.
They were after him alone.
Good.
It meant the others could fight the chimera freely.
“Form up!” he shouted from above. “Stay out of its reach! Use bows, javelins and guns. Support the Mages! Don’t rush in unless you can tank the hit!”
But even as he barked orders, his force was already moving. Training kicking in. Arrows hissed through the air, javelins followed behind them with bolts of mana, and fire and ice lit the battlefield as spells detonated against the beast’s furred hide. The creature roared and twisted, but couldn’t charge.
Magus Elias raised both hands, and the earth responded.
Spikes shot upward beneath the chimera’s feet, forcing it to jump back. The terrain shifted, ground collapsing one moment and rising the next, boulders yanked out of its grasp before it could throw them. Elias basically dictated the battlefield like it was his own body.
It was a masterclass in dual casting. And it gave the others the opening they needed.
Killian charged in first, his blade wreathed in crackling thunder, Gareth right behind him with his weapon glowing dimly. Their strikes landed—clean, sharp, brutal.
The chimera roared again. But this time, it sounded less like fury— And more like pain.
Kai watched the chimera’s form in the distance, still fighting, still surrounded—but holding on.
They would manage. He was certain of that now.
He turned his focus upward, wind circling around him in sharp currents. With a flick of his fingers, he compressed the air, shaping it into blades. They sliced through the incoming roots, cutting them clean at the ends. Before they could retreat or wriggle free, Kai followed up with a stream of fire, burning the stumps to blackened ash.
But they kept growing back. Faster this time. As if the treant had woken up and was watching.
He narrowed his eyes. That might’ve been true. It would make sense that the treant was just powering up every attack it sent.
Still, Kai had more than enough mana to keep going. Fire lashed out again and again, but the constant movement, the darting, weaving, twisting in the air—he was burning through stamina faster than mana.
His breaths came harder now. Not ragged, but close. If he continued like this, he would be dead.
Deciding that he had to change his strategy, he chanted under his breath, and flames roared to life, encasing him in a shell of massive red and gold. A cloak of fire from head to toe, spiraling gently with his mana. He floated there, unmoving, the heat so intense that the very roots that reached for him caught fire before making contact.
They came faster. They burned faster. But he didn’t have to chase anymore. He let them come.
And while he held his position in the air like a blazing sun, he looked down. The chimera was dying.
Its body was riddled with wounds—deep holes that bled thick, blackened ichor. Even with its natural regeneration, strengthened further by its fiendish corruption, it couldn’t keep up. Too many spells. Too many strikes.
The Enforcers had boxed it in, weapons raised, forcing it back with every move. Killian and Gareth circled. Every time it tried to charge, someone from behind attacked, and Killian pushed from the front line.
And Magus Elias…
Kai watched as the ground trembled below the chimera’s feet. Spears of stone burst up in perfect rhythm, stabbing into the beast’s joints, its gut, its flanks.
As the chimera dropped to one knee, growling low, Elias sent the final strike—a long, jagged pike of earth that drove straight through its back. Killian moved in, driving his sword into the creature’s chest to make sure it stayed down.
Then, silence. And then, the silence was followed with a loud cheer.
It rippled across the forces like a wave. Relief. Victory.
At that same moment, the roots around Kai began to wither and pull back, slinking into the soil like snakes retreating from fire. The treant had withdrawn. For now.
Kai hovered in place, gaze cold. That roots and chimera meant one thing—it was watching. And it knew they were close. Closer than ever.
He slowly descended, boots hitting the earth with a soft crunch.
Elias approached immediately, his robe smudged with dust and faint streaks of blood at the hem.
“You conjured interesting flames,” the Magus said with a faint smirk. “I thought to help—but you were managing just fine on your own.”
Kai let the fire around him dissolve with a faint hiss. “You did plenty. That chimera could’ve wrecked half the force without your spells.”
“We’ll need every number we can spare for the final fight. And I believe it’s coming. The treant attacking us this far from its body... you were right. It’s spreading the plague through the roots below.”
“Yeah. And it’s watching us. I can’t shroud our force—It’s rooted into the land itself. The whole country is it's eyes.”
“We’d be safer in the skies. If only we were all you,” Elias said with obvious hints of sarcasm.
Kai simply smiled in response.
That was when Killian walked up, helmet under one arm, brow furrowed and streaked with dirt.
“I don’t think there’s a way to avoid losses,” he said bluntly. “Those roots are going to keep coming, and more dangerous things will follow. We can’t outrun them.”
Kai nodded slowly.
“I know.”
And somewhere deep below them, the ground pulsed.
Magus Elias folded his arms, gaze drifting across the recovering troops. The cheers had quieted, replaced by tired hands tending to wounds, reforging discipline in silence.
“I wouldn’t worry too much about the treant,” he said at last. “Your force... It's a good one. Mixed strengths. Sharp minds. And considering how deep we’ve come with so few casualties? That says something.” He paused, jaw tightening slightly. “But the real problem isn’t getting to the treant.”
His eyes darkened.
“It’s when we reach it.”
Kai turned to him and looked at him with curiosity in his eyes. Elias saw the question.
“I’ve seen it, trust me kid,” Elias said. “It’s not the worst thing I’ve ever laid eyes on—but it comes close. It’s the kind of thing you’d find if hell had a garden. If it wanted to punish you. Show you every soul you failed to save... and feed them back to you in roots and screams.”
The silence that followed was heavy. Kai didn’t flinch.
“Then our first task,” he said softly, “is to stand in front of hell proudly—and not look away.”
His gaze swept over the field below, watching as his soldiers began to reform their ranks.
“If we can do that... we’ve already won half the battle.”
2025-05-04 19:04:09 +0000 UTC
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Chapter 109
Chen Ren closed his eyes tightly, trying to avoid the light. He had warned Yalan it would happen, a flash triggered by the array. It was part of the plan. But he underestimated the scale of it.
And when the light faded, his vision slowly returned.
Wang Fu was on the ground, one hand over his eyes, groaning. The heat in his voice from before was gone. A pale, see-through barrier shimmered faintly around him, a last line of defense. But the array wasn’t done.
From above, bolts of lightning cracked through the barrier, crashing down on him. The chamber trembled. Sparks flew. Stone cracked.
Chen Ren stayed behind cover, watching. That lightning would’ve killed any normal cultivator in the qi refinement realm and even injure foundation establishment realm ones easily. But not Wang Fu. He was tough. The bolts slammed him across the floor, smoke rising from his clothes, but he was still breathing.
And that’s when Yalan moved.
She didn’t shout. She didn’t rush in. Her lips moved in a quiet chant, and the air around her began to ripple. Flaming weapons burst into view, spears, swords, even a massive hammer.
They spun around her like a storm held in place, waiting to be let loose.
Chen Ren had told her to strike when the enemy was down, to use her strongest move. But this... this wasn’t something he had seen before. Wang Fu stirred, still trying to rise through the lightning strikes that had started to slow. Just as he lifted his head—
Yalan’s weapons shot forward.
A spear struck first. Wang Fu caught it with one hand, barely. before a hammer slammed into his chest, flattening him to the floor. Another blade pierced his shoulder. Then another. Then more.
It looked endless. And that was the best part. All those weapons against Wang Fu.
Chen Ren didn’t waste the moment. He pulled out a small glass vial with thick, green liquid swirling inside and moved towards the array. Qing He had given it to him right before he left, just in case he faced puppeted constructs knowing that the potion burnt through almost anything. Even human flesh. And now was the best time to use it.
He threw the vial. It flew past the barrier and smashed against Wang Fu’s face. Acid sprayed across his skin, and Wang Fu screamed—high, raw, full of pain. Chen Ren didn’t stop.
He pulled out another vial and aimed lower—at Wang Fu’s belts, his rings, the items where healing pills or other treasures might be hidden. The second vial shattered, spilling its contents across cloth and skin.
The acid hissed as it ate through everything. Flesh, metal, robes. Black smoke curled into the air. Wang Fu's skin peeled away, and his rings melted on his fingers. Demonic qi surged to heal him, but it was too late.
His knees buckled. He collapsed fully, arms shaking, blood dripping onto the stone. But his eyes still burned with hatred. Through the pain, through the damage, he lifted his head and locked his gaze on Chen Ren — not Yalan.
“You,” Wang Fu rasped, voice hoarse. Then louder, like a curse spat from deep inside, “I’ll kill you. I’ll fucking kill you, bastard!”
Wang Fu groaned and pushed himself forward, dragging his body across the ground. Blood smeared beneath him, and one of his fists slammed into the glowing barrier. Again. And again.
He didn’t use any techniques. His qi was busy holding his body together, trying to stop the bleeding, to repair what it could. But still, he crawled, fists cracking against the shield with brute strength alone.
Chen Ren watched, tense. How is he still alive?
Lightning. Conjured weapons. Acid. Any normal cultivator would’ve died five times over. But Wang Fu was a demonic cultivator. Their bodies were built to endure. For all he knew, the man had some secret body cultivation technique or ancient defense art.
And worst of all, his punches were working.
Thin cracks spread across the edge of the barrier, spider webbing out beneath Wang Fu’s fists. Chen Ren’s breath caught. If the man got through, the fight must just end in his favour. He was weakened, yes. Bleeding, yes. But was far more dangerous than anyone else. Chen Ren steeled himself. He could take one hit—maybe—and try to kill him.
But he didn’t get the chance. A blur dropped from above. Yalan.
She slammed into the barrier, her claws glowing bright as they sliced clean through the cracks. The shield shattered with a sharp crack, and before Wang Fu could even look up, her claws carved into his neck.
Wang Fu jerked, one arm swiping wildly to shove her off, but more blood sprayed out. Her claws dug deeper, burning with power. With a final, heavy slash, his head came loose, rolling once across the stone before stopping near Chen Ren’s feet.
Silence stretched in the chamber.
Yalan stood there, chest rising and falling fast, blood dripping from her claws. Then she turned toward him and said, between breaths, “The head. Always go for the head.”
Her voice was quiet but firm.
“Demonic cultivators can heal from anything... but not that.”
Then her legs gave out.
Chen Ren rushed forward and caught her before she hit the floor. She was heavier than she looked, her furry body limp in his arms. He lowered her carefully into his lap, panic rising as he noticed cuts and burns along her side, wounds he hadn’t seen in the heat of the battle.
He reached for a healing pill at once. But her voice stopped him.
“I’m okay,” she whispered. “It’ll heal... just need to rest. That last attack... and the weapon storm... drained everything.”
Chen Ren let out a slow breath. Relief washed over him.
“You’ve done enough,” he said gently. “We’ve dealt with everything. You can rest now.”
“I’m going to,” she muttered, already closing her eyes. Then, almost as an afterthought, “Protect me well, okay? I gave everything... to protect you.”
Chen Ren smiled faintly at that. “I will,” he said, pulling her closer. Unsaid feelings rushed to him in waves, catching him off guard. He was glad she made it, he was glad she was powerful and he was glad that she was alive.
He wiped his eye from the free hand.
He finally let his hand stroke through her fur, rough from battle, warm from life, and to his surprise, Yalan let out a soft, contented purr.
That was the first time he patted her.
***
It didn’t take long for Yalan to recover. Just like she had said, her body began healing within hours. Chen Ren sat by her side and watched as the wounds along her fur slowly closed on their own. The cuts stopped bleeding. The burns faded. She hadn’t moved yet, but he could tell she'd be up soon.
In the meantime, Chen Ren searched the chamber with Hong Yi.
The man had only come out after everything was over, squeezing through a narrow crack in the stone. He hadn’t seen a way out before, not while Wang Fu was still alive. Chen Ren didn’t blame him for hiding, Hong Yi had already done his part with the puppets. Hiding and staying alive was smart.
They got to work checking the fallen bodies.
The scout had a good pair of daggers and a pouch full of pills, mostly healing and qi-restoring ones. The big brute, the one who died first, had a spatial ring on his finger. Chen Ren added it to the others he had taken from the earlier fight. His collection was growing quickly.
Wang Fu, though, had nothing left.
The acid had melted through most of his things. His robes were burned, and even his rings were damaged beyond use. Chen Ren stared at the remains for a moment before dragging his body over to the others. He’d burn all of them before they left this place.
With the looting done, Chen Ren finally let himself rest. He sat on a flat piece of stone while Hong Yi crouched over the broken puppets nearby, eyes shining with excitement.
He turned each piece over carefully, muttering to himself, picking apart wires and pieces of core mechanisms. Chen Ren watched him for a while and smiled. For Hong Yi, this trip might’ve been worth it just for the puppets alone.
Earlier, he had been pale with fear, too shaken by Wang Fu’s power to even move. Even after the battle ended, he had wanted to leave right away. But now, surrounded by scrap parts and broken joints, he had completely forgotten all of that.
Chen Ren looked away, just in time to hear soft footsteps coming from the entrance.
He tensed, hand moving toward his belt, but relaxed as he saw who it was.
Anji.
She looked just as tense as he had been. But the moment she spotted him — and the bodies in the corner of the chamber, her whole body eased. She rushed over.
“What happened?” she asked quickly. “I couldn’t hear anything. When Yalan stopped sending messages, I thought something happened to all of you. I was scared…”
Chen Ren raised a hand to calm her. “I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I should’ve come for you right after the fight. But I was exhausted — we had to loot the bodies, and then I had to sit down for a while.”
He looked over to where Yalan was still resting.
“She passed out after killing Wang Fu,” he said. “Used everything she had left.”
Anji’s expression changed the moment she heard his words, flickers of anger, relief, and joy all rushing across her face in the span of seconds. She gave a single glance to Yalan.
“Is he really dead?” she asked, moving closer.
Chen Ren nodded. “He’s dead. But… there are things you should know.”
He turned and gestured for her to follow. They walked slowly toward the far corner, where the bodies had been laid together. As they neared, Anji’s eyes locked onto one of them, Wang Fu.
Her steps slowed. Her gaze turned sharp, almost burning with hate. But then… confusion crept in.
She stepped closer, brows furrowing. “What’s wrong with his skin?”
Even in death, Wang Fu’s body looked monstrous. His skin was ashen and cracked, with dark, pulsing veins crawling across his arms and neck. His features hadn’t returned to normal. He still looked like something from the depths of hell.
Chen Ren didn’t answer at first. He just stared down at the corpse.
“He was a demonic cultivator,” he finally said.
Anji froze. “What?”
“You didn’t know?” he asked, watching her reaction carefully.
She shook her head, shocked. “No. Never. He was cruel, yes. Arrogant. A bastard I dreamed of ripping apart—but he never showed even a sign of being a demonic cultivator. Not once, during his time in the Void Blade Sect.”
Chen Ren frowned, his thoughts racing. That didn’t make sense.
He had assumed Wang Fu had been hiding it all along—maybe using a special artifact to cover his dantian. But then he remembered: Anji’s father had interrogated Wang Fu himself. A meridian expansion realm expert. No way he’d let someone wear a cover like that during questioning.
So… if he hadn’t been a demonic cultivator then, he must’ve changed after the sect war. His teammates hadn’t known. That much was clear by their behavior.
Why would a man like him willingly become a demonic cultivator? Chen Ren’s jaw tightened. Something about this didn’t add up. It wasn’t a personal decision. It couldn’t be.
He looked back down at the body, the burnt, warped remains, and a cold thought settled in his mind.
Blazing Ember Sect.
Were they hiding demonic cultivators inside their ranks? If they were… how deep did it go? Was it just a few people? Or were the elders involved? The sect leader?
He didn’t know.
But one thing was certain, he didn’t want to be standing around here when those answers came looking for him. He took a breath and turned back to Anji. “We shouldn’t stay here too long. I doubt reinforcements are coming, but I don’t want to take chances.”
Anji nodded. “Did you look at the vault door yet?”
“I did,” Chen Ren said. “But the runes are too complex for me. Even the Blazing Ember Sect cultivators couldn’t figure it out, and one of them had to be trained in arrays. If they couldn’t do it, I knew I had to wait for you.”
He looked at her carefully.
“Can you open that door?”
Anji gave a short nod. “Should we wait for Yalan?”
“I’ll go wake her,” Chen Ren said. “She can rest more in the carriage.”
Anji turned toward the vault door while Chen Ren walked over to Yalan. She was still curled up, breathing slow and even. Her body had healed, and she looked peaceful now—too peaceful for what they’d just been through.
For a second, he hesitated. He didn’t want to disturb her. But they didn’t have time.
He leaned down and gave her a gentle shake. “Yalan,” he said softly. “Time to wake up.”
She stirred, ears twitching, then slowly blinked her eyes open. Alertness returned in an instant, her body tensing.
“What happened?” she asked.
“Nothing,” Chen Ren said, giving a small smile. “We’re just opening the vault. Thought I should wake you. I don’t want to stay here much longer.”
Yalan stared at him for a moment, like she was trying to piece something together. Then it clicked. Her eyes moved past him to the massive door at the back of the chamber. She stood in one smooth motion, giving a quick look around.
“Let’s go,” she said.
They walked over together. Hong Yi was already standing beside Anji near the vault. When he saw them approach, he turned, looking eager.
“We need to dismantle the puppets,” he said quickly. “And any others we find.”
Chen Ren raised an eyebrow. “Why?”
“They’re made of spirit wood. The inner circuits too. All high-grade craftsmanship. I’ve never seen something like this up close before. I’m still studying it,” Hong Yi said, eyes bright. “We can use the materials. We just can’t carry the whole body back without drawing attention.”
He held up a damaged part, wires exposed and shimmering faintly.
“I can try to make something similar. But we’ll need the parts.”
Chen Ren considered it. They didn’t have spatial rings big enough to carry those things out whole, and if the designs really were rare…
“Alright,” he said. “We won’t waste good materials. Just be quick. I’ll check the library and the rest of the place while you do it.”
Hong Yi nodded at once and ran off toward the nearest puppet remains. Yalan crossed her arms and looked at the vault. “Then you should hurry up with the vault,” she said.
Chen Ren nodded and turned to Anji, who stood quietly in front of the massive vault door, her eyes fixed on the glowing orb etched at its center. He watched her for a moment, unsure. There was no keyhole. No slot. Nothing that looked like it could open a door.
Can she even open this thing?
A small part of him whispered doubt, that maybe pressing the wrong thing would trigger a trap or some self-destruct mechanism. But he pushed the thought aside. He had trusted her this far. He would keep trusting her now.
Then, without a word, Anji pulled a small knife from her belt and sliced a shallow cut across her finger.
Chen Ren immediately straightened. “What are you doing?”
Anji didn’t flinch. She held her bleeding finger over the orb. A single drop of blood fell and touched the surface. The orb pulsed, faint light running through its lines.
“The orb reacts to a special component,” she said with a sigh. “It’s used as a key. The only way to activate it is to mix the component into your blood. It changes it slightly, making your body the key. No side effects, but it’s permanent.”
She glanced at him briefly.
“My father gave me the component when he told me about this place. He made me drink it.”
Chen Ren wanted to ask more. What component? How did it work? But before he could open his mouth, the runes on the vault flared to life. A low hum echoed through the stone walls. Gears shifted deep within.
Then… the door began to open. Stone grinding on stone. It grated. Chen Ren stepped back, watching it rise, the light from the orb reflecting off the chamber walls. He felt his heart tighten. His chest heaved up and down with expectation—and hope.
This was it. Whatever the Void Blade Sect had left behind, this was their final treasure, their secret, their legacy. The door lifted fully with a final thunk.
And the first thing he saw inside… Was a severed head.
Chen Ren widened his eyes and heard Hong Yi’s gasp from behind.
2025-05-04 19:00:02 +0000 UTC
View Post
Chapter 216
Malden’s eyes snapped open as someone nudged him.
Blinking the remnants of sleep away, he turned his gaze upward and found a man standing stiffly across from him, a sword resting at his hip and crude leather armor strapped across his chest. Before Malden could speak, his guard, Kellen, moved.
It was fast — so fast that the guard who had touched him didn’t even have time to react. In a blink, Kellen had drawn his dagger and shoved the man up against the stone wall with a sharp thud.
“No one gave you permission to touch him,” Kellen said, his blade pressing lightly against the man’s throat.
The unfortunate guard gulped, raising his hands. “I’m sorry!” he stammered. “It’s just... Baron Morgrave is finally free to see Merchant Malden. I didn’t mean to be rude.”
For a heartbeat longer, Kellen’s eyes stayed hard, assessing, before he finally dropped his dagger and stepped back. The man slumped to the ground with a shaky breath, rubbing his neck.
Kellen cleared his throat. “I believe we should move then,” he said with a respectful tone.
Malden nodded, hiding the small smile tugging at his mouth as he rose to his feet. It was always satisfying to see that he had made the right choice.
When he had first heard of Lord Arzan’s new Enforcers, Malden had wanted one for himself—a warrior as lethal as a Mage, disciplined and with elemental powers. Someone who could guarantee that no blade or scheme would reach him easily. But until recently, all Enforcers had belonged directly to Lord Arzan himself. It wasn’t until the young lord allowed the formation of the Adventurer’s Guild—independent, but tied to his authority that Malden had found his opening.
He had paid good coin for Kellen, yes, but more importantly, he had made promises, funding more Adventurer’s Guild branches across the Sylvan Enclave, investing in their future. Lord Arzan had given them the freedom to grow — and Malden had reaped the benefits.
Now, with Kellen at his side, Malden moved confidently through the narrow corridors of Baron Morgrave’s mansion. Though mansion was a generous word. It barely counted as an estate, with only three squads garrisoned and a handful of half-empty rooms to its name.
Still, Malden wasn’t here for appearances. Morgrave wasn’t the wealthiest patron he had ever courted, but this meeting wasn’t about short-term profits. It was about setting the pieces for something greater, something that might win him more favor with Lord Arzan.
His boots clicked softly against the worn stone as he walked, the old scent of damp wood and fading banners hanging in the air.
Malden’s thoughts wandered back, briefly, to that first meeting with Arzan. He had walked a corridor much like this one, grimy, half-abandoned and chanced upon a product, and more importantly, a connection, that had turned his entire business around.
In less than a year, Malden had risen near the top of the kingdom’s merchant class. Would this baron offer the same opportunity? Malden doubted it.
Morgrave was young, but not exceptional. His lands had been bleeding for a year and he had done little to stem it. Even now, most of the men guarding his estate were mercenaries, not loyal retainers.
Still... Malden allowed himself a thin smile.
If the man had enough sense to listen—to act on the offer Malden was about to make—perhaps he could solve some of Morgrave’s troubles. And perhaps, Malden’s own fortunes would climb even higher.
Malden finally stepped into Morgrave’s office.
It was a modest room. Worn carpet, a few dusty banners on the walls, and a desk that looked like it had seen better days a decade ago. Behind it sat Morgrave.
He was young, barely into his twenties, but he looked older than Malden himself. Dark circles clung under his eyes, and his beard had grown wild and untamed, hiding what might once have been fine features.
At the sight of him, Morgrave straightened hastily in his chair. His Enforcer guard remained just outside the door, leaving them alone. Malden’s smile deepened slightly. He could see the nerves tightening the young noble’s posture.
Good.
Wealth had a gravity all its own, and Malden had come to savor the way even titled men now treated him, not as a mere merchant, but as someone to be respected, even feared.
Morgrave wasted no time after gesturing him to sit down.
“I was surprised when my steward told me you wanted to invest in my barony,” he said bluntly. His voice was steady, but there was a crackle of frustration beneath it. “I don’t get such offers often... but one from a rising merchant? That felt even more surprising.”
He leaned forward, planting his hands on the table.
“I’ll be open with you, Merchant Malden. If you’re here to take advantage of a depleted barony, you’re wasting your time. There’s barely enough left for you to take.”
Malden chuckled softly, his smile widening. He liked this. There was no pretension, no pathetic attempts to dress up Morgrave’s state. The young baron was frustrated, beaten down and honest.
Far easier to deal with, Malden thought. Men like him just needed the right lever to move.
According to Malden’s informants, Morgrave had even been considering stepping down, passing his lands to a younger brother once he came of age. Desperation like that was fertile soil.
He let a beat of silence pass before responding.
“Lord Morgrave,” Malden said, “I didn’t come here for any such reasons. Merchants, it’s true, are men of coin and profit—not honor.” He gestured lightly around the room. “But I have some honor. You can look into my dealings. I have never cheated a noble, nor swindled a friend. I pride myself on my reputation.”
Morgrave’s eyes narrowed slightly.
“Then why invest here?” he asked. “I read the proposal your man left. Heat stones at cheaper rates for winter. Grains and seeds of magical plants. Long-term contracts for goods this territory can’t even afford most years... All for lower than market price.”
He paused.
“All you’re asking in return is a building plot to set up your store.”
Malden nodded easily. “That’s right. A single building. Though... the plot is fairly large.”
Morgrave snorted. “I have land in abundance, Merchant. Half my young folk have already fled to the cities. I don't see why you're so interested in this place. A shop won't make much profit without the populace having the coin to buy things.”
Malden’s smile sharpened slightly.
“Baron,” he said smoothly, “do you know how I rose to my position in such a short time?”
Morgrave leaned back, studying him. His hands came to rub between his eyes. “I know it was because of those Heat stones. And I’ve heard you have exclusive deals with Count Arzan, access to goods from his forges and alchemical halls.”
Malden inclined his head. “You’re right. But it wasn’t just products.” He tapped a finger lightly against the desk. “I got here because I learned to bet on the right young nobles—the ones who would shape the kingdom’s future.”
“I don’t even have a present to speak of.”
“Not yet,” Malden said. His voice was softened, taking the same tone that normally took him to persuade someone. “But with my help... you might have a future worth far more.”
He leaned forward, letting the weight of his words settle.
“Even if your territory lacks strength right now, it has one thing others don’t — location. You sit close to Mountain Ebon, where the Ashmaw beasts live. Their meat, their organs—they are vital for alchemy, for strengthening warriors.”
Malden let the silence hang for a moment, seeing the flicker of calculation start to dawn in Morgrave’s eyes.
“And if we develop the right trade here...” Malden said, “you won’t just save your barony. You’ll thrive.”
Baron Morgrave inhaled sharply. “If you’re after the beasts near Ebon,” he said at last, “you should know—they live deep in the mountains. I don’t have the men to hunt them. Not anymore.”
Malden’s smile didn’t waver. “But if I provide the men,” he said, “then it becomes a business. A very good one. Ashmaws grow fast and repopulate quickly. With the right arrangements, it could remain viable for years—long enough for your territory to recover.”
He leaned back casually.
“I’ll take my profits, of course. But the majority of the earnings? They’ll go to you.”
He let the words sink in before adding, almost as an afterthought, “And who knows? We might even find herbs, rare plants, and alchemical materials while mapping the mountains. Your family never mapped it properly, did they? Too dangerous, too costly.”
Morgrave’s mouth tightened into a grim line.
“Yes,” he admitted after a pause. “Years ago, my father tried. Hired a few Mages, a company of mercenaries, even a few of our house’s own knights. But no Mage would agree to the price we could offer. Much less a company of them.”
He straightened slightly, his posture stiffening with something between caution and disbelief. Then he shook his head, his brow furrowing.
“I don’t understand,” Morgrave said bluntly. “Why are you trying to be so... generous to my house? Even with your interest in Ebon, mapping it out would cost a fortune. And there’s no guarantee of anything. It’s a massive risk—even for a wealthy merchant like you.”
Malden studied the young man for a moment. He could see the wariness there, the unease behind Morgrave’s guarded tone. He decided to give it voice — to corner the doubt before it could grow.
“Would you like me to put my intentions out very clearly, then?” Malden asked, his voice mild. “Lay it all bare? Tell you what I request of you?”
Morgrave huffed a sharp, skeptical laugh.
“If you’re really serious about the investments and benefits you’re offering...” he said, “then you won't be requesting me anything. It’s a demand in disguise and I will agree unless you’re about to ask for my family heirloom.”
Malden chuckled at that, shaking his head.
“No,” he said lightly. “Nothing so grand. I just wish to ask something that won’t cost you anything.”
He leaned forward slightly, letting the moment stretch, letting Morgrave lean in—unknowingly—just a little closer to the trap he had set.
Morgrave raised an eyebrow, his suspicion barely hidden. “And what’s that?” he asked.
Malden smiled, spreading his hands disarmingly across the table.
“Your vote,” he said. “When the Assembly of Judgment meets in a few months, I would like you to cast your vote in favor of my benefactor—Count Arzan Kellius.”
For a moment, silence hung between them. Then understanding flickered across Morgrave’s face, sharp and clear.
“So that’s what you’re here for,” he said in an extremely low voice—almost a whisper—almost to himself more than Malden.
But before the accusation could take root, Malden leaned forward, his smile easy, his tone smooth.
“Please don’t misunderstand, Lord Morgrave,” he said. “I am not here on Count Arzan’s order. This is entirely my decision.”
Morgrave studied him warily.
“He didn’t tell you to gather nobles to support him at the Assembly?” he asked.
Malden shook his head.
“No. In fact, he hasn’t said a word to me about it.” His voice softened slightly, almost earnest. “But I am a man who believes in the old ways—gaining favors, and returning them. Lord Arzan trusted me when no one else would. Helped me when others would have let me rot. I owe him more than the coin can repay. And now...” He spread his hands again. “Now it’s time I repay that debt, in whatever small ways I can.”
He sat back, giving the man space, “And truly, Lord Morgrave, it won’t cost you anything. In fact, you might even earn some goodwill from Count Arzan himself.”
Morgrave sighed.
“I know Count Arzan is capable,” he said slowly. “But goodwill only matters if he survives the Assembly.”
Malden laughed, a low, confident sound.
“I believe he will,” he said simply.
Morgrave shook his head, a small smile playing at his lips despite himself.
“You have a lot of confidence in him.”
Malden’s eyes gleamed.
“There are people in life you can just tell will succeed,” he said. “They might stumble. They might fall. But their run—their moment—doesn't just vanish.”
He leaned in slightly, voice dropping to something almost conspiratorial.
“And Count Arzan’s run?” Malden said. “It hasn’t even slowed.”
He smiled wider, letting the weight of his next words settle heavily across the room.
“Lord Morgrave,” he said, “forgive me if I offend you—but casting your support behind Count Arzan might just be the most sane decision you’ll make.”
Morgrave’s brows drew together. “And why is that?” he asked quietly.
Malden’s smile didn’t waver. He simply leaned back and said,
“Because with any of the prince’s factions, Lord Morgrave, your vote means nothing. But with Count Arzan... it means something.”
Malden gave a small, almost apologetic shrug.
“In the end, it’s really up to you—whether you want to be something or well, nothing.”
If Malden could say, he knew that his words struck true. There was a sudden change in the man’s eyes he could pinpoint. And before he came here, he’d clearly thought, calculated the expenses of what he was offering and how Baron Morgrave would react.
And now, Malden knew he had touched a raw nerve. A fallen house, left to rot at the kingdom’s edge–few wanted anything to do with House Hallowmere anymore. Morgrave knew it too.
Yet, to his credit, the young noble took it in stride. Straightening, he shifted the conversation back on track, his voice a little steadier.
“Now... about your investments,” he said, “and the expedition to Ebon...”
By that point, Malden was sure. Morgrave was his.
There were no better offers on the table—and Malden’s was simply too tempting to refuse and he even offered some dessert on top of it, offering Morgrave and his entourage a stay at a premium inn in the capital, a friend’s establishment—a luxury the young noble would never have been able to afford otherwise, especially with every high house scrambling for the best spots near the castle during the Assembly.
For the next two hours, Malden and Morgrave hammered out the finer details. Contracts, shipments, hiring men for Mount Ebon, even possible future expansions.
Through it all, Morgrave remained amiable, determined to see House Hallowmere rise again.
Malden could see it—the desperation tempered by ambition, the hunger not to be remembered as a failed lord. When the negotiations finally ended, Malden rose with a courteous nod, smoothing out his robes.
Kellen, ever watchful, fell in step behind him without a word as they left Morgrave’s modest estate and made their way back toward the waiting carriage. The late afternoon sun hung low over the hills.
As he walked, Malden slipped a folded note from his inner pocket, glancing down at the names inked neatly across the parchment. Barons. Viscounts. Small-time nobles.
All crumbling. All desperate.
All ripe for the picking.
He marked off Morgrave’s name with a small, satisfied stroke and moved his gaze lower down the list—to the next town, the next house, the next opportunity.
By the time the Assembly came, Malden intended to deliver more than just his personal loyalty to Count Arzan Kellius.
He intended to deliver a bloc.
One that no one—prince or duke—would be able to ignore. As the carriage rumbled to life and began its journey toward the next town, Malden leaned back against the seat, a slow smile curling across his lips.
Rewards... titles... influence.
He wondered idly what Count Arzan would bestow upon him for this. But more than that—he wondered how the Assembly would unfold.
One thing he knew for certain, whatever happened in the coming months, it would be an event that changed Lancephil forever.
2025-05-02 17:44:18 +0000 UTC
View Post
Chapter 108
Everything stilled when Wang Fu transformed.
There were moments in life when an entire plan unraveled without warning, and this was one of them.
Chen Ren had prepared for many outcomes. He had studied, planned, made contingencies… but none of them accounted for this. For his enemy being a demonic cultivator. How could he have known?
He doubted even Anji had knowledge of it. But if Wang Fu had been hiding this the whole time… then what did it say about the Blazing Ember Sect? Did they know? No, they couldn’t have. Or maybe they did.
But he didn’t have time to dwell on that. Before his eyes, Wang Fu’s body twisted and cracked, the transformation grotesque–skin blackening and peeling, demonic qi bursting from him in thick, burning waves. Dark flames licked across his limbs. The smell of nasty burnt flesh filled the room.
He looked too much like him — Gu Tian, the man who had nearly killed Chen Ren before. But this one… this one was worse.
Even Yalan froze, stunned by what she was seeing. She only moved when a jet of black flame tore toward her. She leapt just in time — the wall behind her melted like wax.
That one attack confirmed it. Wang Fu was strong. Too strong. The transformation had increased his strength a realm and now he was strong against to stand against Yalan. Maybe even win. Chen Ren knew there would be repercussions of his strength, but he doubted it mattered to him until he won.
Chen Ren’s thoughts spiraled for a second. Should they run? Could they? No. It wouldn’t matter.
He had seen a demonic cultivator before. Once they turned, they lost control. There would be no escape, no place to hide. Wang Fu would chase them to the ends of the earth. And the worst part?
There was no time to think.
Wang Fu let out a guttural laugh — one that rumbled through Chen Ren’s body. Before he could settle with the current situation, Wang Fu flung another wave of dark flames toward Yalan, each blast hotter and more violent than the last.
The black fire twisted in ways that Chen Ren hadn’t seen before, as if alive, chasing her across the cracked floor. She couldn’t get close. She barely managed to dodge, slipping between columns and broken tiles.
One of the flames turned mid-air and came straight for Chen Ren. He activated his movement technique in an instant, his body flickering to the side just as the fire struck where he had stood. He activated his starlight body but even then, the heat licked at his skin, causing it to turn red.
It was unbearable. He gritted his teeth. But at least he didn’t see Hong Yi anywhere. That meant the man had listened. He had taken his warning and hidden.
Wang Fu stood tall amidst the chaos, his fiery body radiating power as black smoke swirled around him. His grin widened, fangs showing. “You came here hoping to claim the inheritance?” he shouted. “Fools! It belongs to the Blazing Ember Sect — to its rightful new owners!”
He raised his arms, flames swirling between his fingers. “You are all thieves. And before the Empire gets you, I will.”
Yalan didn’t flinch. She darted to the side and released a burst of her own flames — bright gold, cutting through the darkness like sunlight. “The Empire will kill you first,” she spat, “and burn your rotten sect to the ground for harboring demonic cultivators!”
Wang Fu laughed again, blocking the flames with his spear. “Try escaping first, you silly little cat,” he sneered. “Then talk.”
Their battle exploded once more. Flame met flame — gold and black clashing with violent bursts of heat and pressure. But then something began to change.
Yalan was… growing.
Not dramatically. But each time she moved, each time she struck, her form seemed to shift — muscle rippling, posture widening. Her claws grew longer, her strikes heavier. His eyes widened. Glowing runes shimmered to life across her back, curving and curling like living tattoos.
Was this the true extent of her power? He hadn’t seen this happen before. And he didn’t exactly know how far her strength went. So he observed.
She let out a feral cry and cloaked herself in a layer of gold fire. It clung to her body like armor, shielding her as she broke through the next wave of demonic flames and launched herself forward.
Wang Fu raised his spear in defense, just in time.
Claws met steel. The impact sent a shockwave through the chamber — stone cracked, air rippled, and sparks exploded from where they collided.
Chen Ren barely escaped the next blast — only managing it because he stood near the edge of the room. Even then, the shockwave from the clash knocked him back a step, a blast of hot wind slamming into his chest. His ears rang. The very ground beneath his feet trembled. If the chamber hadn’t been built with ancient stone that were meant to uphold extreme destruction, it might have already crumbled under the strain.
But it wouldn’t hold forever.
That was when her voice came through the link.
"Run."
His eyes widened. "What?" he said aloud, heart pounding.
"Run, Chen Ren!" Yalan’s voice was urgent now. "Wang Fu is stronger than I expected. I can hold him for now, but the longer this goes on, the more dangerous it becomes for you. You need to escape. Get out of here and inform the Empire. That’s the only way we win."
He stared at her figure clashing against Wang Fu, flame against flame, steel against claw. His throat tightened.
"You're saying that like you’re not coming with me," he muttered.
There was a pause — only for a second — but it felt like an eternity.
"I don’t know if I will."
Her voice was quieter now. He could hear the strain beneath her calm. "When two cultivators of equal strength fight… one usually dies. He’s on my level, Chen Ren. Maybe even stronger, with that… destruction-imbued demonic qi. I don’t know how long I can keep this up. But he doesn’t look like he’s tiring any time soon."
Chen Ren clenched his fists, shaking his head. This felt wrong. Everything about it felt wrong. He wanted to scream at her. To tell her no, that they’d figure out another way. But the words wouldn’t come. Because deep down, he knew she was right.
Without Yalan, he would have died long ago.
She wasn’t just his protector. She was his friend. His only real anchor in this world that still felt too cruel and too vast. She was the one person who believed in him when he was beginning his journey in this world — the one who stood by him in every impossible moment. Even after knowing who he really was.
And now she was asking him to leave? To run?
It was the last thing he wanted. But it was also the only thing he could do unless…
I need to rely on my plan.
It was risky. Full of holes. A thousand things could go wrong and most likely would. But right now, it was the only shot they had. Because no matter how much he hated to admit it, he wasn’t strong enough to face Wang Fu head-on. Not yet.
But maybe he didn’t have to be.
Would anything else work?
Chen Ren didn’t know. Maybe his plan had no merit at all. But there was no time left to doubt, and thinking too long had already killed better men. He pushed everything through their link — the full idea, hastily pieced together as it was — and trusted her to understand.
Yalan was in the middle of dodging another volley of black flaming spears, her ethereal claws slashing through them with explosive bursts of force. But even in that chaos, she heard him.
“No,” she called out between blows. “That’s too risky!”
Chen Ren didn’t flinch. “It’s the only way. You don’t really want to die here, do you? I know you have a sense of self-preservation.”
She growled, spinning mid-air to parry Wang Fu’s thrusting spear. “Your life is more important!”
He exhaled, stepping into the shadows of a shattered pillar. “And I’m barely part of this plan. I don’t even have to do anything other than the initial array. That’s all.”
There was no reply. Not right away.
She kept fighting — dodging, striking, leaping back — but Chen Ren knew her well enough by now to know that she was processing. In the meantime, he saw how the walls kept getting hit with blackened flames one after another–every time Yalan dodged, massive holes erupted.
And then, after what felt like forever, her voice returned through their bond.
“I gave Anji the command.”
“Good,” he whispered, casting a glance toward the massive stone door at the far end of the room. It remained shut — for now — and the water still rushed through the channels in the walls.
He moved behind a collapsed chunk of debris—the remnants of a broken statue’s shoulder—and crouched low. Power surged into his legs, his breathing steadying as he prepared to launch himself at a moment’s notice.
Then it happened.
With a sudden click, the door began to rumble.
The water channels ceased their endless flow.
Anji had done it.
The shift in atmosphere said everything that he needed to. Wang Fu noticed too.
He turned his head toward the now-opening entrance, amusement dancing in his molten eyes.
“So… you’ve stopped trying to drown me. Accepted defeat already?” He grinned. “You figured it out, didn’t you? All that water would’ve turned to steam anyway.”
Yalan didn’t reply. She didn’t have to. Because just then, a roar tore through the corridor. It echoed like a beast from nightmares—shaking dust loose from the ceiling.
Wang Fu’s grin vanished.
He turned fully toward the entrance as the ground beneath them trembled.
Out from the opening thundered a metal-bodied puppet—its limbs clanging against the stone, moving far faster than it had any right to. But it wasn’t alone.
Behind it came a monster easily twice the size of a man. Its fur was pitch black, slick like oil, and steam hissed from between its jaws. It had two heads, both canid, each one had white teeth glowing with inner heat. Fire flickered in its throats as it growled, saliva dripping and sizzling where it hit the floor.
Chen Ren could only gape as the two-headed hound burst through the doorway.
Peak Tier 3. A foundation establishment beast. Exactly what they needed.
A beast guardian. One of the many horrors sealed within the sect vault chambers — now awakened from its hibernation just as planned. The hound didn’t waste a second. Its dual heads snarled and snapped as it chased after the puppet, which sprinted across the floor in erratic zigzags, drawing attention like bait.
It worked.
The moment the puppet entered Wang Fu’s line of sight, he scowled — recognizing the trick immediately. With a roar, he sent out a blast of concentrated heat. The fire struck the puppet dead-on, melting it down to slag within seconds.
But by then… it was too late.
The hound was already upon him.
It didn’t hesitate. It lunged straight for Wang Fu thirst for death, both jaws glowing with qi as it aimed to tear through him.
The bite landed.
Fangs scraped through Wang Fu’s charred shoulder, tearing through flesh and drawing blood — black and smoking. But Wang Fu didn’t flinch. He twisted his body mid-step and brought his spear down in a sweeping arc.
The hound was fast.
The beast jumped to the side, its claws scraping loudly against the stone. Wang Fu’s spear swung past, missing by a hair. Flames burst from Wang Fu’s body, lighting up the space between them. The fight started fast — claws swinging at fire, teeth snapping at the spear.
Chen Ren held his breath, his heart pounding hard. For a moment, he thought maybe they could win. Then he saw it. The beast wasn’t going to hold out.
It fought with everything it had — all speed, all strength, all anger — but it wasn’t built for this kind of fight. Close-up, it was strong. But against fire and a long spear, it struggled. The flames burned too wide. The spear moved too fast.
Still... It just had to keep fighting. And right now, it was doing that.
As Chen Ren watched the fight, Yalan’s voice slipped into his mind again.
“The first phase of your plan is working.”
He exhaled, not realizing he’d been holding his breath.
“But…” she continued, “I don’t know if your arrays are really going to do much to him. That qi of his… it’s too volatile.”
Chen Ren’s jaw tightened. He knew that too. Everything they were about to throw at Wang Fu might not be enough. But they’d come this far. And turning back now would mean watching a friend die.
“It’s just for a little more time,” Chen Ren said under his breath, responding to Yalan’s silence. “He won’t be able to maintain that demonic form for long. I can already see it—he’s slowing down.”
There was no answer at first, but he felt her sigh ripple through their spiritual connection, weary, resigned, but still fighting. That was enough. He didn’t wait. There was no more time to argue.
Chen Ren moved quickly toward the center of the chamber, the stone still warm beneath his feet from the earlier explosions. His fingers trembled slightly — not from fear, but from the sheer pressure of what he was about to attempt.
Once, after the battle with Gu Tian, he had started looking into techniques that could actually work against demonic cultivators. He had hoped for a pill, something lethal, something efficient.
But he found nothing. Or at least, nothing he could afford. Anti-demonic pills were rare, complex, and expensive far beyond his current capabilities.
But arrays? Arrays he could learn. Arrays he could build. Even if it was desperate. Even if it was dangerous. And now, as Yalan and the two-headed hound fought to keep Wang Fu occupied, Chen Ren dropped to one knee and began carving.
The first stroke cut into the stone. Then another. Then another.
A dozen curved lines, each precise, each needed. He was building the strongest array he had ever attempted, a containment-suppression hybrid designed to destabilize corrupted qi for even a few seconds. That was all they needed.
All around him, the battle raged on. It was so intense that his presence was completely concealed. He knew that by how Wang Fu’s amused yet cruel voice rose above the din.
“Two beasts at once? You’re spoiling me. I'm going to consume both your flesh after this.”
Another blast of black fire roared through the chamber, smashing into the wall and crumbling part of the ceiling. Stone dust rained down. Chen Ren dared a glance.
The hound was still attacking — its claws slashing across Wang Fu’s body — but it was bleeding now, deep wounds along its flanks. The beast wasn’t healing fast enough.
Yalan struck from the back, sending arcs of golden fire that shattered the ground and burst in wide, radiant explosions. She wasn’t holding back anymore. But neither was Wang Fu.
Chen Ren turned back to the array.
He couldn’t waste another second. His focus sharpened. His breath slowed.
The runes were complex, ten layered glyph lines twisting and overlapping, branching out like veins. If not for his memory, drilled into shape by hours of reading and repetition, he wouldn’t have been able to recall the sequence. But fortunately, he was smarter than that. He knew the power of knowledge and had experienced the results of taking things for granted.
Which was why he’d never missed important information like this.
Every ten seconds, new lines of runes took shape beneath Chen Ren’s hands. He worked fast, chalking out each one before chiseling them into the stone floor. It was rushed, imprecise in places, but the lines still glowed faintly with qi as he pressed powder into each curve.
It had to work. It had to fucking work.
He hadn’t meant to use this array so soon and had only tested it once in the safety of the forest near Meadow. Back then, it had been a backup. Preparation for an opponent like this.
But life had a way to force him to use everything in his arsenal.
“Fuck!”
A sudden explosion from the side took him by surprise.
He gathered himself again, and moved faster. He shifted his body to reach the far sides, crawling, kneeling, pressing hard into the floor as sweat dripped from his chin.
Just a little more… please, just hold…
A stray thought crept into his mind — one he didn’t like.
What if I just let Wang Fu kill me? Would that be enough to wake the dragon inside me?
He dismissed it with a bitter grunt. The beast inside him was still dormant. Gambling his life to wake it was the same as throwing it away. He couldn’t afford that. Not now. Half the array was done. Then three-fourths.
Every second felt like a battle. Then Yalan’s voice echoed in his mind, sending a sharp shiver down his spine.
“The hound is dead.”
He froze for a split second, glancing up.
“I can’t distract him much longer. The explosions and steam are covering you for now, but not for long. How much more?”
Chen Ren grit his teeth. “One more minute.”
He didn’t wait for a reply.
He threw himself back into the work, fingers burning as he poured his qi into each final line. The chalk dust smeared his robes, and his breathing grew heavier with every stroke. Every carved line pulsed with unstable energy, like a living net tightening.
The last symbol was the hardest — a twelve-line binding rune, spiraled inward and locked with an anchor glyph. He thought it would take longer than that to finish, but he did it.
He finished it.
He staggered back and gave the mental command: “It’s done.”
Yalan responded instantly. “Good. He’s getting agitated anyway.”
Chen Ren slipped outside the array’s boundary, heart pounding. He turned—and saw him.
Wang Fu stood at the heart of the ruined chamber, demonic flames swirling wildly around him. His body radiated heat, steam hissing from his skin. His eyes were no longer fully human—pits of burning rage, twisted with madness.
The corpse of the hound lay at his feet, split in half. Black blood oozed out and pooled into the shallow water on the floor, mixing with the dust and debris.
“I killed one beast,” Wang Fu roared, eyes blazing. “I’ll kill you too!”
He charged forward, fury boiling off him in waves. Each step scorched the ground, steam erupting from every footprint. His demonic flames lashed out with every movement — wild, uncontrolled, unstoppable.
But Yalan didn’t meet him head-on.
Instead, she darted upward — a blur of fire and fur — leaping high toward the far side of the chamber.
Wang Fu barked a laugh, twisted and cruel. “Running away? So you finally understand. There’s no escape. This ends with your corpse on the floor!”
Chen Ren crouched low behind a shattered boulder, breath shallow, heart pounding against his ribs like a drum of war. His hands trembled slightly as he steadied his stance. His eyes flicked between the array and Wang Fu.
Was this going to work? Would they survive? He didn’t know.
But for what it was worth, he would try.
Yalan soared over the center of the chamber, clearing the array formation in one clean, burning arc. And Wang Fu—blinded by his own rage—followed her.
He landed right in the middle of it.
Chen Ren didn’t hesitate.
With a flick of his wrist, he channeled qi into the final anchor point — the one hidden beneath the stone at the array’s edge.
The glyphs flared. The air split with a crack. And the world went white.
A blinding burst of light erupted from the array, consuming the chamber in an instant. Winds howled. The walls shook. Even the lingering steam was burned away by the sheer intensity of the blast.
For a moment — a single, breathless moment — everything went silent.
2025-05-02 17:42:04 +0000 UTC
View Post
Chapter 215
As Kai asked that, Magus Elias’s frown deepened. Kai could see the fierceness in his gaze—a predatory look that made his instincts hum with warning. Without thinking, his mana tensed in his core, ready to shield or strike back at the first hint of hostility.
A Fifth Circle Magus might have far larger mana reserves, but Kai had stood at that peak once too. He knew better than most that preparation and intent mattered just as much as raw power. Still, the words that came out of Magus Elias' mouth lowered his guard, if only slightly.
"Thank you, Arzan Kellius," Elias said, his frown turning to a genuine gratefulness. "Without you, I'd have gotten out of here missing a limb... or maybe not gotten out at all." He gave a small chuckle after, shaking his head as he continued, "Kellius, huh? Now that's a name I haven't heard in a long while. Let me guess—you’re a Duke of Lancephil?"
Kai gave a small shrug. "A Count," he corrected.
"I thought the Kellius were Dukes?"
"They are," Kai said. "But the seat's empty right now. I'm the only Kellius around... other than a brother, and I'm pretty sure he’s not anywhere near Lancephil anymore… and I didn't ask you about that."
Magus Elias let out a slow breath, lips curving into a lopsided smile. "Right. You asked what I'm doing here." He gave a short laugh, the sound dry and a little mad. "Well... would you believe me if I told you I’m on a suicide mission? Trying to kill as many of these bastards as possible before I die?"
As he spoke, Elias moved to kick the corpse of a weaver that lay crumpled nearby on the cracked earthen platform. The body tumbled off the edge with a hollow thud. But Kai’s eyes never left the Magus. Not for a second.
Elias caught the look and grinned, amused. "You're too damn wary of me. Relax. I’m out of most of my mana—couldn't cast a strong spell if I tried."
"One can't underestimate a Magus," Kai said quietly, "even if he's one step from death."
Elias barked a laugh. "That's a great line. I'm stealing that if I get out of here alive."
"Be my guest," Kai said, allowing a faint smile. "It's not original anyway."
He shifted his footing slightly, not letting the moment drag too long. "But back to the real question. What are you doing here alone? No other Mages around helping you hunt these fiends and weavers?"
He frowned lightly. Every Magus Kai had ever known had at least one apprentice— someone to pass their knowledge onto, someone to fight beside them if needed. It was practically a law among stronger Mages, especially in dangerous territories like this.
Kai himself had been an exception for a long time, having never taken an official apprentice. He had taught a few things to people like Rhea and Amyra, but even now, he wasn’t sure if he could be called a proper master. His path had always been solitary.
Still, when he mentioned apprentices, he saw the brief flicker across Elias' face — a crack in the man’s put up exterior. The Magus clenched his teeth, his jaw tight. He spat on the floor next to him.
"They ran away," he said.
"Huh? What do you mean they ran away?"
Elias leaned back slightly, rubbing a hand over his face as if suddenly exhausted. "I came here to deal with the plague," he muttered. "Once my obligations to the royal family were done, I thought I'd be able to lend a hand. I even had a group with me. Nothing special—third circle Mages, barely enough to not make me look over my shoulder every few minutes just to check if they were still breathing."
He gave a dry chuckle, though there was no humor in it. "But the moment we sighted a hoard, they turned tail. Said their duties to the noble families they served were more important. Cowards."
Elias' lips curled in disgust. "I wanted to kill them then and there. Would have, too, if I didn’t think it’d just add more trouble with those fat, unruly nobles. So..." he shrugged, spreading his hands in a bitter mockery of grace, "here I am. Alone. Taking on hoards. And saved by a man who isn't even a quarter of my age."
Kai kept his face neutral at that, but inside, he felt… something at how Elias said a quarter of his age. He’d stake his life that he was at least half the man's age with two combined lives under him—but guessing a Magus’s true age was dangerous business. Many Fifth Circle Mages could live for centuries if they were careful, far outlasting the kingdoms they served.
"I didn’t think of any Magus as a patriot," Kai said.
At that, Elias let out a genuine laugh, the sound rasping across the stillness. "Patriot?" he echoed. "I don’t give a rat’s ass about the people ruling the country, boy. But the country itself? That’s different. You don’t live this long without growing some roots... even if you try not to."
He kicked another stone off the platform, watching it tumble away. "Besides, my reputation took enough of a hit already. People whispered that I ran away during the plague—when in truth, I was shackled by a damned oath to protect the royal family." He spat the words out, like they tasted foul. "A stupid oath made over a century ago. One I couldn't break even when it burned me."
With that, an awful silence covered them.
Kai studied the man, his own thoughts turning. He didn't know whether to fully believe Elias. After all, Maguses, especially those who lived long enough, tended to see nations as fleeting—sandcastles before an inevitable tide. It was rare for one to stay loyal to anything beyond their own power.
But reputation? That, he could believe. Among all the Magus he had encountered, reputation was one of the few mortal things they clung to with claws and teeth. Pride survived where loyalty did not.
As Kai considered that, Elias turned.
"And what about you?" he asked with his voice edged with amusement. "You asked me what I was doing here but what’s a Count of Lancephil doing so far from his keep? Especially with such an interesting force at your back. Warriors I’ve never seen before and even Church Paladins. Quite the merry band you've got." He grinned. "And from the way you fought and the fact you're standing here talking to me... I’m guessing you’re their leader?"
Kai barely held back a frown, not at the question itself but at the casual way the Magus referred to his Enforcers as warriors.
He noticed them, Kai thought grimly. It was inevitable.
He hadn't made any great effort to hide the way his Enforcers used mana. But even so, he would have preferred keeping some cards closer to the chest a while longer.
Still, there was no helping it now. He kept his voice even.
"The plague’s threatening to cross into Lancephil," he said. "My territory’s close to the border. If I don't act now, it’ll be my people next."
Elias raised an eyebrow. "So you’re here to stop the plague, I’m assuming?"
"Yes. That’s the plan."
The Magus’ lips twitched again. "And how exactly?" He tilted his head, studying him. "And don’t try to lie. The Church forces are moving with you and from what I know of the Church, and I doubt Lancephil is much different, they wouldn't lift a finger unless they were convinced you had an actual plan." He folded his arms. "So tell me, young Mage... what’s your grand solution to ending this dreadful plague?"
Kai hesitated for a moment. He wasn’t sure how much he should say. His plans about the treant weren’t public knowledge yet and trusting a Magus he had just met was dangerous, even if the man seemed to be against it too.
But then again... if Elias had been wandering the plague lands for a while, then he would’ve already seen it. The massive, monstrous tree at the heart of it all couldn’t have been missed. So Kai chose his words carefully.
"The way to stop the plague from growing," he said, "is to kill the treant responsible for it."
"The one at the center of it?"
"You’ve seen it, haven’t you?"
"Hmm… I tried to kill it once. Got too close, and its damned roots chased me for miles." His mouth twisted into a grimace. "Left me with a nasty backlash. Took a barrel’s worth of potions to walk straight again." He gave Kai a long, assessing look. "You’re sure the treant’s the cause of it all? What’s your proof?"
"I don't have to give you proof. I know the treant’s roots are what’s spreading the plague. I intend to burn it down."
Elias gave a low chuckle, though there was a hint of respect in his eyes now. "Burn it down, huh? And how exactly do you plan to do that? You aren’t even a Magus. What circle are you? Fourth?"
Kai didn’t so much as blink. "I don’t have to tell you that either." He straightened his shoulders. "I have plans, Magus. With all due respect to you, I’m not going to share them."
"And what if I force you?" Elias tilted his head ever so slightly, his eyes looking directly into Kai’s.
In an instant, a spell structure began forming in Kai’s hand, mana snapping around him—but before it could escalate, Elias lifted his hands, palms out, laughing.
"Relax, relax. It was a joke," he said easily. "I can’t harm someone who saved my life. Even I’m not that much of a bastard."
Kai didn’t lower his spell entirely but allowed it to flicker into a waiting state. Elias simply grinned wider.
"But, I'm curious. Will you tell me if I say please?"
"No," Kai said.
Elias shrugged like he expected nothing less. "Then I suppose," he said, "I’ll have to come with you and see it in action myself."
"You’re aware that Lancephil and Vanderfall aren’t exactly on friendly terms."
"I’m aware," Elias said with a wave of his hand. "But you yourself said it, didn’t you? Mages are above countries. And more importantly—we’re in the plague lands. If I tried anything stupid, it’d end badly for both of us.
Elias stretched his arms forward and gestured at Kai.
"You came to talk to me alone. Either you’re brave... or skilled enough to defend yourself until your force gets here. Either way, as a sane man who doesn’t want to get fried by a bunch of angry Paladins and strange warriors, I’m not about to pick a fight. Besides, I’m interested in you."
"Interested?" Kai repeated.
Elias chuckled. "Yes, interested," he said easily. "It’s not every day you see a young Mage leading a force into a plague zone — a plague that has made countless Mages run away in fear. Even ones closer to me in power." He stretched his arms overhead, joints cracking slightly. "Last time I met a Mage who felt worth knowing was... thirty years ago, I think. You’re the first one since."
Elias gave a small shrug, as if that explained everything. "So let me come with you — for my curiosity and for our shared hatred of every dead mana-creature crawling over this land."
Then he simply stood there looking perfectly content to just wait for Kai’s answer.
Kai deliberated inwardly for a moment, expression giving away nothing. In his head, he was rethinking everything Elias ever said. Unfortunately, this was a decision he couldn’t take alone. "You’ll have to wait here. I need to discuss it with my second-in-command."
Elias grinned. "Feel free."
Without wasting time, Kai turned and flew back toward his forces, the wind rushing past him. Killian was already waiting—standing a little apart from the others, who had begun glancing and whispering, a few even pointing toward Elias still standing calmly on the cracked platform.
Kai landed lightly beside Killian, ignoring the watching soldiers. The knight turned toward him immediately, his sharp eyes studying Kai's face.
"What happened there?" Killian asked.
"The Magus doesn’t seem openly hostile," he said, "But he wants to come with us. Says he's here to kill weavers too and if he’s to be believed, he’s been doing it alone."
If Killian was surprised by that, he didn’t show it. "So are you going to let him?"
Kai hesitated for a second before answering. "I’m thinking about it." His eyes flickered toward Elias, who hadn’t moved. "Actually... I’m pretty sure that at least partially, Magus Elias wants to come with us because of me. And the Enforcers."
Killian’s brow furrowed slightly, but he waited.
"In the battle," Kai continued, "he clearly noticed our strength — and I'm almost certain the magma spell I used is something that hasn't been invented yet in this era." His voice dropped a fraction lower. "Moreover... when I was speaking to him, he said something that made me instinctively form a spell structure."
Killian's eyes sharpened at that.
"And?" he prompted.
"And now I'm fairly sure he provoked that reaction intentionally — to observe it," Kai said quietly. "He wanted to see how I structured my magic. As you know, my structures are far more refined. Thousands of years of innovation stacked into them. To someone from this age, they would seem impossibly clean and unfamiliar."
Killian was silent for a moment, processing that.
"So rather than some noble cause... Magus Elias would be coming with us out of personal curiosity. To see our powers up close. Maybe even to copy them."
Kai nodded. "Exactly. In the brief time we spoke, he painted a picture of being harmless, logical, even patriotic. But..." His eyes narrowed slightly. "I kept getting the feeling that every word he said had been planned–like a conversation he already had in his head before we even spoke."
He shook his head once. "I played along to get a better sense of his personality. And I think I have a decent grasp on it now."
Killian shifted slightly, his hand brushing the hilt of his sword. "So what are you planning to do now?" he asked quietly. "Can we even stop him from coming with us? He's a Magus, after all."
He paused, glancing again toward the distant figure of Elias. His voice dropped lower. "Should we kill him? He's weakened right now."
Kai didn't respond immediately. He let the thought settle between them for a moment before he finally shook his head.
"I thought about that," he admitted. "But it’s easier said than done. Magus are... really, really hard to kill, Killian. Even weakened, a Fifth Circle Magus is a nightmare. If we tried, we might succeed—but not before half our men ended up casualties. And even if we did go after it, convincing Bishop Maurice would be another war by itself."
Killian exhaled slowly, nodding. The reality of it was clear— there were too many risks, and no real guarantees. Kai glanced over his shoulder at Elias once more, gathering his thoughts before speaking again.
"Actually," he said, "I have a better plan. I made it once I realized shaking him off wasn’t going to be easy," Kai continued. "Instead of trying to get rid of him... we make use of him."
Killian raised a brow but said nothing, listening.
"He’s strong — a Fifth-Circle Earth Mage. That's excellent for defense, something we could do better with right now. He fits well into our weaknesses."
Kai folded his arms. "And we need every advantage we can get before we face the treant. Having him around—if controlled properly—gives us that."
"So," Killian said slowly, "we keep him with us... even if he tries to snoop around."
"Exactly," Kai said. "But he won’t be able to do much. We'll keep our eyes on him the whole time. I don't think he's particularly interested in the Enforcers—not deeply, anyway. What he's truly interested in is me. He wants to see my spell structures," Kai said. "He wants to know if I have more tricks hidden up my sleeve. He's after knowledge—techniques— things that aren't supposed to exist yet in this era."
Kai's lips curled.
"I’ll let him see a little," he said. "Surface-level things. Tricks that won’t mean much even if he manages to replicate them. Enough to satisfy his curiosity... but never enough to be dangerous. Even a trickle of what I know could be enough for him to break through to something stronger.
“But compared to the full ocean I hold, a few drops won't matter. And besides..." His eyes glinted. "It’s a game of patience. I'll control what he sees, and what he thinks he's getting. Play him slowly. Feed him crumbs."
Killian frowned, thinking, then asked bluntly, "What if he tries to backstab us? Maybe not now. But after the treant’s dealt with."
Kai smiled.
"For that," he said, "I have a plan too. One that would make Magus Elias regret ever thinking of betrayal.” Kai took a step forward. “Let me tell you about it..."
2025-04-30 17:46:19 +0000 UTC
View Post
Chapter 107
The effect of his words was immediate. A pause followed, almost as if everyone was holding their breath.
Wang Fu and the two other cultivators stood frozen, their faces painted with shock. It would have been almost funny to anyone who knew the truth— that Chen Ren’s so-called "vault guardian" act was nothing more than smoke and mirrors. But he kept his face calm, playing his role without a hint of hesitation.
The real secret to his success, he knew, wasn’t just his acting. It was Yalan, quietly in his robes.
The three cultivators in front of him shifted uncomfortably. Chen Ren could see it clearly—the way their shoulders tightened, the way their fingers twitched near their weapons. If not for their leader, Wang Fu, he was certain the other two would have already bolted. Their faces grew paler with each passing second, the fear of facing a meridian expansion realm cultivator sinking deep into their bones.
Chen Ren allowed the moment to stretch, then spoke again.
"For your insolence in trying to flood this place. Fuk Yu of Void Blade Sect would make sure you all drown under the crushing pressure of water. You would not even have time to take a final breath. Your bodies would be left floating, a warning left by the wrath of Void Blade Sect."
For a heartbeat, the only sound was the faint rustling of the wind.
Then Wang Fu laughed—a short, sharp, rich sound. "Void Blade Sect is dead," he said. "Our sect destroyed it. Flattened it to the ground. Nothing of that name exists anymore. You are protecting the legacy of a graveyard, nothing more."
He tilted his chin up. "Give up the act. Surrender the vault, and our sect will be merciful. We might even spare your life."
For a second, Chen Ren blinked, taken aback. Not because of the stock of Wang Fu's words. That was no latest information—but because of the sheer arrogance dripping from him. The man was clearly no match for the level of power Chen Ren was pretending to have. And yet, here he was, speaking with the confidence of someone who believed he held all the cards.
It was almost amusing. Almost.
Was it because he was confident in his sect’s backing? Or was it something else? Was the man simply hiding his true strength under that easy arrogance?
Despite the questions swirling in his mind, Chen Ren didn’t let a hint of doubt show on his face. Instead, he forced a pained expression, as if Wang Fu’s words had struck a nerve.
"Is that... true?" he asked in a low voice, sounding almost wounded.
One of the other cultivators, gathering courage from their leader’s boldness, quickly added, "It is. But if you open the sect vault for us, we’ll reward you. We’ll grant you an elder position in Blazing Ember Sect. You’re wasting your life here, guarding a legacy that no longer exists."
Chen Ren narrowed his eyes slightly, hiding his amusement. Again, that strange, misplaced confidence. Even if two of them looked like they were ready to bolt at the first sign of a fight, they were still pushing forward, betting on the idea that loyalty to a dead sect wouldn’t hold... or maybe they knew something he didn’t.
Either way, he held the act firmly, letting his anger show—no, letting it boil. A growl rumbled from his throat as he straightened his back and glared at them.
"Then," Chen Ren said, "it is prudent that I kill all of you here... and then take revenge against your sect for what you did to mine."
Before the words had even finished echoing across the hall, Yalan gave a tiny signal through mind. The message was sent to Anji.
A few heartbeats later, a deep, grinding noise filled the air. It was the sound of old gears—heavy with rust, protesting against the passage of years—finally turning once again.
For a breath, Chen Ren worried the old trap might fail completely. But in truth, he didn’t need it to work perfectly. If it couldn’t be a weapon, let it be a distraction. And surprisingly, it worked.
Immediately, the three cultivators’ heads snapped around, eyes wide, hands twitching toward their weapons.They weren’t looking at him anymore. They were looking for traps, for hidden attacks, for anything that might spring upon them from the dark.
And then, as if the heavens had decided to bless his gamble, it happened. From cracks in the walls, from unseen drains above, a rush of water began to pour into the room—clear at first, then dark with the grime of ages.
The gates of the chamber shuddered once—then began to close, groaning like beasts dragged from slumber.
Chen Ren didn’t move. He simply smiled—his lips stretching coldly—as the water lapped against the floor and the realization began to dawn on the three cultivators that they were trapped.
The three cultivators panicked the moment the water touched their boots. They bolted for the door, abandoning any thought of fighting back.
That was exactly what Chen Ren had been waiting for.
Before they could reach the narrowing gap of the gate, Yalan moved. She shot out from behind Chen Ren like a streak of flame, targeting the one he had marked earlier—the second foundation establishment realm cultivator.
With a swipe of her hands, burning symbols took shape in the air, massive, clawed emblems that seemed to roar with fire. The man barely managed to raise a burning shield in front of himself, formed in desperation at the last second.
It didn’t save him.
The burning claws crashed into him, raking across his face, neck, and chest, tearing flesh from bone. He stumbled back with a strangled cry, blood spraying across the wet floor.
But Yalan didn’t stop. Her tail ignited behind her, flames surging outward as she launched fireballs at the wounded cultivator. Despite the man’s obvious fire resistance, the blazing attacks scorched through his defenses, blackening his skin and armor.
Even wounded, the cultivator tried to fight back, qi surging around his body in wild, chaotic streams. But Yalan was already on him — a flash of burning claws slashing through the half-formed qi shield — ending his life before he could even stand properly. Two more left.
Chen Ren didn’t have time to celebrate. He turned his gaze toward the entrance.
There, Hong Yi and his puppets were holding the line — barely. One puppet was already a shattered heap on the ground, its broken arms twitching uselessly, probably destroyed by Wang Fu himself. The other was locked in a brutal struggle against the third cultivator—a mere qi refinement realm fighter, but still slippery enough to hold his ground.
As for Hong Yi… He was struggling.
Chen Ren could see it clearly. Hong Yi darting, weaving, ducking next to the remaining puppet, barely dodging the fire-aspected spear strikes Wang Fu hurled at him. The air around the spear shimmered with heat, and wherever it struck, it left burning scars on the stone.
Hong Yi wouldn’t last long.
Chen Ren didn’t hesitate. "Yalan! Help Hong Yi! I'll deal with the other one!"
Yalan snapped her head toward him, eyes flashing, then pivoted sharply, already moving toward Hong Yi and Wang Fu without a second thought.
Chen Ren shifted his focus, stepping forward toward the remaining qi refinement cultivator. His expression hardened. It was time to clean up.
The last cultivator had already unleashed a blazing tornado, sending it roaring toward the remaining puppet. The puppet braced itself and took the full brunt of the flames, but Chen Ren could see chunks of it burning away. In the end, it was made of wood—no match for a fire-aspected cultivator.
Chen Ren didn't waste time. Lightning surged through his legs, crackling with raw energy as he pushed off the ground, closing the distance in a blur of speed.
The cultivator barely had time to react before Chen Ren’s palm strike slammed into him. But instead of crumpling, the man’s armor flared with defensive runes, taking the hit and dispersing the force.
The latter stumbled back a step, looking down at himself and then up at Chen Ren. Realization twisted his face.
"You’re a bloody imposter!" he snarled. "I’ll kill you!"
Flames burst to life around him, spiraling up his arms, wreathing his body in searing heat. Chen Ren reacted immediately, willing the power of his [Starlight Defense Technique] to unfold around him.
Star qi shimmered across his skin, forming a glowing, translucent shield that wrapped around him like a second skin. The heat of the man’s flames washed over him — but the starlight armor held strong, the brilliance of countless stars scattering the fire harmlessly away.
Chen Ren didn’t slow. He let the lightning flood his core again, channeling it into his limbs, and unleashed a [Lightning Frenzy]. It was not an easy combination—maintaining both defense and offense at the same time. The drain on his reserves was heavy, the pressure to control both techniques in balance was immense.
But it was a good thing that he had practiced for this exact kind of battle. In the heat of combat, he could endure.
He struck again, fists and palms moving with blinding speed, each blow crackling with electric fury. The cultivator’s armor absorbed most of the strikes but not without cost. And he saw it, how the cultivator’s arms shook slightly each time lightning traveled through the armor, jolting his muscles.
Tiny openings. Mistakes waiting to happen.
They moved across the flooded floor, sparks and fire flying between them.
Chen Ren was faster, lighter on his feet, and then landing palm strikes and lightning-laced bursts of elemental energy. His opponent, now clearly a battle-hardened scout, wielded a pair of daggers short, brutal things meant for fast kills. He supplemented them with occasional ranged flame attacks, forcing Chen Ren to dodge and weave between strikes.
The scout wasn’t as fast as Chen Ren, but he made up for it with sheer toughness and sharp instincts born from countless battles. Each dagger thrust was annoyingly accurate, each counterattack efficient.
But Chen Ren was no ordinary fighter. What he lacked in sheer battle experience, he more than made up for with his resourcefulness and his creative use of a cultivator’s tools.
As he twisted away from another dagger thrust, his hands flicked forward with practiced ease. Small pills inconspicuous at a glance flew toward the man.
At this distance, the scout had no time to dodge. Instead, he instinctively countered with a surge of flames, trying to incinerate the strange objects before they could reach him.
Exactly what Chen Ren had wanted.
The moment the fire touched the pills, a chain reaction erupted. A deafening series of explosions tore through the air, rattling the very walls of the ancient vault. The shockwaves slammed into the scout, hurling him across the room like a broken doll.
Thud!
He crashed into the far wall with a sickening thud, leaving a bloody smear where he slid down. His armor was scorched, his skin burned raw, blood flowing freely from open wounds.
Chen Ren stood still, breathing hard, his lightning arcing faintly around him as he watched.
The man should have been dead. By all rights, he should have been nothing more than a charred corpse after a hit like that.
But he wasn’t.
With a ragged breath, the scout staggered back onto his feet, swaying unsteadily. There was no strategy in his movements now, only raw, desperate instinct keeping him upright.
Chen Ren narrowed his eyes. And then, just as he expected, the man disappeared.
A blur a shadow in the corner of his vision and then nothing. Gone.
But Chen Ren didn’t panic. Anji had warned him about this about the scout’s stealth techniques, about how he could vanish even in open battle. It had happened. So he stayed exactly where he was, muscles coiled tight, even his own breathing controlled. He was listening.
Trying to catch any hint of movement, even a shift of the air, but it was nearly impossible. The loud noises that surrounded him with Yalan’s roars, Hong Yi’s desperate strikes, and the grinding of the ancient walls were too much noise. He couldn’t pick out anything clean.
So he changed his approach.
"I'm sorry about your sister," Chen Ren called out. "I swear... it was a quick death—"
He didn’t get to finish.
The moment the words left his mouth, every hair on the back of his neck stood on end. Without thinking, he dropped his body low, the instinct honed from being in life and death situations kicking in.
A blade whistled through the air where his head had been a split second earlier. Before the scout could recover, Chen Ren surged forward, slamming his shoulder into the wounded man’s gut, driving him hard into the cracked stone wall.
The scout coughed, blood spraying from his mouth, but his eyes—His eyes burned with rage.
Scorched, bleeding, half-crippled — and still he fought.
Chen Ren grimaced.
"I'll kill you!" the scout spat, blood foaming at the corners of his mouth. "I'll fucking kill you for what you did to my sister—and then I'll find your family and raze them to the ground! You will not leave this room alive! "
Chen Ren gave him a blank look.
"You talk too much."
He punctuated the words with a brutal punch straight to the man's throat. The scout's mouth flew open in a gagging gasp, and Chen Ren didn’t waste the chance.
He shoved a small pill between the man's teeth and forced it down his throat, pressing hard until the scout reflexively swallowed. Immediately, the man tried to retaliate, flames gathering around his hands but his daggers had been lost during the tackle, leaving him slower, sloppier.
"Wrong move," Chen Ren said. His words came out sharper.
Lightning crackled around him as he surged backward, putting distance between himself and the scout. The man staggered to his feet, coughing, confused until the realization hit him.
His eyes widened in horror, but it was too late.
With a sickening crack, part of his stomach erupted outward, blood and intestines splattering across the floor. Another explosion of flesh followed, tearing through his chest and arms.
He didn’t even have the chance to scream. His vital organs were shredded from the inside, and his body collapsed in a ruined heap, unmoving, blood pooling around him.
Chen Ren stood there for a moment, breathing heavily, watching the body to make sure it didn’t twitch again. Only when he was sure did he let out a small sigh of relief.
He hadn't been sure if the [Fireburst Pills]—lethal concoctions designed to ignite qi inside the body—would work. A skilled cultivator, one more focused, might have forced the pill back out, or sealed their qi to prevent the explosion.
But rage had clouded the scout’s mind. In his blind anger, he had instinctively used his qi to burn the pill and sealed his own fate.
Chen Ren flexed his fingers once, letting the last traces of lightning fade from his limbs. Then he turned, already searching for the others.
His eyes found Hong Yi slumped against a wall, one arm hanging uselessly at his side, blood staining his robes. Water still leaked steadily from the cracks around them, the floor slick and cold underfoot.
Without hesitation, Chen Ren ran over. "Are you okay?" he called, already reaching for a healing pill from his pouch.
Hong Yi grinned weakly at him, grimacing through the pain.
"Do you think I look okay?" he said, half-laughing, half-wincing. "That bastard almost took my whole arm off. If it weren’t for the healing pills already working... I'd be way worse."
Chen Ren crouched beside him, pressing the pill into his hand. "Thank you," he said quietly. "You did more than I expected."
Hong Yi chuckled dryly, swallowing one more pill. "Yeah, yeah. I’m a good sect member, right, Sect Leader Chen?" He smirked through the blood on his face. "Just make sure I get my share of the loot once we find the good stuff in this place."
Chen Ren smiled faintly, helping him steady himself. "But first... we wait for Yalan to finish her battle."
As he spoke, his eyes shifted to the center of the chamber.
There, atop the rising stone platform, Yalan and Wang Fu clashed like forces of nature. Wang Fu spun his spear with brutal efficiency, the blade gleaming with twin flames, one black as night, the other a deep, violent red. The swings carved lines of fire through the air, the stone underfoot scorched and cracked by the raw force of his strikes.
Chen Ren's gaze sharpened. Wang Fu had a few cuts on his arms and legs, blood trailing down in thin rivers, but none of them seemed serious. Yalan, by contrast, looked untouched, her white fur gleaming, her movements sharp and fast.
But Chen Ren knew better. The fact that Yalan hadn’t already ended the fight spoke volumes. Wang Fu wasn’t just strong, he was skilled, and likely sitting at the absolute peak of the foundation establishment realm.
Shit, this won’t be easy.
His eyes widened when Wang Fu hurled pill bombs at Yalan, explosions shaking the chamber as they went off around her. But Yalan’s body twisted and weaved through the blasts, her burning tail sending out volleys of fireballs in return.
Fireballs exploded against Wang Fu's defenses, forcing him to meet them head-on with his spear, a weapon that, from the pressure it gave off, was easily peak Earth grade.
Chen Ren’s fists tightened slightly. Should he jump in? Part of him itched to move, to help.
But a quick surge of qi from their battlefield answered him brutally. The sheer strength behind every strike, every clash, was overwhelming. If he threw himself into that, he'd be crushed under their qi alone, let alone their attacks.
Still, he couldn’t shake a bad feeling gnawing at the edge of his mind. He forced himself to focus, watching carefully. Wang Fu’s strikes were wild with rage, but there was a strange pattern to them — a rhythm just beneath the surface.
And then Chen Ren saw it. Just for a heartbeat. Wang Fu's eyes flashed — a deep, unnatural red.
It was so quick he almost doubted himself. Wait… No way! But he knew what he had seen. He would never mistake that kind of eye again. Not after everything he had experienced.
Yalan, caught in the heat of battle, probably missed it. But Chen Ren hadn't.
A jolt of urgency ran through him. He turned sharply to Hong Yi, who was still resting against the wall, clutching his injured arm.
"You need to get to safety," Chen Ren said, his voice low but firm.
Hong Yi frowned at him, confused.
"Why?" he asked. "We’ve already won, haven’t we? Just Wang Fu is left."
Chen Ren didn’t answer immediately. Instead, his eyes stayed locked on Wang Fu, on the red glimmer that had already faded, but that he couldn’t unsee. And deep inside, he knew. The real fight hadn’t even started yet.
"There’s no time to explain," Chen Ren said sharply. "Don’t stay out in the open. Find a place to hide. Anywhere. Just go. Don't ask questions."
He didn’t wait to see if Hong Yi obeyed. His attention snapped back to the battle at the center of the room.
"Yalan!" he called out urgently, sending his voice reverberating through the room. "He's a demonic cultivator!"
Mid-slash, Yalan's body tensed. She pivoted around a strike, her tail lashing, and flicked a sharp question back at him through the mental channel:
“What?”
"Yes," Chen Ren answered immediately, not wasting a breath. "I saw it — his eyes turned red for a second. Just like Gu Tian's did." He pushed the words quickly, knowing there wasn’t much time. "Tell Anji to stop flooding the room. I have a plan, but for that—"
He didn’t get to finish.
Wang Fu, who had clearly heard Chen Ren’s earlier shout, let out a low, mocking laugh that echoed through the hall.
"Oh... so you noticed," Wang Fu said, voice twisting with glee. He grinned bloody. "It’s been so hard holding back with Jin Sen around. But since he's dead — and all of you will be soon too—" His mouth stretched into a wide, unnatural grin. "I guess there’s no need to pretend anymore."
The change was immediate.
A wave of pressure rippled through the room, thick and suffocating. Wang Fu’s qi, once blazing and aggressive, twisted into something darker and heavier until it no longer felt like human qi at all.
It was demonic. Pure, corrupt, and violent.
Chen Ren felt the temperature spike violently as Wang Fu’s transformation began. But unlike Gu Tian, whose transformation had twisted his body and aura, Wang Fu’s change was even more terrifying in one crucial way,
His skin literally caught fire.
Flames—dark red and black—ignited across his body, clinging to his flesh but not consuming it.His robes burned away, leaving only scorched remnants around his waist and legs, but the man himself stood unharmed within the blaze.
When the transformation finished, Wang Fu stood taller, more monstrous. His eyes a crimson that looked straight out of a horror book.The spear in his hands glowed white-hot from the sheer heat pouring off him.
And he grinned—a wide, savage grin that showed too many teeth.
2025-04-30 16:54:54 +0000 UTC
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Chapter 214
Only two days into the expedition, Kai had seen more than his share of weavers. Hundreds of them—snarling, scrambling, endlessly agitated creatures that attacked anything that moved. Not once had fear so much as touched him.
But now, standing on a rocky hill with the wind tugging at his cloak, he felt it.
Not the heart-racing panic of the untrained. Not hesitation. But the quiet, instinctive fear that came when facing something far beyond your strength. A threat that made the hairs on the back of his neck rise despite every battle he’d survived.
And the strange part? It wasn’t one weaver or even a group of them. It was a stampede of them.
Below, a black tide churned—thousands of weavers and fiends, tangled in a frenzy of death. They surged forward, not in formation, not in coordination, but as a single mass of rage. Some even trampled or tore each other apart in the chaos, driven by a singular, overwhelming pull.
His gaze drifted toward the center of the chaos—the place they all seemed to be converging on. He could make out a figure there. A human Mage.
He muttered the spell under his breath and cast [Hawk Eyes].
The scene sharpened instantly.
There, elevated on rising stone platforms, stood a lone figure. A man with a bald head and a graying beard, framed by spinning shards of stone. Rocks orbited him like angry moons, forming a barrier that smashed any creature that got too close. He raised his arms, conjuring massive chunks of earth and hurling them into the horde. And the impact sent limbs flying. Blood sprayed high into the air. Dozens fell with every spell.
Still, more came. And there was even more to come.
Kai watched silently, awe creeping in as he recognized the spellwork. Not just advanced earthen manipulation, but high-tier control, efficient channeling, seamless defense. The man wasn’t just a Mage. He was a Magus—a fifth circle Battle Mage. A strong one at that.
Without that kind of strength and composure, anyone else would’ve frozen and been torn apart. But this man held on, even as exhaustion weighed on his features. His movements slowed, and his face twisted with strain. Yet he stood his ground.
He knows he can’t escape, Kai thought. So he’s trying to thin their numbers before running.
It wasn’t a bad idea—but in the plague lands, it was suicide. The tide didn’t thin easily and even if it did, he would be chased by the rest. Still, Kai kept watching, trying to gauge the Magus’ condition—and the swarm’s coordination—until a voice broke his focus.
“What are we going to do now, Lord Arzan?”
Kai turned. Gareth had stepped beside him, eyes locked on the battlefield below, and behind him stood the rest of the company—soldiers, Mages, Enforcers, Paladins—each one frozen at the sight, some clutching weapons tighter, others too stunned to speak.
He didn’t answer right away. He immediately went into a strategizing mode. There wasn’t much time. The Magus could fall any moment, and they knew nothing about him—not his intentions, not his affiliations. And aiding someone blindly in the plague lands could be dangerous.
Before he could speak, Knight Cais opened his mouth.
“That’s Magus Elias Revyn,” he said. “The royal court Mage of Vanderfall.”
Kai’s brow lifted slightly. “You know him?”
“Everyone in Aegis knows him,” Cais replied. “He’s the strongest Mage Vanderfall’s ever produced. He’s never crossed our border, but every soldier on the line knows his name.”
Kai studied him for a beat, then asked, “And what do the rumors say?”
Cais hesitated. Kai saw the uncertainty in his eyes.
“What?” He pushed.
“Honestly, they’re… mixed,” he admitted. “He’s known to be hot-headed. Obsessed with battle. The kind of man who joined the royal court not for loyalty, but because they offered him the best resources and freedom to fight. Dangerous, but valuable.”
Kai looked back toward the battlefield.
Magus Elias still stood, bloody and battered, but unyielding—power coiling around him as the fiend continued its mad charge.
“But those stories… they’re from long ago,” Cais continued slowly. “From his youth. No one’s seen him in over a decade. I only recognized him because of those white robes—and the bald head. He’s always worn them, even back then according to tales about him.”
Kai gave a small nod, taking it all in. It wasn’t hard to guess that a Magus wasn’t a man easily understood or trusted. But his presence here, in the middle of the plague lands, raised more questions than answers.
What’s he doing here? And why is he alone?
If the royal family of Vanderfall had truly sent him to deal with the plague, why hadn’t they sent backup?
Kai’s thoughts circled back to the whispers he’d heard over the past few months. That Vanderfall had given up on the plague. That no one—no matter how powerful—could stop it from spreading.
So then, why was this man here?
Although the why bothered him immensely, he ignored it, not willing to linger on it longer than necessary—especially not when there was a direct threat right ahead.
Killian stepped forward, echoing the question Gareth had asked earlier. “What do we do, Lord Arzan? Should we help him?”
Kai grit his teeth, staring at the chaos below. He didn’t like acting without information, but if the Magus died now, there’d be no one to answer his questions on what he was doing here. If Vanderfall was leading a campaign of its own, he needed to know.
He exhaled slowly. “We help him.” He turned to Killian. “Join the battle once I’ve cut their numbers in half. You and the rest can handle what remains.”
Killian nodded without hesitation.
Although Kai had continuously maintained a protective covering over the group, making him lose quite a bit of mana, he still had mana potions and he gulped one of them.
Mana surged through him with the potion taking effect in seconds and he rose into the sky with a blast of wind, his robe snapping behind him as mana swirled to life in his palm. Heat pulsed outward as a dense sphere of molten energy began to form—a fourth-circle spell, one meant not for duels, but for devastation. A spell that could kill everything when in contact.
[Magma Core]
He soared forward, the air thrashing around him. And then, with a flick of his arm, he dropped the glowing orb into the mass of weavers below.
It hit exactly like a meteor.
The earth split. A wall of fire erupted upward as bodies turned to ash before they could even scream. The stench of burning flesh filled the air. Kai scrunched his nose up, but he wasn’t done.
Weavers kept moving, momentarily distracted by the loud attack, but soon rushed toward Magus Elias.
Kai gathered more mana and shaped three magma spheres, glowing red-hot. He hurled them in different directions. They landed deep within clustered groups of weavers and fiends.
The ground shook when they hit.
Explosions echoed across the battlefield as charred limbs and cracked stone flew in every direction. Hundreds of weavers were gone in seconds—reduced to smoldering piles of what used to be flesh.
From his vantage point, he looked to the platform in the center of the chaos.
Elias was still standing.
He was staring directly at Kai now, the rocky shield around his body flickering, his bearded face frozen in shock. But the moment passed as fast as it came. More weavers clambered over the rocks, screeching in loud voices as they tried to swarm the platform again, and the old Mage turned his focus back to survival—ripping them apart with spinning spikes of stone.
Kai narrowed his eyes. Magus Elias was skilled—far more than most—but even he wouldn’t last forever.
With that, he descended slightly, aiming for the thicker clusters around the edges of the horde. That’s where the danger still gathered—where they were most tangled, biting and scrambling over one another, still trying to reach the Magus.
I have to do something.
From one hand, he unleashed a searing ice beam, cutting clean through a wall of weavers and freezing the flesh of those behind them. From the other, he hurled more magma orbs. The glowing spheres screamed toward the earth before once again detonating clouds of ash and fire.
The weavers and fiends hadn’t even touched him—they couldn’t.
A few had the sense—or instinct—to hurl stones toward the sky, but they were clumsy throws, easy to dodge. He weaved around them with ease. In minutes, a quarter of the horde was gone—reduced to pulp, melted bone, and shattered limbs.
But the price was steep.
As he formed the eighth magma orb, his arms trembled slightly. He could feel it—his mana reserves dipping fast, his body already pushing against the limits of sustained mid-air casting. If he kept it up, he'd burn through his core and drop like a stone.
And he couldn’t afford that. Not yet. Not when the Magus might still turn on them after the battle. Kai clenched his jaw and shifted tactics.
The sky around him pulsed as he transitioned to a familiar rhythm—a spell he’d relied on often when he first became Arzan. Quick gestures. Minimal mana.
Hundreds of [Firebolts] sprang to life, forming midair in glowing chains before shooting down in a coordinated barrage.
The weavers, packed so close together, couldn’t avoid them. One after another fell, their bodies blackened and twitching. Only a few fiends survived, their tougher skin allowing them to stumble through the flames—though not for long.
As the final volley finished, Kai took a moment to steady his breathing. The battlefield below had changed. And it was time.
He glanced behind him and saw Killian and the rest of the force finally making their move, charging down the hill in formation. Enforcers, Paladins, and Mages led the center, but on the flanks, barbarians roared into the fray—wearing heavy armour, their weapons soaked in dark blood from previous battles. On the front of them was Brugnar.
They tore into the weavers like wolves into a flock.
Even as the blood flew, the formation held. No panic. No disarray.
They remembered the drills, Kai thought with a flicker of pride.
Even surrounded by the grotesque horde, none of his soldiers broke rank. The Enforcers were the tip of the spear, cleaving through enemies with blades glowing from aspected mana. Behind them, Mages launched controlled spells, supporting the front line without overreaching. The Paladins formed a shield wall where the fiends struck hardest, holding them back with glowing shields and coordinated counters. And the barbarians—fierce and relentless—punched through weak points, splitting the tide and buying precious space.
Kai allowed himself a breath, then angled away from the fight.
He landed on a large boulder away from the center, folding one leg over the other and settling down. The sudden shift from the sky to the landing made him dizzy—just for a second. Soon, his eyes were locked on the battle.
From here, he had a perfect view of everything. And so did Magus Elias.
The old man was still holding the center, his expression changed—not just from exhaustion, but confusion. He looked up again, eyes finding Kai's across the battlefield.
You’re wondering if we’ll turn on you after this, aren’t you?
Kai didn’t blame him. A Magus would have been in too many battles to trust strangers easily, especially one with the reputation of a Battle Mage. But unlike Kai, the Magus had no safe perch, no time to rest. The weavers still crawled up toward his rising platform. He had to keep lifting it, stone by stone, just to stay alive. That alone—layering platforms under pressure—was a fourth-circle spell, and it burned mana fast.
He was running on fumes, and they both knew it. Still, he fought. A true Battle Mage. Kai saw it in his eyes, whenever he would cast a spell, he would get hungrier to kill even more of those fiends.
Cais was right, the man’s aggression was right there. The thirst of battle was thick in every structure he formed.
Kai inhaled deeply through his nose, feeling the strain of his own muscles and looked at his Enforcers, trying to take a good look at their strengths. At times like this, he knew he could actually see where they were at. All of them had grown a lot during the past couple of months, but Killian was at the forefront. He was the only one approaching the third rank.
Killian was cleaving through a cluster of fiends, lightning dancing across his blade. The others moved with competence, striking fast and clean—but Killian stood out. His strikes were sharper. His reflexes faster. His aura denser.
The rest still have a long way to go.
It wasn’t surprising.
Kai had expected Killian to rise first. He was the strongest Enforcer among them—disciplined, ruthless, and stubborn in a way that only made him more dangerous in a real fight. But the speed of his growth? That was something else.
It was a known fact among spellcasters and warriors alike, Enforcer ranks were harder to climb than the early Mage ones. It wasn’t just about opening more vaults of power—it was about assimilating them. Binding them into one’s core with such harmony that they didn’t just offer strength, but control, resilience, and accuracy.
And Killian was doing it.
Without a guide. Without scrolls or tutors. Just on instinct, grit, and the small insights Kai had given him.
His affinity—lightning—was beginning to take form even in his normal attacks, and in the way he moved. His strikes were conducted and enhanced. He saw how every slash tore through swarms of weavers, electricity arcing from one to the next, ripping through flesh, boiling blood in their veins. And every swing cleared space around him like a storm expanding outward.
A small radius had already formed—an unspoken kill zone. No other Enforcers dared step within it. They knew better than to get caught in the web of lightning dancing off his blade.
Killian didn’t waste the space. He rushed forward, using the gap like a wedge, punching deeper into enemy lines, cleaving through weavers and even beheading fiends with a single upward slash. There was a rhythm to his movement now. A practiced chaos that spoke of instinct.
He’s close, Kai thought, eyes narrowed. Closer than I expected. He might hit the third rank even before we reach the treant.
And that changed a lot of things.
The others weren’t bad. Their formations held. But Killian was on a different level now—a one-man frontline, a walking weapon.
Kai watched as more and more weavers fell, their corpses piling up or disintegrating beneath elemental blasts.
In just a few minutes, the tide had turned completely.
Less than ten percent of the weavers remained—and even they, mindless as they were, began to hesitate. Then, finally, they broke.
The remnants turned and ran, screeching and trampling over the bodies of their own kind. There was no strategy, just survival instinct and blind retreat.
Kai raised a hand, and a flare of mana pulsed outward in a signal. His Mages answered instantly.
Arrows of lightning. Walls of flame. Shards of crystal earth. Spells surged across the field, chasing down the broken swarm before they could vanish over the hills.
The golems ran after them, their eyes glowing dimly as they moved with mechanical purpose. They wouldn’t let a single one escape if it could be helped.
Both the spells and the golems managed to take down most of those who tried to flee, but plenty still managed to escape—limping, burning, or howling as they vanished into the distance. Kai didn’t pursue. He made no signal to his troops either.
They were spent. The horde had taken its toll.
Kai stood up, and activated [Flight] from his perch and touched down beside Killian, who stood with his blade buried in the earth, breathing heavily. Around them, the remnants of the force regrouped—some collapsed to their knees, others helping the wounded, many simply staring at the piles of dead, too drained to speak.
Kai gave the field a slow, measured glance. There were more injuries than before. Too many.
His jaw tensed. He’d expected losses, but seeing the toll firsthand always brought a bitter taste. “The force did well,” he said. “But with a horde this size, casualties were inevitable.”
Killian, still leaning on his sword, nodded as he scanned the ranks. “It’s manageable,” he said. “I’ve sent Gareth to get the exact count. The lightly injured are already helping carry the more serious cases to the Clerics.”
Kai gave a small nod of approval. At least Killian still had the presence of mind to organize recovery.
But then, his eyes drifted toward the center of the battlefield. Magus Elias hadn’t moved much.
He was still seated atop the raised platform of stone, though the rock armor that had once spun protectively around him was gone now. In its place, his white robe–now brown and red hung, and his chest rose and fell in deep, exhausted breaths. Their eyes met for a moment and he could see wariness in his.
Killian followed Kai’s gaze. “What do we do with him?”
“We will find more about him,” Kai said plainly. “And what he’s doing here.” He turned slightly, watching the man more closely. “We can’t leave a variable like him floating around. Not before we face the treant. We need answers.”
“Do you think there are more Vanderfall Mages out here?”
Kai shook his head. “Not in this part. If there were, they’d have come to help. If there are others, they’re somewhere deeper in the plague lands—or fighting their own battles.”
Killian gave a quiet grunt of agreement, and just then, Magus Elias stirred.
He was swaying slightly from fatigue. Mana flickered faintly around his boots—a residual effect from his earlier casting—but it was weak. Almost gone.
Good, Kai thought. Still, we can't assume he's powerless.
He looked back to Killian. “I’ll go speak with him. If things turn ugly, I’ll need the Enforcers to back me. His mana’s likely depleted, but we can’t discount potions or stored artifacts. Stay ready.”
Killian straightened up and gave a sharp nod.
With that, Kai took to the air again. The wind stirred his cloak as he crossed the battlefield in a few seconds and touched down softly on the cracked stone of Elias's elevated platform.
The old man was already watching him, eyes narrowed. Now, closer, he could see Magus Elias’s face properly—including that silver cut down his cheek that ran to his neck. It was glowing faintly, and his lips thinned. His forehead crinkled in a frown.
“My name is Arzan Kellius,” he said. “I’d like to know what you're doing here, Magus.”
2025-04-30 16:53:30 +0000 UTC
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Chapter 213
Kai sat on one of the stone benches that had somehow remained intact amid the ruins of the corrupted border town. Black vines crept up its sides, and a faint oily sheen was there over the cobbles nearby. The weavers might have been slain, but the corruption hasn't left.
Killian stood in front of him, looking straight without giving away any sort of emotion. That man was hard to read if someone just met him, but Kai was now used to it. And his current silence explained one thing—things hadn’t gone terribly wrong.
Still, he waited for him to talk.
“No casualties. Five injured—nothing life-threatening. Most of them got hurt while backing away from the weavers.” Killian continued, “Though, Lord Arzan, one of them is showing early signs of corruption. He’s panicked.”
“One from Viscount Redmont’s forces?”
Killian nodded.
“I’ll handle it. I can still purify him, I believe” Kai exhaled. “If only the other Mages would have taken time to learn it, but it's not an easy spell and they should focus more on offensive spells right now either way. We’re lucky the corruption spreads slowly—if it were any faster, he’d already be lost.”
“I’ll let Knight Cais know,” Killian replied, then glanced around.
All around them, their forces rested. Some leaned against walls, others sat cross-legged on the ground. In the left corner, Kai saw a few shared quiet laughter while gnawing on strips of dried jerky. Despite the lingering stench of rot and the strange stillness in the air, morale was high. Kai could feel it too—an almost fragile relief hanging in the dusk light. They needed this.
“How long do we stay?” Killian asked.
Kai glanced up at the sky. The sun was already sinking low.
“Two hours,” Kai said. “Then we move.”
“Through the night?”
“Yes,” Kai said without hesitation. “We can’t afford to stay in one place too long. The armours are holding for now, but even lightwood can only take so much damage. We’re on a timer.”
Killian didn’t argue. He never did when the logic was sound.
“Get Gareth to add a Mage to his scouting party,” Kai added. “Someone who can cast directional spells—light markers, and wind ones, anything that can help show the path if visibility drops.”
“I’ll see to it,” Killian said, and turned to leave.
As Killian turned to go, Kai called out, “And also—tell the men not to eat too much. We need to conserve rations. There won’t be any food sources around here and we are here for days. Maybe weeks.”
Killian gave a short nod and strode off, already shouting quiet orders to the nearest Enforcers.
Left alone, Kai leaned back slightly and looked up at the sky. The stars were beginning to appear like small, twinkling dots between drifting clouds. On any other night, it might’ve been a beautiful sight—peaceful even.
But not here.
Not with the air still thick with dead mana that it almost suffocated his lungs. He could feel it clinging to his robes, seeping into the ground, dulling his senses. The taint was everywhere. His wind spells had helped clear most of it from the immediate area, but keeping them active drained him. It felt like a constant tug-of-war between his will and the surrounding rot. But he was recovering damn fast. His body had long since adjusted to purifying mana before absorbing it, and now it became a habit more than a technique he practised.
The others hadn’t reached that point yet. Most of the Mages and Enforcers still struggled with the concept, which was why Kai had drilled it into them before they even entered the region. They’d survive, but only if they listened.
Five minutes passed like that.
Kai stood with a sigh and began walking toward the campfires near the northern edge of the ruins—where Knight Cais had set up his men. He didn’t need to look for long. The knight was already headed his way, armor shifting softly with each step.
“Count Arzan,” Cais greeted with a bow of his head. “Knight Killian said you might be able to help one of my men.”
“I’m here for that,” Kai replied. “Where is he?”
“This way,” Cais said, turning on his heel and leading him through the camp.
They passed rows of resting soldiers on this end, some tending to gear, others sleeping with blades close to hand. At the very edge of the camp, isolated from the others, a lone figure lay on a cloth bedroll surrounded by a shallow circle of salt and ash. A religious ward that Kai knew was more for show than actual effect.
The man was young—barely older than twenty. Dirty blonde hair and dark eyes. His armor had been stripped away, and he trembled under a thin blanket, drenched in sweat. Dark patches were already formed in his skin. His eyes darted from face to face like a cornered mouse.
A Cleric knelt beside him, chanting softly while channeling a golden light through his hands towards the man’s leg. But it was clear the blessing wasn’t working. The corruption wasn’t just on the surface—it was inside, and probably eating away all the remaining mana. The black patches only grew.
Kai studied the man for a moment and realised how his eyes were screaming with a different kind of agony. Hopelessness. His tears were proof that he knew he would die soon.
As Kai approached, the Cleric beside the corrupted soldier noticed him and rose to his feet respectfully, stepping aside to make room.
“Did the healing work?” Kai asked, already glancing at the soldier’s pale face.
The Cleric shook his head. “No… my divine healing isn't lessening it. The corruption's too deep. I’d need a higher blessing—something directly bestowed by the grace of the goddess.”
Kai clicked his tongue lightly. “I doubt even that would help. Healing blessings aren’t meant for this.” He looked at the Cleric. “They're for mending wounds, restoring life. Not cleansing tainted mana. Even blessings that cure disease might only slow the spread, but it’d be a temporary fix at best.”
The Cleric’s face fell. He looked toward the soldier, then back at Kai. “Then... should we put him to rest? Before he turns into something dangerous?”
At that, the soldier jerked violently, eyes going wide with fear. His breath came out in fast, shallow gasps as if reaching for any help. If they hadn’t been stuck in the middle of a dead mana wasteland, the man might’ve tried to run already.
“No,” Kai said firmly, stepping closer. “I can heal him.”
The Cleric blinked, startled. “You can… heal him?”
Kai nodded. “It might take a while. But yes, I can. I assumed Bishop Maurice would have informed you about that by now.”
The Cleric opened his mouth, paused, then scratched the back of his neck. “He did… I forgot.”
Kai didn’t respond to that. He didn’t need to. It was obvious the bishop either hadn’t fully believed in his ability, or more likely, the church forces themselves hadn’t. Still, he didn’t blame them. Most wouldn’t accept a noble-Mage claiming to be able to purify corruption until they saw it themselves.
Well, now they would.
A little demonstration might do more than words ever could—especially if he wanted to keep the church on his side for what was to come.
He turned his attention to the soldier and knelt beside him. The man's eyes flicked toward him in desperation, as if silently pleading for salvation.
Kai didn’t speak.
He lifted the blanket covering the soldier’s legs and narrowed his eyes.
The corruption had spread farther than expected. A dark, vein-like pattern ran up the man’s thigh, pulsating faintly with a sickly green glow beneath the skin. It was accelerating—and Kai didn’t even need to guess why.
It’s the wasteland, he thought. Dead mana all around him. It’s feeding the corruption like fuel to fire.
But it wasn’t beyond saving. Not yet.
As Kai studied the corruption spreading across the soldier’s leg, Knight Cais stepped forward.
“Can you heal it, Count Arzan?”
Kai didn’t look up. His fingers had already begun tracing the spell structure in the air, threads of refined mana swirling around his palm. “Yes. Stay still,” he added, directing the words to the trembling soldier. “This won’t hurt… much.”
The young man nodded quickly, lips pale, muscles twitching under Kai’s touch.
Kai’s magic sank into the skin without another warning, straightening out the taint slowly, piece by piece. He was careful—any sudden disruption could make the corruption lash out, spreading deeper. Every strand of dead mana had to be pulled out or cleansed without letting even a wisp escape into the rest of the body.
Fortunately, the corruption hadn’t reached any major organs. That was lucky. If it had crept toward the Mana heart, this would’ve been far more difficult—and painful. He kept going yet couldn’t avoid the little tremors of the soldier.
The man had to stay calm for this to work quickly and efficiently, so Kai spoke. “How did this happen? Your armor’s practically caved in. Not easy to do that.”
The soldier’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. “C-Count Arzan,” he stammered. “I—I got ganged up on. A dozen weavers jumped me. Nearly tore me apart. The armor… broke during that. Knight Cais pulled me out… and a Cleric healed what he could. But by then, I think… the corruption had already set in.”
Kai nodded as he guided a final thread deeper into the infected tissue. “You’re lucky he did. And it’s alright—we brought spare armour for situations like this. But be more careful next time. If they had gone for your chest, you’d be dead or worse.”
The soldier managed a weak smile, his body relaxing just a little under the calm in Kai’s voice.
Bit by bit, the blackened veins receded. The foul color faded as purified mana replaced it, and the flesh began to return to its natural hue—clean, healthy, and not-so… pale. The rot purged itself in slow trails of smoke-like residue, vanishing into the air.
It took time. But finally, it was done.
“You’re healed now,” he said. “But for the next three days, I’ll be checking on you regularly. That’s just a precaution.”
Knight Cais, who had been watching with silent intensity, stepped closer and crouched down, inspecting the man’s leg.
“Is he… truly healed?” he asked, skepticism still lingering in his voice.
“See for yourself.”
Cais ran his fingers gently over the now-clean skin, feeling the smooth surface where blackened corruption had once been. No swelling. No heat. No pain. The breath he released was almost a laugh, though it came out tight with disbelief.
Meanwhile, the Cleric, who had remained silent through the entire process, stared at the healed leg with wide eyes. His lips parted, but no words came. He looked at Kai like he’d just watched a miracle walk into camp.
And in a way, he had.
“How did you do that, Count Arzan?” the Cleric finally asked, voice hushed with disbelief.
Kai turned to him, brushing his fingers clean of lingering threads of mana. “By identifying the dead mana’s location… and purging it,” he replied plainly. “During the early stages of corruption, the pockets of tainted mana haven’t fully latched on to the body’s vital systems. That makes them easier to eliminate.”
He paused, glancing at the now-stable soldier being helped to his feet by Cais’s men.
“But once the corruption spreads too far—once it reaches a major organ or the heart—it becomes almost impossible. Healing at that point risks killing the host. That’s beyond me.”
The Cleric nodded slowly, but the look in his eyes said he still didn’t quite believe it. Not fully. Still, the proof lay before him: flesh that should’ve rotted was whole again. Mana that should’ve cursed had been cleansed. And Kai knew—whether the priest believed or not, others would take notice.
Bishop Maurice will know soon enough, Kai thought, watching Cais lead the soldier away to rest.
The Cleric followed, likely off to report to the bishop. That was fine. In fact, that was exactly what Kai wanted.
Let the church hear of it.
Their “blessings,” as they so proudly called them, were rigid. Inflexible. Rudimentary until one reached the upper ranks of their hierarchy. And those upper echelons—well, they preferred swift executions over uncertain cures. Kill the corrupted before they turn, rather than risk trying to save them.
But now? Now they had seen something different.
They’ll come, Kai thought. When this is over, when I walk into the capital for the Assembly, there’ll be church delegates waiting. Curious. Maybe even desperate. And when they ask for my methods… I’ll be the one holding the cards.
The fire had dimmed in the camp. Most of the soldiers were preparing for another rough march. Kai found himself alone again, wind brushing his coat as he turned his gaze toward the horizon.
Tomorrow, they would continue their journey. Southward. Toward the heart of Vanderfall. Toward the center of the rot. If the reports were right, that was where the treant waited. But before that, he wondered just how many weavers would try to get to them.
***
Apparently, a lot of weavers did try to block their path.
After a brief rest, the march resumed. The peace they had on for long didn’t last.
Throughout the night, more than a few groups of weavers emerged from the shadows—skittering across rooftops, rising from broken ground, crawling from corrupted ruins.
But none of them reached the marching force.
Not a single one.
Kai had already anticipated it.
A barrier of wind—invisible to the eye but thick with concentrated mana—surrounded the group. It drained him constantly, gnawing at his reserves like a leech. But it was worth it. He would rather carry that weight than lose a soldier to an ambush they couldn’t even see coming.
Even with Mages casting light orbs to illuminate the path, the weavers were sly things. They could easily blend.
It got better as the first rays of dawn broke across the desolate land. Light drove the worst of the weavers back into hiding, and with daylight on their side, the group was able to move with more confidence and tighter coordination and better preparation if anything came by.
The soldiers walked in a close-knit formation. The supply caravan rolled between the center lines, guarded on all sides like a moving fortress. No casualties. No injuries.
And Kai could feel it—their morale was rising.
With each hour, they pushed farther into the heart of Vanderfall, and with every successful defense, the weight of dread lifted from the shoulders of his men. They believed they could win this.
To keep spirits from wearing down, they paused for thirty-minute breaks every three hours. It gave the soldiers time to rest, drink water, patch gear, and share brief moments of conversation that didn’t involve bloodshed or shadows.
During those breaks, Kai didn’t keep to himself.
He walked among the crowd, exchanging words with the Enforcers, barbarians, Mages, scouts, and even the Clerics. It wasn’t out of politeness. He wanted to know them. Understand them. Learn who he was trusting his back to—and who would stand with him when things got worse.
More than the others, he paid close attention to the church faction.
So far, he’d had little time to understand the types of blessings they carried or what they could truly do in battle. He wanted to change that.
Thankfully, the Paladins and Clerics weren’t shy about their abilities. In fact, they seemed eager—almost proud—to talk about them. Each miracle they demonstrated, each invocation they described, was framed as a gift from the goddess Lumaris bestowed in exchange for unwavering faith.
Kai had expected some limitations from the church’s so-called blessings, but even so, he found himself mildly disappointed.
Most of the Clerics only had two blessings to speak of—[Healing] and [Stabilization]. A handful had a [Protection] Blessing that formed a small shield around them, but its range and durability left much to be desired. Maybe two or three among them had a [Cure Disease] blessing, which Kai mentally flagged as potentially useful given the nature of the corruption they were dealing with.
Still, there was no flexibility. No adaptability. Every blessing felt… static.
The Paladins fared slightly better. Most wielded a basic [Sword Aura] blessing that coated their weapons in radiant energy, and nearly all of them possessed a [Reinforcement] blessing that strengthened their bodies. A few even had an expanded version of the Clerics’ shield blessing, capable of defending a group rather than just themselves.
Kai had seen glimpses of these blessings in combat before, but it was good to have confirmation—especially when it came to forming future tactics. Even so, none of it was truly surprising.
What did surprise him, however, were the blessings of Bishop Maurice.
He hadn’t asked the man directly before—not because he wasn't curious, but because he’d assumed the usual. After all, a bishop of the church… it made sense to believe his abilities leaned more toward healing, support, and spiritual guidance.
So when Kai finally asked, he hadn’t expected Maurice’s sheepish answer.
The bishop cleared his throat, glanced around like he was worried someone would overhear, and then began listing them.
A chain spell that summoned arcane bindings, which then detonated in bursts of explosions. A spear barrage that launched projectiles made of light—swords, spears, even halberds—toward enemies like a divine storm. A third that allowed him to briefly reflect incoming attacks like a mirror of divine mana.
Combat blessings. All of them.
Kai had blinked. “You didn’t use any of those in the border town,” he said, not quite hiding the suspicion in his voice.
The bishop had merely smiled weakly and mumbled something about “preserving strength” and “maintaining command.”
But Kai knew the truth.
The man had hidden behind his Paladins' shields, waiting for danger to get close before striking from a safe position—and only when it was convenient. He had let others bleed while he watched, all while possessing enough destructive power to have turned the tide faster.
Kai’s expression had remained calm.
Outwardly, at least.
But inside, his decision was immediate.
Next battle, you're not hiding, he thought, eyes narrowing as the bishop walked away. You’re going on the frontlines with the Enforcers. Let’s see how your blessings hold up when you don’t have a wall of knights in front of you.
The Goddess may have blessed Bishop Maurice, but Kai was about to bless him with clarity—the kind that came from firsthand experience with death just a few feet away.
But none of that came for a while.
For two days, the expedition moved steadily through Vanderfall, avoiding major settlements and steering clear of areas too thick with corruption. The occasional group of weavers they did encounter was easily dispatched—either by a well-placed spell or the swift coordination between Kai’s Enforcers and the Paladins. There were no serious injuries. No sudden ambushes. Just long hours of travel across dead plains, broken hills, and silent roads that hadn’t seen life in a long time.
But on the evening of the second day, as they crested a low, wooded hill, something changed.
It began with sound.
Barely there, distant—yet strange enough to make the entire marching column slow to a stop. It wasn’t the chittering of weavers or the low groans of fiends. No clicking mandibles. No bestial howls. Just... a continuous, unfamiliar noise, echoing from beyond the slope ahead.
Kai raised a hand, signaling for silence. The entire force stalled.
There was something about it—almost... too deliberate to be a natural sound, and far too erratic to belong to the corrupted beasts they’d been fighting. As Kai strained to place it, a flicker of understanding brushed the edge of his thoughts.
Could it be—
“Lord Arzan!” Gareth’s voice cut through the tension, and Kai turned sharply.
Kai’s eyes narrowed. “What happened?”
“Please, just come with me,” Gareth said, not slowing. “You need to see it for yourself. It’s close.”
Without another word, Kai broke into a jog beside him, moving swiftly through the thinning trees and brush. They climbed a short rise, feet crunching on dry roots and cracked earth, until the foliage finally broke.
Gareth stopped at the edge of a rocky outcrop, gesturing downward.
Kai stepped forward—and what he saw nearly made his heart stop.
2025-04-28 14:19:32 +0000 UTC
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Chapter 106
The quarters, as expected, didn’t have anything particularly valuable left behind. Chen Ren wasn’t surprised—after all, the two cultivators who had clearly scoured the place. Still, a few battered books remained, scattered among broken crates and half-rotted furniture.
Most of them were in poor condition, their pages water-stained, moldy, or torn, but Chen Ren flipped through them anyway while Anji inspected the walls. One of the books he held had no title, the cover faded and cracked with age, but from the few intact pages, he guessed it was about herbalism.
Meanwhile, Anji dragged one of the sturdier crates closer to the wall, balancing precariously as she pressed her hands against the stone surface, testing for any hidden mechanisms.
"You know the room's too big,” Chen Ren said without looking up, his fingers idly brushing over the flaking paper. "We won’t be able to find hidden pathways easily."
"I know," Anji called back, her voice strained as she leaned her weight against the wall. "But I still have to try. These places were always designed with escape routes in case of an attack. And if there’s one, the quarters would be the best place to hide an entrance. Unfortunately, I only know there are pathways, but not their locations."
Chen Ren nodded absently. Her reasoning made sense. But he also knew that after so many years, even if there had once been hidden pathways, time could have easily destroyed them—or worse, sealed them completely. Still, he didn’t stop her. Let her try. They had a few minutes before they had to regroup with Yalan and Hong Yi.
He turned his attention back to the books. Most of them had nothing useful—basic herbal recipes, faded cultivation notes, a few random sketches that barely made sense. He went through three books like that, and they all wasted his precious time. He knew he could only manage to skim one more before they had to move.
He picked up the last one, this one thinner than the rest, and he noticed the binding was loose. The first page had a crude drawing of a giant dog, almost childlike in its strokes. Curious, Chen Ren flipped further and realized this wasn’t a manual or treatise—it was a diary.
A diary that a cultivator had continued. The short entries were kept too casual, as if he was just writing his thoughts as it was.
Chen Ren read a couple. Sword practice, long, boring watch shifts and lonely rants about missing some girl he’d left behind. He took in the details of the rough portrait of her tucked between two pages. Eh, must be an old lover. He turned past it.
A major reason he was even bothering to read it was because he wanted to see if he could get more information about the sect vault beyond the knowledge Anji provided to make changes in his plan to make it better. His original thoughts were fixed on divide and conquer since the cultivators had to go separate ways to properly scout out the sect vault and it had worked to his favour, but the last three cultivators were together and he wanted to see if he could add something to it to better act against them.
Page after page went by, but then, written between a few lazy entries, one scribbled note caught his eye
"Today, I'm assigned to check the flooding mechanism again. It's been a year since anyone looked at it, and I'd rather not be the one to find out it’s broken. I hate going to the library. It's so damp and smells like old paper. And the mechanism? It's hidden behind a bookshelf. Had to move a ton of books just to reach it. Hope I don’t mess up and flood half the place. Again."
The writing was messy, almost rushed, but clear enough. Chen Ren’s mind immediately started turning.
A mechanism behind a bookshelf in the library. A flooding mechanism. He sat up straighter, a slight spark lighting in his chest. Did he just find something that could give them an advantage?
He read the entry twice just to be sure and lifted his head and called out, “Anji, you need to see this.”
She hopped down from the crate and moved toward him, brushing dust off her sleeves. He handed her the diary, tapping against the scribbled passage. Her eyes scanned the lines quickly.
"Do you know anything about this mechanism?" Chen Ren asked.
Anji frowned thoughtfully. "If I had to guess... it's probably something set up in case of an attack. Emergency exits, flooding mechanisms—they go hand in hand. If the Void Blade Sect was under siege, the disciples could escape through secret paths while someone activated this to flood the whole place behind them."
Chen Ren nodded, having come to the same conclusion. His mind was already racing ahead, wondering if they could turn this old trap into a weapon against the Blazing Ember Sect cultivators. In fact, it’ll be a formidable weapon against them.
"If it still works," he said quietly, "it would be a massive advantage."
Anji looked at him, brows drawn together. "What are we going to do about it?"
"First," Chen Ren said, "do you know where the library is?"
She thought for a moment, then pointed vaguely toward the other side of the ruins. "If I remember correctly, it should be left of the main vault room."
Chen Ren’s lips curved into a thin smile. "So right along the path the cultivators are taking."
Anji caught onto his line of thinking immediately. "You think they'll ignore it for now, right? Focus on the vault and deal with the library later?"
"Exactly," Chen Ren said. "It should be relatively undisturbed, at least until they secure the inheritance."
Anji narrowed her eyes. "Well, what exactly are you planning?"
"I'm thinking of making use of you. If there's no beast guardian in the library that is."
She crossed her arms, frowning. "I get the gist... but you know I might not even find the mechanism. And even if I do, it might be too damaged to use. And yes, I don't think there's a guardian there."
Chen Ren shrugged. "It's just a gamble. Even if it doesn’t work, it won't matter. Until we find a way to control the flooding—or at least stop it before we drown ourselves—we’ll only use it as a distraction."
As he spoke, the wheels inside his mind spinned. A plan was formed. He outlined it to her in quick, clear words, how they would separate after leaving the room, how she would locate the library and look for the mechanism, and if she found it and if it looked operational, how she would wait for his signal before triggering it.
He knew this could help them. Even a small chance was better than none. And in war, that was sometimes all you needed. By the end of the explanation, Yalan’s voice suddenly cut into his mind.
"They’ve reached the sect vault chamber."
Chen Ren’s eyes widened slightly. "So fast?" he asked back, surprised.
"Half the traps are either too old or broken," Yalan said. "And the guardian puppets inside the vault didn't attack them when they entered. They’re broken too. But the cultivators are cautious—checking the puppets to make sure they won’t suddenly activate once they try to open the vault."
Chen Ren nodded grimly. "We’re coming. Hold off on any attack until we get there."
There was no further reply, but he knew Yalan had received the message. He turned to Anji, his voice brisk. "We need to move. They found the vault. The guardian puppets probably rusted out... no maintenance over the years. We have to hurry if we want to pull off the plan."
Anji’s face paled, but she swallowed hard and nodded quickly. Without wasting another second, they sprinted back the way they had come. Chen Ren gave the two looted corpses a final glance, then pushed forward with no hesitation. They already knew the path now—wide, mostly clear, and much easier to move through than before.
As they ran, he caught sight of the wreckage left behind by the Blazing Ember Sect’s advance. Holes gouged into walls, broken pincer traps lying smashed on the ground, and scattered signs of old mechanisms that had long since failed or been destroyed by brute force. The cultivators hadn’t been subtle—just efficient.
Finally, they reached a branching point where the path split into several tunnels. Footsteps clearly led down the middle path—the Blazing Ember Sect’s trail was obvious even to an amateur.
"The library should be on the left side," Anji said, slightly breathless but focused.
Chen Ren nodded, slowing only for a second. "Good luck. Watch for any traps that might still be active. Take the puppet with you."
Immediately, he gave a mental command. She nodded firmly, moving with the puppet behind her—not a strong warrior but enough for basic defense—and hurriedly moved toward the left passage.
Chen Ren didn’t waste time either. He followed the right path at a fast jog, keeping his senses sharp. After a short while, he spotted Yalan and Hong Yi crouching behind a massive boulder that half-covered the entrance to a large room. He ducked beside them silently as they noticed him.
Peeking out, he finally got his first proper look inside the sect’s vault chamber.
It was massive—both wide and long, and the ceiling soared higher than any room he had seen so far. In the center of the far wall stood a towering, heavy-set door, unmistakably the vault’s true entrance. A glowing orb was set into it where a handle should have been, surrounded by complex carvings of runes that seemed to be alive by how they continued to pulse.
In front of the door, three figures milled about, their attention fixed on the runes.
Just as Anji had described, one of them stood out immediately—Wang Fu. He was a tall, red hair. Even redder up close. His hands were filled with rings. But he looked like a very strong man. His hands hovered carefully around the runes, analyzing without touching. His eyes stuck like glue with an extremely serious expression.
Behind him stood two others. One was a short, brown haired man with daggers tucked in his torso. Chen Ren noticed his flat nose that looked like it had been broken multiple times.
The last one wore a heavier set, his armor more worn, with small nicks and scratches marring the polished surface. A deep scar across his face. He had the air of a veteran bruiser, someone who favored blunt force over subtlety.
Along the sides of the room, two giant stone puppets loomed, one on each side of the vault door. They stood easily nine feet tall, and he could say that the exterior of their bodies were cracked. Both had gaping holes punched into their stomachs—likely from the Blazing Ember Sect cultivators trying to find and destroy the cores. Whatever life they had once held was gone.
Chen Ren’s sharp observation was broken by Yalan’s voice again, cutting into his mind.
"You're late," she spoke mentally. "What happened to the other two?"
"They're dead.”
There was a small pause, then Yalan asked, "Where's Anji? Is she—"
Chen Ren interrupted her before she could finish. "No. I sent her to do something. We found a description of an old mechanism. If it’s still working, it could help us win this fight."
Yalan turned to look at him like he had lost his mind.
Chen Ren wasn't surprised. She didn't seem like the type to appreciate last-minute, chaotic plans—but to him, it fit perfectly. The enemy wasn’t expecting anything. That was exactly the window he needed.
Without wasting another moment, he mentally outlined her every bit of his plan. Yalan listened, her frown deepening by the second, but didn’t interrupt. Once he finished, she sighed heavily through her nose, then closed her eyes for a second, reaching out mentally to Hong Yi to relay everything.
When Hong Yi turned to look at Chen Ren, he had the same expression Yalan did—part incredulity, part resignation.
Chen Ren only smiled faintly. They might think I'm crazy... but it’ll work. Or at least, it’ll cause enough chaos for us to make a move.
Trying anything now would be foolish, the two Blazing Ember Sect cultivators standing back weren’t just idle—they were sharp, their eyes constantly sweeping the room. They would spot the smallest disturbance.
"Can you get in touch with Anji?" he asked Yalan.
Yalan closed her eyes again, focusing. After a moment, she grimaced. "My communication skills don’t work well over larger distances... but I’ll try." Seconds ticked by before she opened her eyes. "I can reach her. It'll just take a few more seconds for messages to pass."
Chen Ren nodded, keeping his gaze fixed on the cultivators. "Did she find it?"
"She's still searching," Yalan replied. "But she said she found the bookshelf mentioned in the diary. There were hints as to which one it was in more entries."
Chen Ren’s lips quirked into a small, approving smile. "Good enough. That’s all we needed."
He glanced again at the cultivators, still bent over the vault’s rune-locked door, carefully tracing patterns and murmuring among themselves. They hadn’t noticed anything yet. That wouldn’t last.
Yalan sighed under her breath, her expression tight. "Alright. I hope this works."
Chen Ren chuckled softly. "Even if it doesn't," he said, "I have my [Starlight Defense Technique]. I can take one good hit at least—and if I’m right, the chaos will buy me enough time to dodge the rest."
Yalan gave a short nod, then relayed the final details to Hong Yi, who responded with a single firm nod, nothing more. Everything was set. Chen Ren reached into his robe, pulling out the simple but precious object he had prepared—the mask. Smooth, featureless, but imbued with light illusion formations.
He slipped it on.
Immediately, the transformation took effect. His young, clear features melted away, replaced by the wrinkled, sagging skin of an old man, almost grotesque with how the "flesh" seemed half-melted under invisible years of decay. He carefully adjusted his sleeves, hiding the smoothness of his arms inside the loose folds of his robe.
An ancient cultivator, frail but cunning, now crouched where Chen Ren had been a moment ago. Chen Ren thought the disguise couldn't have been more perfect for this moment.
Without wasting time, he bent down and scooped up Yalan, who had already shifted into her kitten form. She clambered onto his back, hiding herself under the folds of his robe where only a faint glint of amber eyes could be seen if one looked too close.
He glanced once at Hong Yi, who gave him a sharp, determined nod, his face hardening into focus. And then, Chen Ren hunched his shoulders, composed his breathing into something rougher, shakier, and strode forward into the vault room.
The instant his footsteps echoed against the stone floor, the Blazing Ember Sect cultivators snapped to attention.
Three heads turned sharply toward him. Their eyes narrowed and their vigilance shot up immediately. The scout in particular moved fast, two daggers flashing into his hand with a metallic hiss, and the heavier bruiser tensed like a coiled spring, ready to charge.
Chen Ren's heart pounded once—but he stayed calm.
A second later, Yalan’s qi pulsed sharply from behind his back. It wasn't aggressive—but it was heavy, ancient, an overwhelming force that filled the room in an instant. The reaction was immediate.
The daggers lowered a fraction. The brute shifted uncertaintly. Even Wang Fu’s sharp eyes flickered with caution.
They froze.
Still working as well as ever, Chen Ren thought, hiding his inward grin. Seeing all eyes fixed on him, Chen Ren took the opening and opened his mouth, slipping fully into the role.
"It seems," he said, voice slow and rasped, dragging syllables like a true elder, "the sect grounds have finally found some visitors willing to give this old man some company."
He took a few slow, shuffling steps forward, the illusion of frailty flawless.
"Unfortunate," he continued, sighing with mock sadness, "that you chose to break everything I built, rather than simply come and talk to me. I had good tea, once."
He let the words hang in the air, doing his best old-man impression—gravelly, wistful, even a little cracked with age. Inside, a tight coil of tension wound itself through him. Part of him truly expected them to attack at any second. These were fire-aspected cultivators, after all—hot-blooded, short-tempered, used to solving problems with swords and flames. At least, that was the stereotype around them.
But surprisingly, they didn’t move.
They listened.
Chen Ren took the chance and pressed on, letting a small, sad chuckle escape his lips.
"At least two of your companions..." he said, shaking his head like a disappointed grandfather, "They met me before you. But they were... rude."
He let the last word linger a little too long, deliberately.
"And so," he finished, tilting his head slightly, "I had to teach them a few lessons."
At his words, Chen Ren saw their eyes flicker—shifting briefly toward the bloodstains still drying on his robes. Blood that had splattered during the earlier battle. He almost smiled behind the mask. Good. I’m glad I didn’t bother cleaning it off.
The scout, who was the twin brother of the girl they had faced earlier—visibly paled. His hands tightened at his sides and he took a step forward, half out of instinct, half out of fear.
Only the suffocating qi that Yalan continued to pulse from his back seemed to stop him from doing anything reckless.
And then, finally, Wang Fu spoke, his voice measured but edged with suspicion.
"Who are you?"
The question was exactly what Chen Ren had been waiting for. He let a slow, heavy breath escape his lips, as though the weight of centuries pressed down on his back.
"I am the guardian of this vault," he rasped, letting his voice tremble slightly with the weight of false years. "The one tasked with waiting... centuries... for the rightful heir to the inheritance to arrive."
He let his words sink in, watching as uncertainty grew in their eyes.
"But all I have seen," Chen Ren said, "are bastards who carry not even a hint of the Great Void’s legacy in their dantian."
His gaze, hidden by the mask, swept across each of them as if judging and finding them lacking.
"And for that..." he finished, his voice lowering into something almost grave, "you will be punished."
He raised one hand slightly—not threateningly, just enough to draw their attention.
"Not by me," he said, letting the faintest smirk twist beneath the mask, unseen, "but by the vault grounds themselves."
2025-04-28 14:17:29 +0000 UTC
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Chapter 105
As they walked, Chen Ren slowly realized the place was much larger than he had anticipated.
The narrow stone corridors opened up to wider halls, cracked but still standing after who knew how many decades. He spotted the remains of broken pottery, decayed wooden racks, and shattered tiles—signs of life that had once filled these ruins long ago.
Unable to hide his curiosity any longer, he glanced sideways at Anji. “This… looks a lot bigger than just a simple sect vault.”
Anji nodded. She had no reason to hide the truth from him now. “It was more than a vault. Like I said, cultivators used to live here. Back then, before the Kalian Empire expanded this far, the Void Blade Sect ruled these lands. Them, and a few others that didn’t survive the passage of time.”
She paused, stepping carefully over a fallen beam. “This was one of their outposts. A small one—but important enough to fortify. Library, training grounds, food storage, barracks... everything a cultivator force needed to sustain itself away from their main sect grounds. When the sect got assimilated in the empire, they didn’t destroy it—they turned it into a vault to protect what was left.”
Chen Ren nodded thoughtfully, his mind immediately drifting toward the one thing that mattered most. “The library... Is it still intact?”
Anji smiled faintly. “It should be. That’s where you’ll find the manuals. Once we secure the inheritance, I can help you locate it. It should be near the vault.”
Chen Ren’s fingers unconsciously tightened into a fist before he relaxed them. Just the thought of it—the knowledge stored there—was enough to make his heart beat faster. That library alone could fulfill the vows he had made to his sect.
The conversation drifted into silence after that, each of them focusing on the path ahead. Chen Ren kept his gaze low, following the trail of footsteps left in the dust. A small reassurance that they were still on the right path.
Then, faintly, he heard it.
Voices. Low, but distinct. Coming from just ahead.
Anji must have caught it too because she stiffened beside him. Without a word, they moved faster, sticking to the shadows until the narrow corridor finally opened up into a wide room.
They slipped behind a broken stone pillar, Chen Ren carefully peeking around its edge.
The room was large—wide enough to house dozens. Beds, or what remained of them, were scattered across the floor. Some lay in splinters, others rotted beyond recognition. This must have been the quarters Anji had mentioned. A place for the outpost's cultivators to rest.
But he didn’t waste much time on the scenery. His focus snapped to the two figures standing inside.
The first was a young woman, short and wiry, with a slim build that looked made for speed. Her arms and legs were lean, packed with tight muscle. She wore light leather armor that clung close to her body, probably allowing easy movement. A short sword hung at her hip alongside a bow on her back, and her brown hair was tied back tightly, keeping it out of her sharp, narrow face.
The second was a large, broad-shouldered man, thick with heavy muscle. His arms were bulky, covered in old scars, and he carried a massive hammer slung over one shoulder like it weighed nothing. His chest and shoulders were wrapped in thick, reinforced armor, giving him a hulking, almost wall-like appearance. His movements were slower, heavier, but full of raw strength, like a beast ready to crush anything that got too close.
Chen Ren’s eyes narrowed slightly as he noticed the faint gleam of rings on the man’s fingers. A spatial ring. That explained how he had carried such a heavy weapon through the narrow halls.
Fortunately, neither of them had bothered to suppress their qi.
It leaked off their bodies in faint, steady waves—enough for Chen Ren to judge their strength. Early-star qi refinement realm, both of them. Exactly as he had hoped.
He focused harder, trying to peer deeper into the structure of their energy. Both of them had fire-aspected qi—which wasn’t surprising, given their sect—but he couldn’t tell if they had a secondary aspect. His qi perception wasn’t good enough to be sure.
Still, it didn’t matter. They were strong—but manageable.
His mind began to race, mapping out possibilities. The puppet, though sturdy, was only at the body forging realm. It wouldn’t last long in a direct clash, but it could serve as a distraction.
The real problem was their synergy.
Even without watching them fight, Chen Ren could tell—their roles were well-matched. The man would charge and pin the enemy down, drawing attention with sheer brute force, while the girl moved swiftly around the edges, striking precise, lethal blows when the enemy’s guard dropped.
A classic hammer-and-needle tactic. If he wasn’t careful, he could be overwhelmed before he even realized it.
Chen Ren exhaled slowly, feeling the tension settle into his limbs. He had an opening. But whether he could turn it into a victory would depend entirely on how he moved next. If he wanted to win, there was only one real path forward—finish one of them quickly, then take on the other alone.
But how?
Chen Ren’s mind raced, thinking risks, angles, timings. He was on a clock—the woman was already scouring the room, searching through the debris, while the hammer-wielding man guarded her, sharp-eyed. Sooner or later, she would finish checking the room, and they would move on. His window was closing fast.
As he crouched behind the pillar, his gaze swept the room—and an idea formed. The walls.
They were the same dark, glossy material he had seen at the vault’s entrance. Stone that held runic arrays well. If he could draw the right formation, maybe… just maybe… he could trap one of them, even for a few seconds.
And that was all he needed.
Heart steadying, Chen Ren leaned toward Anji, whispering his plan into her ear. Her only question was simple, direct.
“Do you think it’ll hold one of them?”
Chen Ren nodded. “Long enough. A few seconds of confusion and panic—that’s all I need to strike.”
Anji didn’t argue. She nodded once, understanding the risk but trusting him, and slid further back behind the pillar to stay out of sight.
Chen Ren wasted no more time.
Moving low and silent, he slipped toward the nearest wall. His fingers pulled out a small piece of chalk, worn down from past use. Quickly, efficiently, he began sketching the runes, the chalk scraping lightly against the dark stone.
Fortunately, the array he was attempting wasn’t unfamiliar. He had practiced it once—long ago. A simple but vicious snare formation designed for binding someone. He had memorized every rune, every intersection, precisely for the day he might need it.
Circles and triangles, interwoven in patterns, began to take shape beneath his hands. He cast a glance over his shoulder every few strokes. The two cultivators hadn’t noticed him yet. No torches had been lit here in this part—working in his favor.
Silently, he took a few steps back and shifted to the opposite wall and began the second half of the formation. His hands were steady, but his heartbeat was a drumbeat in his ears.
He finished the chalkwork within minutes, but he knew it wasn’t enough. The runes needed to be properly etched into the stone to carry enough power to trigger. The hard part.
Drawing in a deep breath, Chen Ren pulled out a small chisel and a hammer from his belt. He set the chisel carefully against the chalked lines and began tapping—soft, deliberate taps that barely made a whisper.
Every second he spent here, the danger grew. One wrong noise, one glance in his direction, and everything would fall apart. And he could hear his heart beat in his ears, but he couldn’t let the anxiety roll.
He focused, letting the rhythm of his work drown out the pounding in his chest.
Fortunately, among the runes he had chosen for the formation, there were several that dampened sound during the engraving process—a precaution that now paid off immensely.
Still, Chen Ren couldn’t shake the paranoia curling at the back of his mind. Every few seconds, he glanced up, careful to ensure he hadn’t been spotted.
And minutes flew by. Thankfully, luck was with him.
Both cultivators were distracted, flipping through a dusty old book they had pulled from a broken shelf, their attention absorbed by the faded pages.
Slowly, painstakingly, Chen Ren finished carving the last lines of the array into the second wall. Once the final rune was set, he stepped back, running a practiced eye over the work. Solid. It would hold.
He took a long, slow breath, letting the tension bleed from his shoulders, and turned toward Anji. Catching her eye, he made a quick hand signal.
Ready.
Anji nodded from behind her pillar, crouching lower into the shadows.
Now comes the real gamble.
Chen Ren drew back further, hiding himself behind the thick stone, but with a clear view into the open room. Quietly, he sent a mental command to the puppet hidden nearby.
Hong Yi had reworked the programming of the puppets before they left, ensuring they could listen to Chen Ren's commands even without Hong Yi's direct control.
The puppet that was stocky with a worn metal frame, stirred to life. Its eyes glowed faintly as it turned its head toward the open chamber—and without hesitation, it lumbered forward.
Heavy, echoing footsteps filled the chamber, drawing the attention of the two cultivators instantly.
“What’s that?” the burly man muttered, shifting his hammer into a ready grip as he narrowed his eyes at the approaching figure.
The puppet came to a halt just inside the room, standing there in eerie stillness.
The girl, still holding the book, frowned. “Is it one of the old guards that’s supposed to protect this place?”
“We’ve been here a while and nothing's come out till now,” the man said, his voice cautious but dismissive. “Probably faulty. Must’ve finally woken up after lying dead for years.”
She eyed the puppet critically. “It doesn’t look strong... and it’s not attacking.” Her lips curled into a smirk. “Lost its functions, probably. Let me get closer. I’ll check it out.”
She stepped forward, casual and unhurried, lowering her guard without even realizing it.
Exactly as Chen Ren had hoped.
He steadied himself, feeling the faint thrumming of qi building in the array carved into the walls around the room—silent and invisible, and ready. All he needed now... was the right moment.
And it was coming fast.
As the scout girl stepped closer to the puppet, her caution giving way to curiosity, Chen Ren silently gave the second command. The puppet jerked slightly, reaching behind its back. With one swift tug, it tore away the talisman affixed to its metal spine.
The effect was immediate.
A burst of crackling lightning exploded outward, engulfing the girl in a cage of blinding arcs. She barely had time to scream—her body seized as the lightning wrapped around her like living chains, holding her trapped in mid-step, too close and too surprised to escape.
The burly man’s eyes widened in horror—and then filled with pure, burning rage.
“Jin Xue!” he bellowed, his voice echoing through the chamber. “No! I’ll fucking kill you, bastard!”
With a savage bellow, he lifted his hammer and charged at the puppet, fury overriding any sense of caution.
Chen Ren gave another silent command.
The puppet turned and bolted, its heavy footsteps pounding against the stone as it fled, leading the man away from his fallen companion.
The burly man roared after it. “Don’t run, you piece of shit! I’ll smash you to pieces!”
He barreled forward, hammer raised high—blind, reckless. Perfect.
The moment the puppet crossed the invisible boundary Chen Ren had marked, he unleashed his qi into the walls.
The runes he had carefully carved earlier shimmered to life, burning with a deep blue glow as the Tier 2 [Binding Web] Array activated.
Threads of qi shot out from the walls, wrapping around the burly man before he could even realize what was happening. His body jerked to a halt, the hammer falling from his grip with a heavy thud.
“What the—?” he gasped, thrashing against the bindings—but the threads coiled tighter, locking him in place.
Chen Ren didn’t waste a second.
Lightning surged from his core, crackling along his arms. He shaped it mid-flight, manipulating the energy with precise control. Thin, needle-like spears formed within the arcs, buzzing with lethal power. A new technique he had learnt from Chen Ren's memories of his clan lightning manuals.
“[Needle Flash Technique!]”
With a sharp thrust of his hands, he sent them flying. The lightning spears struck the man’s body like a hailstorm, forcing him to his knees. His body convulsed under the barrage, the smell of scorched flesh filling the air.
But Chen Ren wasn’t done.
Before the threads could lose their grip, he tore open more talismans tucked into his belt. With a sudden rush of energy, dozens of extremely sharp stones materialized in the air around him—[Stone Lance Talismans], crafted for exactly this kind of assault.
He pointed forward.
The stones shot through the air like missiles, slamming into the burly man’s exposed flesh. Blood splattered across the broken floor as the man howled in agony, pinned down by a hundred tiny blades.
His screams echoed through the chamber—but Chen Ren didn’t flinch. He stepped forward, eyes cold, ready to end it. He watched the burly man bleed heavily, his body slumping, but he didn’t relax.
This wasn’t over.
Already, the cultivator was gritting his teeth, forcing his trembling hands to weave a gathering of qi. Wisps of flame began to snake around parts of his body, flickering with desperate life.
Chen Ren narrowed his eyes. No you don't.
His fingers brushed over the spatial ring hidden at his side. In a flash, a weapon materialized in his grip—a spear, the same one he had once seized from Yushu. Without hesitation, he spun and hurled it forward.
The spear whistled through the air and plunged deep into the cultivator’s chest, pinning him to the cracked stone floor. The man’s hammer slipped from his grasp with a dull thud.
Chen Ren didn’t waste a second. He extended his arm and felt another lightning surge, weaving it into a concentrated bolt and driving it straight into the wound. The man jerked once—then slumped.
The threads of the array binding him shimmered, then broke apart with a soft crackle as the formation finally collapsed. Still cautious, Chen Ren stepped forward, his body tense and ready to dodge.
He moved into the remains of the broken array, approaching the fallen figure. The man’s chest wasn’t rising.
Still, Chen Ren nudged the body over with the tip of his foot, revealing a lifeless face twisted in agony. Blood continued to pool beneath him. Dead.
Chen Ren exhaled slowly, feeling a weight lift off his shoulders.
But there was no time to savor the victory.
A scream tore through the air. "You killed Rong!"
Chen Ren spun around to see the scout girl—Jin Xue, if he remembered correctly—standing at the far end of the room. Twin short swords flashed in her hands, now coated in flame as her qi burst forth in raw fury.
For a heartbeat, her gaze remained fixed on her fallen comrade. Only after a few moments did her bloodshot eyes snap to Chen Ren. There were no words. Just rage.
With a snarl, she lunged at him, her small frame moving faster than a striking viper, her blades trailing burning arcs through the air.
Chen Ren had expected this.
Already moving, he dodged her furious strikes with tight, controlled steps, channeling his [Starlight Defense technique] over his arms to absorb the heat of her attacks. The glowing shield of energy flickered under each glancing blow but held firm.
Chen Ren vaulted over her, rolling across the cracked floor and retreating further into the chamber—where he would have more space to maneuver.
Jin Xue followed, her attacks wild, her flames cutting swaths through the air. She wasn’t thinking—just striking, slashing, trying to burn him to ash.
And that was her mistake.
No good fighter lets fury take over.
Even after just a minute of exchanging blows, Chen Ren could tell—this girl wasn’t used to real battle. Her steps were heavy. Her strikes were predictable. And in her rage, she never noticed the thin layer of powder Chen Ren had spread across the stone floor when she wasn’t looking.
The moment she stepped into the trap, Chen Ren sent a flicker of qi outward. With a violent roar, flames erupted around her, engulfing her in an explosive wave.
She screamed, staggered by the sudden onslaught. Being a fire-aspected cultivator gave her some resistance—but talismanic flames weren’t something normal resistance could simply shrug off.
Her flesh burned, her clothes scorched, her movements faltered.
Chen Ren didn’t let up.
He hurled more [Stone Lance Talismans], sharp rocks slamming into her battered form, puncturing her armor and sending her reeling. And then, with a final surge of his qi, he unleashed a [Lightning Frenzy]—a barrage of crackling, furious energy that struck her in a relentless rhythm.
Flames, earth, and lightning. Three elements battering her at once.
Jin Xue’s body slammed into the far wall with a sickening crunch. She slid down, leaving a smear of blood behind, her body limp and unmoving. Chen Ren kept the lightning crackling around his hands, waiting—ready to strike again if she showed any sign of life.
Seconds passed.
A minute.
Two minutes.
Still nothing.
Finally, Chen Ren let the lightning fade, exhaustion hitting him like a crashing wave. He stumbled back, dropping to the ground, breathing hard.
Across the room, Jin Xue’s eyes—dull, unfocused—met his for the briefest moment before her head slumped forward, unconscious or dead, he couldn't yet tell.
But the fight was over. For now.
He waited for the guilt to come—the heavy, sinking feeling he thought any normal person from Earth would feel after taking a life.
After all, this wasn’t like killing a monster. These were people. Cultivators, yes, and enemies standing in his way, but not murderers or demonic beasts. There was no personal hatred between them. No blood feud. Only the unfortunate fact that they had been on opposite sides.
He thought back to Gu Tian—the first person he had personally killed in this world.
But Gu Tian had been different. A demonic cultivator, a serial killer, a man whose death felt more like cleaning filth from the world than anything else. When Gu Tian had fallen, Chen Ren hadn’t felt guilt. Only a grim satisfaction.
And now, with Jin Xue and Rong lying still in front of him, he expected something.
Regret, remorse, anything.
But there was nothing. Nothing pressing down on his heart. No tremble in his fingers. Only the steady, cold realization that they had tried to kill him—and he had killed them first.
Before he could dwell on it longer, footsteps echoed through the silent room.
Anji appeared from the shadows, her expression taut until she saw him standing there, unharmed. A soft sigh of relief escaped her lips. Then her gaze shifted to Jin Xue’s bloodied form, and the cold detachment in her eyes returned.
"I guess that's two of them," she said simply, voice devoid of emotion.
Chen Ren blinked once, shaking off the strange stupor that had settled over him. He nodded. "Yes."
He turned back toward the ruined room, scanning the scattered remnants of ancient life.
"Let’s check the area quickly," he said. "See if there’s anything useful. After that, we need to hurry back to Yalan and Hong Yi." He cleared his throat. "They’ll need our help... especially against the strongest of the enemies."
2025-04-26 17:59:39 +0000 UTC
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Chapter 212
When Kai heard that an entire town had fallen to weavers, he didn’t even react as little as a flinch. Beside him, Bishop Maurice’s face lost its color like snow melting under sunlight, while Killian stared ahead with a blank expression. But Kai knew that look. He knew that look so well. The knight’s mind was already churning with strategies, counting strengths and weaknesses, waiting only for Kai’s word to act. He’d always been the one to plan strategies in his mind when a problem arose. Even now, he was doing it.
Kai, on the other hand, had seen this coming.
The plague sickened people and transformed them. It twisted entire communities into sinewy, bone-thin husks that moved like puppets like mindless suckers that only wanted to spread dead mana. It was dangerous to say the least. And now they had finally found a nest of them.
Good, Kai thought.
The sooner they started fighting them, the faster his soldiers could adjust. If they couldn’t handle a few hundred, then they had no place marching deeper into the plague lands, where these things would be crawling out from every ruin and alleyway.
The whole thing became reminiscent of the end of the first golden era. A lich king rose from forgotten lands, flooding the world with walking corpses. Kingdoms swallowed by bone and rot. A war that scorched half the known world and was the last major event for that era. At least that's what he had read.
But that was then.
Now, they were here.
Kai blinked the historical passage away in his mind and turned his gaze to Gareth. “How many lived in that town?”
“About five thousand,” Gareth answered and Kai saw the shadow behind his eyes. “Most of them were military or support staff. Logistics. Craftsmen. Families.”
Kai nodded. “And how many weavers did you count?”
“A few hundred. I didn’t go in too deep—there were too many. I thought I might lead them straight to us if I did.”
“You did well,” Kai said. “We’ll move to take the town.”
That’s when Bishop Maurice stepped forward. Kai’s eyes shifted to him. The bishop looked… spooked. His eyes widened slightly. “Shouldn’t we avoid it?”
Kai thought that if the man had a choice, he wouldn't have run in the opposite direction. Many of the soldiers would think the same, but they couldn't avoid battles forever.
“We could.” Kai said, ignoring his fear completely. “But we won’t.”
Bishop Maurice opened his mouth to protest but Kai cut him short.
“Do you really believe the treant won’t send waves of fiends and weavers after us? It will. And it will throw everything at us to protect itself. Better to gain experience now, while the numbers are manageable.”
“But Count, they’ll only thin our numbers,” the bishop argued weakly.
“They won’t,” Kai replied. “Weavers aren’t as strong as you think. Maybe a few would be former Mages—that’s my concern. I’ll handle those myself. The rest? They won’t get past your paladins’ shields. We have armor, weapons, golems. And if any of our people get injured or touched by the corruption, I’ll deal with it personally. The infection doesn’t spread quickly—not from a weaver’s scratch.”
The bishop didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t object again either. Good enough for now.
Kai turned to Killian and gave a short nod.
The knight stepped away immediately, barking orders. Soon, everything shifted, even the atmosphere. Soldiers straightened, formations began to shift. Lines were drawn. Shields lifted.
Kai watched their faces, focusing on men from Veralt. Some clenched their jaws. Some checked their blades. But none backed away. These weren’t green recruits. They’d faced worse—beast waves, fief war. They had blood on their hands and fire in their eyes. And they would be ready again.
Once the lines settled and silence returned, Kai stepped forward and raised his voice.
“We march,” he said, “to the border town—to put the fallen to rest.”
A cheer rose from the soldiers, a mix of steel-clad boots stomping and voices calling out in tense excitement. Kai didn’t smile, but he allowed it—for a moment. Even though he knew some had fear underneath all the bravery, they refused to show it.
Then he began moving forward, Gareth by his side, leading them across the warped land toward the border town swallowed by plague.
With their current pace, it took less than an hour before the jagged silhouette of the town loomed ahead—walls cracked open like split bone, rooftops sagging under rot and time. As they approached, Kai’s eyes scanned the broken perimeter, already arranging pieces in his head like a battlefield puzzle.
He turned to Gareth. “Can you get the archers to the top of the walls? I don’t see any weavers up there.”
“I can,” Gareth said with a nod before signaling his men.
As Gareth moved to reposition the archers, Kai exhaled and activated a spell—[Hawk Eyes].
In an instant, the world shifted. His vision sharpened, distance collapsing like it was drawn on parchment. The ruins stretched beneath his gaze, clear and cruel.
Weavers crawled between alleys and broken houses—sinewy, blackened bodies of different shapes and sizes twisted in unnatural angles, hunched and twitching as they devoured old corpses or gnawed on each other. But there weren’t as many as he feared. Maybe two thousand, three at most, even counting the ones hiding indoors.
A normal army would have faltered. But this wasn’t a normal army. He turned to look over his formation.
Paladins stood at the front, shields gleaming despite the grime, ready to take the first wave. Behind them, Clerics murmured quiet prayers and their hands glew with their blessings. The Enforcers had taken position to the sides, leading shock units meant to carve through weaver lines with brute force and deadly precision. Mages had already begun binding spells to assist, while six hulking golems flanked the formation like metal giants. Sentinel stood tallest among them, the runes on its body pulsing faintly.
Kai took it all in—and nodded. This would work. He would take the rest. His own skills had been sharpened by killing abominations like these. Plague-born or not, they still bled.
Once Gareth signaled that the archers were in position atop the walls, Kai raised his hand, then dropped it sharply. A sharp whistle tore through the air.
Seconds later, the first volley of arrows screamed downward. They hit hard.
Weavers jerked and collapsed mid-bite, twitching over dead fiends with arrows lodged through their skulls. Others scrambled, hissing and snarling, as their blood-slicked jaws turned toward the noise—the fresh scent of the living had finally reached them.
Their charge began. Snarls, screeches, limbs pounding against broken cobblestone.
“Charge! Kill them all!” Kai’s voice boomed across the field as an amplifier spell took place.
The front lines surged forward. Shields locked. Golems thundered behind them, crashing through the ruined walls with ease. Spells flashed as Mages lit up the battlefield in bursts of color and destruction. Kai didn’t follow. He rose.
With a single word and a twist of mana, [Flight] activated, lifting him high above the chaos. Wind tugged at his coat, but he didn’t falter—his eyes locked onto the rooftops, where more weavers skittered like insects, waiting to pounce.
Too late.
[Fiend fire] kindled in his palm, a flicker of pale flame that grew with every breath. Then, he launched it.
The first fireball exploded across a rooftop, incinerating three weavers mid-snarl. Their screams didn’t echo for long—another fireball followed, then another. Rooftop by rooftop, they lit up under the white flames, collapsing as scorched bodies tumbled down like broken dolls.
Some leapt at him in desperation, with their claws stretched and mouths open—only to fall short, screaming as gravity betrayed them. Most hit the ground like wet sacks. The few that survived found a soldier’s blade waiting for them, cold and merciless.
Kai hovered above it all, raining death. And below, his army marched into fire without fear.
While soaring above the battlefield, Kai became a blur of white fire and motion—each flick of his hand sending another rooftop into flames, another pack of weavers screeching as they burned. Bodies dropped like flies, smoke rising from scorched wood and twitching limbs, but his eyes stayed fixed below.
He was watching closely while casting.
His forces cut through the enemy left and right. Killian was at the front, his blade already stained black with weaver blood. He was quick—the quickest Kai had seen. The Enforcers under him were also fast—weapons crackling with flames, lighting and different elements, killing tens of weavers at once. Frost formed in weaver wounds. A wave of wind pressured blade sent three skittering creatures flying into a wall.
Spells and arrows filled in the gaps, but they weren’t needed often. The trained soldiers—his soldiers—were holding their ground. Slaughtering in clean, practiced movements.
A year ago, half of them hadn’t even held swords properly. Now they moved like war-born veterans. But not all of them.
Kai’s eyes shifted to the right flank—Viscount Redmont’s men. They were slower. Hesitant. Their stances betrayed uncertainty, and their strikes lacked conviction. Some Paladins managed well enough, their glowing golden shields bashing back weavers before a companion split them in two, but the rest… Too cautious. Too scared.
They simply lacked the aggression that Kai needed his men to have.
But he exhaled, eyes narrowing. He waved his hand toward Sentinel and one of the iron golems.
Assist the Viscount’s troops, the unspoken command pulsed through the spell etched inside the constructs.
The two giants broke off from the Enforcer line, stomping across rubble and gore to join the faltering men. A weaver leapt for one of Redmont’s archers, only to be grabbed mid-air by the golem and slammed into the dirt with enough force to crack the stone beneath.
They’d learn. With time. And protection.
Kai couldn’t blame them. They were used to fighting other humans. Not monsters born of plague and twisted mana. He left them to it. Instead, his attention turned to the source of the real threat.
More weavers were spilling out of a crumbling building in the center of town—its pillars cracked, walls blackened with rot and dried blood. A command post once, or perhaps a church. Hard to tell now. But clearly a nest.
More spells fell from the sky through both his hands, his [Fiend Fire] splitting in midair and crashing down on the rooftop-dwellers. The screaming was constant. The stench, even worse. But then—
A sudden pulse of energy hit him like a wall of ash.
It surged from the far side of town, rolling across the rooftops like a tide. Kai snapped his head toward it just in time to see movement—fast and coordinated. Three figures leapt from the rooftops, trailing smoke. By the looks of it, they were definitely not normal weavers.
Their skin was still twisted, sinewy and pale, but their blackened eyes gleamed with something else entirely. And in their clawed hands, dead mana twisted and coiled, forming rudimentary spell shapes. The patterns were broken, unstable—but still dangerous.
One weaver raised its arm and hurled a crackling mass of black flame. Kai veered hard to the side. The spell whizzed past, striking a nearby building. The upper floor detonated in a bloom of shadow and fire. He steadied himself mid-air, breathing in sharply.
Mage-weavers.
Sick remains of once-human Mages, their memories clinging on just enough to form malformed spells from corrupted cores.
The thought barely passed through his mind before the Enforcers below started to notice, their formation tightening under the pressure of the emerging threat. Killian stood at the center, sword raised, his gaze locking onto Kai for a heartbeat.
“Killian!” Kai shouted. “Take one of them!”
Killian nodded, the air around his sword crackling as arcs of lightning raced along the blade’s edge. One of the mage-weavers spotted him—twisted head tilting, its ruined face curling in a snarl before it lunged forward. It chose the ground-bound prey over the flaming terror in the sky.
But it was a wrong choice.
Chunks of earth rose at the creature’s command, forming a jagged wall between them as stone spikes shot out from the street.
Killian didn’t slow.
His lightning struck the wall—and fizzled. But instead of retreating, he surged forward, slamming his boot into the rising stone, cracking it with brute force. Shards flew. The weaver raised both arms, readying another volley of spikes.
Kai turned his gaze away at the moment, knowing Killian could manage.
His eyes snapped back to the other two mage-weavers perched on the rooftops—one spewing fireballs one after another, the other slicing at the air with blades of wind. To them, Kai was a fly dancing in the sky.
But to Kai, they were slow, predictable, and sloppy. The wind blades curved through the air, fast—but not fast enough. He slipped between them, twisting mid-flight. A fireball came next, hurtling toward him in a messy arc.
Kai raised his hand, forming a crude line of blue in the air. An ice beam hissed forward, slamming into the fireball. In an instant, it froze—solid, sharp, and heavy. Then gravity claimed it.
The frozen fireball dropped like a meteor.
The wind aspected weaver looked up too late, raising a gust to break it. It shattered—but the core of the frozen fireball still struck him full-force, smashing him into the roof tiles with a wet, broken crunch. The second weaver turned to flee, flame coiling around his legs like jets. He launched himself toward the next rooftop, trying to escape.
Kai’s eyes narrowed. Two spells formed in his hands, symbols spinning into place. A vortex of flame coiled around his fingertip with the power of wind, small at first—then growing into a roaring spiral. He pointed.
The tornado screamed through the air and found its mark.
The flame-weaver twisted, trying to counter it—his own fire pouring into the tornado in a desperate attempt to disrupt it. Useless.
The vortex absorbed it all and wrapped around him in a burning embrace. The weaver didn’t scream for long. His limbs were torn apart mid-air, flung in different directions like scraps of cloth. Smoke and ash followed.
But Kai didn’t stop the spell.
He pointed downward, directing the flaming tornado into the heart of the town. It rolled across the streets like a beast, sucking in any weavers in its path and reducing them to cinders. Buildings trembled. Fire danced in the windows.
By the time it vanished, a few hundred bodies lay smoldering.
Kai hovered, breathing slow, before scanning the battlefield again.
Below, Killian pulled his blade free from the final mage-weaver’s chest. The creature slumped without a sound, black blood steaming off the knight’s armor. Around him, the Enforcers were already fanning out—cutting down retreating weavers, sweeping the ruins.
The main force was split—half sweeping the houses, clearing out the last nests of corruption, while the rest guarded the streets, eyes sharp, blades raised, waiting for any more signs of movement.
But there was nothing. No more snarls. No more spells. No more screeches.Only thick silence.
Kai slowly descended, landing on top of a fractured stone pillar. The wind brushed his coat. His fingers still glowed faintly with the last of the spell’s heat.
This battle is over.
But as he looked toward the horizon—the plague-touched sky stretching far beyond the crumbled walls—he knew this was only the beginning.
One battle down. Countless more to go.
2025-04-26 17:57:07 +0000 UTC
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Chapter 104
As Chen Ren walked through the forest with the others, his heart thrummed like a drum, loud enough that he half-wondered if the others could hear it. But outwardly, his face stayed calm. He couldn’t let any trace of worry slip—especially not with Hong Yi twitching at every rustle of leaves and Anji glancing over his shoulder like a startled hare.
Only Yalan seemed truly at ease, leaping from branch to branch far ahead of them, her presence barely more than a shadow slipping through the trees. But that didn’t surprise him. There were few things in this world that could truly trouble her.
As they moved deeper into the forest, Chen Ren went over the plan again in his head. He hadn’t crafted it for the treasure—not entirely. It was the knowledge of one key detail that had shaped it all, there was only one entrance into the ruins. No back doors. No hidden paths. That, at least according to Anji, was their advantage.
If they were lucky, they could trap the cultivators before they even stepped inside. With Anji’s descriptions of the internal traps, it might even be possible to turn the ruins into a death trap. Still, if he could, Chen Ren would prefer to end things before anyone even crossed the threshold. That, of course, depended on their enemy’s strength. He couldn’t afford to let a single one escape.
He found himself thinking less about treasure and more about wiping them out completely. It wasn’t greed or anger—it felt more like a test. One he had to pass if he ever wanted to reach the manuals hidden within. The realization unsettled him.
Then, Yalan’s voice sliced through his thoughts.
“I see them.”
She dropped down beside them without a sound. He hadn't even seen her coming back from scouting. Her voice, like a whisper carried by the wind, echoed in their minds. Hong Yi and Anji tensed, clearly startled by the mental transmission. Chen Ren, however, looked at Yalan for more information.
“Where are they exactly?” he asked calmly, voicing it in a whisper.
“Right at the entrance to what looks like the sect’s vault,” Yalan replied, speaking out loud so the other two would get the information too. “They’re resting. Two of them are scouting the area before they move in. I didn’t see a map, but they’re trying to read the runes on the stone face. Most of them are damaged—likely destroyed by their own hands.”
She paused. “They’re about thirty minutes ahead of us.”
Hong Yi spoke next. “How many?”
“Five,” Yalan answered. “Three of them are in the qi refinement realm. Not a threat, unless they’re hiding something. One has just stepped into the foundation establishment realm—his foundation not stable yet. But the last one…” She hesitated. “I couldn’t see him clearly. Might be an artifact hiding his presence, but he’s the one giving orders. That means he’s either mid-star foundation establishment realm or near the peak.”
That didn’t bode well at all.
Chen Ren’s jaw tightened. A mid-star foundation establishment realm cultivator was already pushing their limits—but a peak realm one? That would be above them even if they fought as a group, barring Yalan. But he gave a mindless nod.
They were going to be facing cultivators far stronger than most of his team. Maybe he and Hong Yi could handle the three at the qi refinement realm, but the two foundation establishment ones would fall to Yalan—and that was asking a lot, even from someone like her.
She was strong, no doubt. But at that level, cultivators came armed with more than just raw power—hidden artifacts, unpredictable pills, and techniques sharpened by real bloodshed.
The plan to ambush them outside the vault dissolved in his mind, vanishing like smoke in the wind. Before he could speak, Anji stepped forward.
“How do they look?” she asked, her eyes narrowing at where Yalan said the men were.
Chen Ren frowned, not understanding the question at first. Then he realized—she must have seen members of the Blazing Ember Sect before, maybe even fought them. Descriptions could help her piece together their strengths.
Yalan answered smoothly. “Two of the qi refinement cultivators look like twins. Male and female. Both short. Brown hair. The girl carries a short sword and a bow, I think—her posture’s offhanded, like she’s used to shooting from cover. The boy moves with daggers—quick feet, twitchy hands. Scouts, from the looks of it.”
She paused. “The third one’s a man. Black hair, scar across his face. Looks more seasoned than the twins. Carries himself like he’s survived a few close calls. The leader has red hair. Bushy eyebrows. Wears too many rings, all artifacts. Sharp face, alert eyes. He talks, they listen. And the last one’s bald. No facial hair. No eyebrows either. Stood like a statue, but his eyes never stopped moving.”
Anji’s face drained of color. Then it flushed with something far darker—rage.
“The leader… his name is Wang Fu.”
Chen Ren’s eyes widened. “The spy?”
Anji nodded stiffly. “Yes. It’s him.”
Yalan narrowed her gaze and flicked her tail. “Tell me what you know.”
Anji’s words came fast and bitter. “He entered the foundation establishment realm during the sect war. But with the loot from that conflict, I wouldn’t be surprised if he climbed higher. He hoards poison and healing pills in his spatial rings—throws them mid-battle to confuse or trap enemies. He uses a spear. An artifact.”
She inhaled sharply. “He’s not easy to face. Used to be one of the top duelists in the sect. Arrogant bastard, but skilled.”
Chen Ren’s jaw clenched. This was worse than he thought.
“What about the others?” he asked.
“I only recognize the twins,” Anji replied. “The girl prefers range, but isn't bad at close combat. The boy uses blades and stealth techniques mixed with the signature flames of his sect. They’re scouts. If we split them from the group, they’re manageable.”
Yalan nodded. “They were moving through the trees earlier, probably scouting the perimeter.”
Chen Ren glanced around. Both Hong Yi and Anji were watching him now, waiting—ready for his call. He paused, thinking it through again. There was no perfect move here. Just the best gamble.
“We stick to the same plan,” he said, attracting attention back to him. “Wang Fu might recognize you, Anji. So we’ll avoid a direct clash outside. We’ll enter the vault once they’re ten minutes in. That’s our window.”
“Alright, sounds good,” Hong Yi said.
And the rest nodded, and without another word, Yalan disappeared into the treeline, her figure vanishing like mist between leaves.
As they waited, Chen Ren unrolled the map Anji had sketched from memory. The layout of the ruins was a maze—twisting paths, dead ends, and trap-laden corridors leading toward the main vault chamber. Every route was dangerous, but one chamber in particular caught his attention. It wasn’t the central vault, not exactly, but it branched from several main paths. If he was right, it would be the point where their enemies would eventually diverge. Unless they had a map of their own—which was doubtful—they would have no choice but to split up.
And when they did, he’d strike.
Before his thoughts could spiral further, Yalan returned, silent as ever. “They’ve entered the ruins,” she reported. “If we run now, we’ll reach the entrance within ten minutes if we are fast.”
Chen Ren gave a nod. “Let’s move.”
The group broke into a sprint, weaving through trees and ducking under branches. The forest blurred around them, the sharp scent of bark and moss rising with each breath. Along the way, they passed several beasts—felled and missing parts, their bodies still fresh. Signs of the cultivators' passage. It meant fewer threats for them to face… but he didn’t let his guard drop.
Soon, the vault came into view.
It was located within the mountain, hidden by a massive boulder that would have gone unnoticed if you weren’t looking closely. As Chen Ren approached, he noticed the faint shimmer of runes carved along the rocky surface—redirection arrays.
“They must’ve redirected anyone who came too close,” he murmured. “Standard vault defense.”
The Blazing Ember Sect must’ve come prepared. Most old sect vaults used either redirection or illusion formations. It wasn’t hard to guess—they likely had mind-shielding artifacts to counter the effect. For a group like them, that kind of precaution was expected.
He studied the entrance a moment longer before glancing at Hong Yi. “Leave one of your puppets outside. If anyone follows us or the cultivators run out, I want to know.”
Hong Yi nodded and quickly commanded one of his smaller constructs, setting it just behind the boulder. Then Chen Ren turned to the others. “Let’s move.”
They stepped into the darkness.
The corridor was cut straight into the mountain—stone walls stretching endlessly, cold air brushing past their skin. Hong Yi struck a match and lit a torch, the flickering flame casting long shadows across the walls. Their puppets walked in front, heavy steps echoing, ready to trigger any traps—but Chen Ren knew there wouldn’t be any this close to the entrance.
Still, he kept his eyes low, scanning the dust-filled stone beneath them. Footprints. He counted them as they walked. Some were deep and heavy. Two of them were light and spaced far apart—scouts, quick on their feet.
“Your dantians,” Chen Ren whispered as they moved, glancing at Hong Yi and Yalan. “You’ve shrouded them, right?”
Hong Yi gave a tight nod. “I have.”
Yalan scoffed. “My dantian is always shrouded. I’m not a rookie.”
Chen Ren allowed himself a small breath. One of the more valuable things he’d learned from Yalan recently—core shrouding. A vital technique for stealth. At higher realms, cultivators could sense one another from a distance, thanks to the qi that naturally leaked from their cores. So, shrouding was necessary.
It was something Anji didn’t need, being a mortal. But for them, it could mean the difference between life and death in these narrow corridors. Even as he silently checked himself again—making sure no qi slipped past his control—Chen Ren kept his senses sharp. Every flicker of light, every shift in shadow along the corridor walls made his fingers twitch. He didn’t want anything surprising jumping onto them.
Even if their presence was cloaked from other cultivators, it didn’t mean they were invisible to beasts—and according to Anji, the vault housed more than just traps. There were old nests, left behind as part of the ruins’ natural defense. Beasts raised in the dark, meant to guard what lay buried.
But thirty minutes into the walk, Chen Ren began to suspect that threat had passed—for now. The group halted momentarily as they came upon several carcasses scattered across the corridor floor.
Large, leathery-winged creatures with bloated torsos and sunken eyes. Overgrown bat-like creatures he recognised as nightfeeders—known for sinking their hooked fangs into human prey and draining them dry. Even the sight of them was enough to make Hong Yi grimace.
As they knelt to inspect the bodies, Chen Ren narrowed his eyes. Charred.
Some were burned clean through, ribs split open like dried husks. Others had been crushed outright, their blackened limbs embedded in the stone walls. Splatters of blood painted the rock in jagged arcs.
One of them had hit hard. A brawler, most likely. Someone with strength-based techniques or an artifact that amplified brute force. He filed the detail away for later—until he knew which cultivator it was, it wouldn't help.
“At least we’re on the right path,” Hong Yi muttered, gaze still on the mangled corpses. “But I guess there's only one path here, so it's natural.”
The deeper they went, the more the silence pressed on them. With every step, the corridors seemed to stretch endlessly, turning from passage to maze.
And still, there was no sign of the enemy.
Chen Ren’s unease began to grow.
How massive was this structure? He had known it was deep, but this felt like walking through a tomb built for a sect ten times the size of theirs. It was horrifying to say the least.
Still, he kept his calm, knowing that no matter how far the Blazing Ember cultivators had come… they weren’t leaving with the inheritance. They couldn’t. The final chamber, the true vault, was sealed—possibly accessible only by someone at the meridian expansion realm or above by force. It would take time, effort, and strength far beyond what this team carried. If anything, they were scouts, maybe sent to map it out before an elder or the sect leader came to claim the prize themselves.
That would only happen if these five made it back alive. They shouldn’t, he thought to himself.
His eyes wandered around the path.
More nightfeeder corpses littered the way ahead. Their burned and broken bodies forced the group to slow their pace, but they didn’t stop. Eventually, the corridor widened—and split.
It was a fork, the one he had been waiting for.
Chen Ren raised a hand, halting the group. He crouched near the stone and traced the dusty floor with his fingers, reading the path through faint tracks. Three sets of footsteps went left. Two went right.
His brows furrowed. “They split.”
The prints were clear, and among them, he could see lighter ones—quick, careful. Likely the twins. One went left and one right. He turned to Anji.
“Thoughts?”
She studied the fork, then pointed left. “This one leads to the main vault chamber. There are a few chambers before it, but they’re guarded—traps and beast and puppet guardians. It won’t be easy.”
Chen Ren tilted his head toward the right passage. “And that one?”
She hesitated. “Not sure. But… My father once told me that before the guardians were brought in, some cultivators were stationed here to protect the vault. They had quarters carved into the mountain, so it's probably that .”
“Why did they stop?”
“One of them tried to steal the inheritance. After that, the elders decided beasts and mindless puppets were more trustworthy.”
Chen Ren let out a dry breath. “Hard to argue with that.”
Yalan perched low, taking a proper look at the paths. “So what are we doing?”
“It’s simple. We’re not getting a better chance than this to thin their numbers. Taking all five head-on would stretch us too thin—but now? This is a golden opportunity.”
He pointed down the left corridor. “I’ll take Anji and one of Hong Yi’s puppets. We’ll follow the group that went left. That path should lead to the quarters—and hopefully to the two qi refinement realm cultivators.”
Then he turned to the other. “You and Hong Yi go right. If we’re right, that path leads to the sect vault. And with you there, Hong Yi won’t have to worry as much.”
“Will we be able to follow the tracks easily?” Yalan asked, her whiskers twitching.
Chen Ren nodded. “They’re not hiding their movements. Probably think they’re alone down here and I don't think they would shroud their cores.”
Hong Yi frowned, glancing toward the left path. “And what if one of them is a foundation establishment realm cultivator?”
Chen Ren offered a slight shrug. “Then we pull back and regroup. Yalan can speak to me mentally—we’ll stay in touch. But if it’s the two scouts, I can handle them. Fast and clean.”
Yalan smirked faintly. “You think you can take down two of them at once?”
“I’ve got tricks,” Chen Ren said calmly. “And a puppet. That’s more than enough. Trust me—I’ve got plans.”
No one objected, though Hong Yi’s expression said enough. He didn’t like being sent off to face two stronger enemies—even with Yalan by his side. But he didn’t argue. At least with her, he must have felt he had a chance.
They split at the fork, silent as ghosts.
Chen Ren and Anji moved swiftly down the left passage. The air was cooler here, the walls tighter, torches still burning—lit recently by the cultivators ahead. Their shadows danced along the walls, moving right beside them. He had a feeling that the more they walked, the closer they were getting.
But Anji from the side couldn’t keep the silence. “Are you sure you can handle them?”
Chen Ren caught the note of worry beneath it. Whether it was for his safety or hers, he didn’t know.
He whispered back, “I’ve grown. And according to Yalan, if they are actually the qi refinement realm ones, they are the weakest of the group. If we’re not walking into a trap, this is the best scenario we could ask for.” He paused for a breath. “And half the battle is knowing where to fight. I think I can beat them.”
The truth?
He wasn’t sure. Anything could go wrong. A missed strike, a hidden artifact, a wrong assumption. But he trusted in his preparation—his instincts, his techniques, the puppet at his side. And most of all, he knew this was the risk he’d chosen.
He’d come too far to second-guess himself now. But he didn’t want to worry the woman who put her trust in this either. If anything came, he would take on it head-first.
His thoughts paused when the corridor narrowed into a choke point, and when the walls gave way to a larger chamber ahead. Both their feet slowed down.
2025-04-24 15:54:41 +0000 UTC
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Chapter 211
The earth beneath them throbbed.
Beneath the cracked stone and blackened soil, the roots moved slowly, twitching tendrils that felt more alive than they should have been. For a treant, roots weren’t just anchors. They were eyes. Ears. Nerves stretched deep into the ground like veins. And now, those nerves were twitching wildly.
They had been watching long before anyone had noticed.
Kai felt it before he saw it. There was a slight tremor in the stone underfoot, the way the mana in the air thickened with tension.
Then the roots surged upward, clawing through gaps in the flagstone, reaching for the closest target — the Mage.
The young man had been holding his own. His robes were scorched, sleeves rolled up, sweat plastering his hair to his temple. Fire danced in his palms, bright at first, then dimming by the second. Kai witnessed it all. The panic rising in his movements, the drain of mana leaving his limbs trembling. One spell. Another. The flames sputtered. Then died.
Three roots lashed forward.
The Mage raised a trembling arm. Too slow.
A blur of steel shot forward from Viscount Redmont, aiming to protect him. But the roots were faster.
They would’ve torn into his flesh if not for the glowing spell structure that burned to life beside them.
With a whoosh, Kai’s flaming disk carved through the air like a wheel of wrath. The edges spun, red-hot and screaming. Roots thudded onto the ground, hissing as they burned, blackening into ash and curling away.
Kai didn’t stop. Another swing. Then another.
The roots reeled back into the earth, disappearing into the holes they’d come from like wounded animals. Silence returned, broken only by the Mage’s collapsing breath as he slumped to the ground, alive but barely.
The others stared now.
The Viscount lowered his sword, breathing hard. His eyes fixed on Kai, not with surprise, but something heavier. Like a man who had waited far too long for someone to arrive.
"Count Arzan," he said, with fatigue thickly layered. "You’re here."
Kai nodded, stepping forward through the smoke. "Seems like the roots have been giving you trouble."
"They got worse two days ago. One of my men… didn’t make it. We burn them. Hack at them. Still they come. It’s like trying to drain the ocean with a spoon." He paused, then muttered, "If we don’t find the source, they’ll kill us before the plague does."
Kai’s gaze drifted to the retreating tendrils. “They are the same thing as the source. But don’t worry. That’s why I’m here.” He looked back at the Viscount. “We’ll stay the night. I brought a capable force with me.”
The older man blinked, then gave a small nod. “The Paladins and Clerics who arrived yesterday… they said the same. That they were here to purge the plague. Said your name.”
“I convinced the Church,” Kai said. “They’ve lost much to this plague. And if the people lose hope in the goddess now… we may never recover.”
Understanding dawned in the Viscount’s eyes. He gave a slow nod, more respectful than before. “I believe you’ve thought this through. I’ve assigned Knight Cais to lead my man to join the force and follow your orders. But… if you need another sword, I can fight.”
He straightened, fatigue visible in every joint — yet beneath it, the fire of an old warrior ignited.
“I’ve fought through wars in Vanderfall. Survived a dozen skirmishes. I won’t be a burden.”
Kai looked at him for a moment, then smiled faintly. The man’s spirit was admirable. Few nobles fought alongside their men. Fewer still bled for them.
“You won’t be,” Kai said gently. “But I’ll ask you to stay behind.” Kai’s voice lowered as he met Viscount's eyes. “If anything happens to you… I wouldn’t know how to face House Redmont.” He paused, then added quietly, “Truth be told, I’m not even sure of my own survival.”
That part, though, wasn’t entirely honest. Kai was sure he’d survive.
He always planned for the worst — escape routes, fallback spells. At worst, he’d lose the fight and run. But death? That wasn’t something he intended to meet in the next few weeks. And if everything worked—every formation, every backup plan, every spell structure etched in his mind—then maybe he wouldn’t even have to lose.
The Viscount studied him, jaw clenched. Then he nodded, slow and understanding, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of disappointment.
“I hope you do come back,” he said. “The kingdom needs men like you. I wasn’t sure of you during the fief war… but now I see it clearly. You’re an honourable man, Count Arzan.” He paused. “And honourable men… they should live long enough to earn grey hairs.”
Kai gave a small smile at that. “I plan to.” His gaze shifted toward the twisted lands beyond the stone walls—where the sky looked sicker, and the air carried a stillness that didn’t belong in any living place.
“I don’t believe the roots will be a problem for the next twelve hours. And if they are… I’ll deal with them.” His tone was flat, final. “I’d like to be shown my quarters for the night. I doubt I’ll get good sleep in the plague lands.”
Viscount Redmont dipped his head. “I’ve had good accommodations prepared for you and your men. You’ll rest well tonight.” Then he hesitated, as if weighing something, looking behind Kai, before adding, “But before that… would you care for a drink?”
Kai arched his brow.
“I’ve been saving a bottle of wine,” he said with a ghost of a smile. “Plundered it from the camp of a Vanderfall general. It’s old. Rich. Never found a good enough reason to open it… until now.” He turned, gesturing. “A final sip before the expedition. What do you say?”
Kai considered it.
It had been a long time since he’d drunk anything that wasn’t tea or potion mix. But it had been a ritual once. The best food and the strongest wine right before any battle . As if to remind himself he was alive before he risked it all.
And tonight? Tonight felt like the right time to rekindle old habits.
He gave a short nod. “Lead the way.”
Viscount Redmont’s smile deepened. “Good. This way, Count.”
***
They ended up drinking for hours.
What was meant to be a quick toast turned into a quiet night of stories and laughter over low lantern light and a half-empty bottle of plundered wine. Kai hadn’t expected the Viscount to hold his liquor so well. The man drank like a soldier who had survived too many wars and knew when to pretend it didn’t weigh on him.
He rambled, mostly.
Talked about his sons—how they trained with swords better than most knights, but refused to step onto the battlefield. Called them “soft-hearted” and “spoiled,” but there was no real anger behind it. Just a wounded sort of pride.
Then came the stories about his daughters—how they preferred sneaking off to flirt with the farmhands rather than attending balls or learning statecraft. It made Kai smile. The Viscount tried to sound frustrated, but the fondness kept slipping in.
He was a man caught between tradition and the children he couldn’t quite understand.
Kai listened. Said little. But it was enough. The wine dulled the heaviness that crept in his chest, and for a few hours, the plague, the roots, the death—none of it mattered.
He even got a few hours of real sleep.
When morning came, the courtyard before the fortress gate was in chaos. The expedition force had gathered, armored and alert, weapons ready. Dust kicked up under boots and hooves. The sky above was pale and grey, like it hadn’t decided yet whether to rain or not.
Kai stood at the front.
To his left stood Bishop Maurice, robes pristine and staff in hand. To his right, Knight Killian.
Before them, soldiers, Mages, Enforcers, Paladins and Clerics, stood in lines. Some looked nervous. Others were calm. All were waiting for his word. He had thought that a small speech before the expedition would do them good. Especially since war speeches were common and he knew what exactly he should say–Killian had made sure that he did.
Kai stepped forward, clearing his throat.
He raised his voice, letting it carry through the morning crisp.
“All of you have gathered here because you understand the threat that the dead mana plague holds for Lancephil,” he began. “You know what it did to Vanderfall. It didn’t just take cities. It swallowed families. Entire generations. You might think of them as enemies. But we are all servants of the goddess Lumaris. And the goddess sees no borders. Only her children. It’s our duty to avenge them—and to protect those who still live under our sky.”
Across the lines, Kai saw shoulders straighten. Backs stood a little firmer. Even the Clerics seemed steadier.
Religion. Patriotism. Glory. It didn’t matter which one moved them. They were ready. He continued.
“This will be dangerous. Extremely so. There will be no rest, not until the source is dealt with. But once the treant falls, the plague will stop spreading. And when that happens… we begin reclaiming what was taken.”
He looked across the faces—young, old, some hardened, some too fresh.
“Killian’s already told you what to expect, gave you the knowledge all you need for the plauge lands last night. But I believe every one of you has the strength to survive this. To return home as heroes.”
His voice rose.
“So I ask you now—are you ready to take on the plague lands and return victorious? Are you ready to fight a crusade for our people… and for our goddess?”
A roar of yes surged from the ranks—mixed with cheers, metal clanking, and even a few raised weapons. Kai let it wash over him, then lifted his hand for quiet.
“Good,” he said. “I want to see the same spirit when we cleave through the weavers and fiends. When we grant them the rest they were denied.”
He turned slightly, gesturing to the bishop beside him.
“I will lead you all. And I will be supported by the hand of Bishop Maurice himself. With him here… the goddess marches with us.”
Maurice blinked in mild surprise at the public declaration but gave a small nod, visibly pleased. Kai turned next to Killian, who gave a silent signal to begin the advance. Then, before stepping forward, Kai cast one last glance behind him—toward the fortress, toward the wall where Viscount Redmont stood.
And he nodded.
A final farewell to the Viscount who had helped hold the line. A man who, despite all, had stood firm.
Without another word, Kai turned back to the gate. The doors creaked open, revealing the dead lands beyond—twisted trees, grey fog, and soil that pulsed with wrongness. And with that, he stepped through.
The crusade had begun.
***
The road stretched ahead like a scar.
Beneath the morning haze, what used to be stone-paved streets were now cracked and uneven, swallowed by creeping vines and black moss that pulsed faintly with dead mana. The plague had soaked into the soil like poison into flesh—leaving behind not just rot, but something wrong.
Gareth tightened his grip on his sword as the wind shifted. Even through his helm, the stench made his stomach turn. It was then the silence cracked.
“Knight Gareth, this is the worst smell I’ve had in my whole life,” came a voice from his right, nasal and muffled through the slit of a full helm. “Feels like we’re marching through a pile of every beast’s shit mixed into one.”
Another armored figure on his left gave a stiff nod, shoulders rising in a silent huff. “Swear to Lumaris, I’m going to soak in a bath for three days once we’re out of here.”
“If we get out of here,” the first one muttered, quieter this time.
The tension was rising. He could feel it in the way their armor shifted—slower movements, heavier footsteps, more glances to the side than forward. Gareth exhaled through his nose, voice steady as he spoke before the mood slipped into something worse. “We’ll get out of here. Just keep your eyes ahead and follow Lord Arzan.”
That name carried something… soothing. It always did.
He continued, “We’re scouts. We don’t even need to fight unless absolutely necessary. A bit of stink isn’t going to kill us.”
There was a pause. Then, more softly, he added, “Once we map the area, you two can head back to report. You’ll get a taste of Lord Arzan’s purifying spell and be breathing fresh air again before the others even break camp.”
The two nodded. Even through the visors, he could tell—by the slight shift in posture, by the way they started walking just a bit straighter. Gareth turned his gaze back to the road.
This used to be one of Vanderfall’s main arteries—marked on the Viscount’s map as a well-maintained path that connected two cities. But now? Now it looked like a corpse.
Trees on either side were blackened husks, leaves long since fallen. Some had grown twisted and knotted, as if the land had tried to birth something new and failed. Carts lay overturned in ditches, skeletons of wood and rusted metal. Bones were scattered in the grime, cracked and sun-bleached. And still, through it all, the roads persisted—cracked, uneven, yet still there.
It hadn’t even been a full year.
And already the land looked like a memory—a forgotten place dipped in ink and left to dry in the dark.
The deeper they moved, the heavier the silence grew. No birds. No insects. Only the low groan of wind against branches and the distant, ever-present thrum of something unnatural humming beneath their
boots.
Gareth ignored the images swimming in his head—thoughts of what this place had once been, and what it had become. Focus.
They had one task: scout the border city up ahead.
It was the next major landmark. And from what they could tell, if the map still held true, they’d reach the outer edges by dusk. He raised a fist, signaling the others to slow. Both did without a word. Good. Fear hadn’t made them sloppy yet.
They kept to the edges of the broken road now, footsteps lighter. And then, time flew by.
Even after an hour of slow, careful walking, the city was nowhere in sight.
The wind howled softly through dead trees, brushing against the twisted remains of wooden signposts and burnt-out watchtowers. And yet, not a single stone wall, tower silhouette, or distant smoke plume—nothing to mark the border town they were supposed to scout.
From beside him, one of his men slowed, breath hissing through his helm. “Knight Gareth… are we on the right path?”
He was already pulling out the worn, smudged copy of the Viscount’s map, holding it up to the pale, grey light. Gareth didn’t answer right away. His own doubt was already creeping in.
“I’m thinking the same,” he finally muttered, eyes scanning the landscape around them.
Blackened earth stretched endlessly in all directions. In a way, direction itself felt like a suggestion. And they couldn’t afford to wander aimlessly. Not with the plague thickening the air around them.
Gareth stepped forward, glancing at both his subordinates. “Wait here for five minutes. I’ll be back.”
Their helmets turned toward him in unison. The unease was clear in the way one shifted on his feet, and the other’s grip tightened on his spear. He didn’t blame them.
He was the only Enforcer in their squad. If something came crawling out of the shadows, they would be the ones to stall it, and without his strength backing them, that might be the end of their story.
“You have your equipment. Your potions. You’ll survive five minutes. We don’t find that border town, we fail our mission.”
The silence that followed was tense — but eventually, both nodded. Good enough.
Gareth turned and inhaled sharply, mana coiling through his core and bursting into his limbs as he activated the vaults embedded in his legs. Shadow and force converging under his skin. And then—
He was gone.
The sadness around him blurred.
Ashen trees whipped past like streaks of ink, the ugly road replaced by nothing but a smear of motion. Wind howled in his ears. His boots skimmed ruined rooftops, vaulted over collapsed watchtowers. Each heartbeat stretched longer as he poured more speed into his movement, his shadow affinity merging him with the darker patches of the land as he weaved across the plague-touched terrain.
Still no city.
He traced the road again. Then the map. Then the landscape. All of it twisted, broken, wrong. And then—finally.
A glimpse.
Far to the west, half-hidden in fog and vines, something loomed. Square towers. Cracked stone. A jagged wall that looked like it had been clawed apart and patched back by time. The border town. Without delay, Gareth pivoted, channeling another burst of mana through his legs and vanishing back into the blighted woods.
He reappeared with a soft thud, landing silently beside his subordinates. Both of them flinched at his sudden return.
“Sorry,” Gareth said, breath controlled. “Took a bit longer than planned.” He straightened, pointing westward. “The city’s that way. I think we missed a fork in the road—must’ve been destroyed by a fiend. That’s why we got turned around. But now that I’ve seen it, we’ll get there fast.”
The two men exchanged a look, then nodded.
With weapons drawn and eyes sharper than before, the trio turned, heading west—toward the silent city that waited behind the mist, toward whatever still lingered inside its broken walls.
More than once, Gareth raised a clenched fist, signaling a halt. Each time, it was because one of them had appeared—first a lone weaver dragging itself across the road, then a small cluster of mindless fiends snarling and snapping at shadows. The scouts ducked behind crumbled walls, shattered boulders, or half-toppled carts, waiting in absolute stillness as the creatures passed.
Their orders had been clear, do not engage.
Every second lost in a fight was a second too long in these lands. They held their breath. Let the monsters move on. Then continued.
By the time they reached the town, Gareth’s armor was stained with ash and dried sweat. But the moment his eyes fell on the walls, fatigue vanished.
From a distance, the city still looked… alright. Stone ramparts, towers, the faint remnants of a banner clinging to a broken pole. Gareth could almost picture what it had once been—how this place must have stood proud on the border, guarding the heartlands of Vanderfall.
But as they got closer, that illusion crumbled like the wall before them.
Large gashes tore through the outer fortifications—holes, uneven wounds as if something massive had slammed through stone and iron without slowing down. Portions of the wall lay in rubble, claw marks visible even through the grime. Charred bones and armor remains littered the base, half-buried in dirt and rot.
Gareth didn’t like it.
If a creature large enough to do that still wandered nearby, they wouldn’t last minutes in a fight. Still, duty was duty. He motioned for the others to follow, and together they crept forward—through the breach, past the fallen stones, and into the hollow shell of the city.
And then they stopped.
All three of them froze.
The town was alive—but not in any way that word should be used.
Hundreds of weavers crawled across the ruins like insects on a corpse. Some skittered across rooftops, their misshapen limbs tapping on tiles. Others walked in the open, hunched and twitching, dragging chunks of corrupted meat behind them. The air was thick—choked with the stench of rot, bile, and something Gareth could only describe as wrongness.
Then he saw the source.
Corpses. Dozens. Maybe more. Fiends lay scattered across the ground, mauled and half-eaten. Weavers crouched over them, jaws tearing flesh from bone with wet, smacking sounds. And it didn’t stop there. Some were feeding on each other.
One weaver, its torso split open and barely stitched by tendrils of flesh, lunged at another, biting into its neck while the second creature thrashed in agony. And still, others watched with blank, stitched eyes—unmoved, unblinking.
Then Gareth saw the smallest of them.
Tiny weavers, no bigger than toddlers, stumbling through the filth. Some were alive. Others were not. Their unmoving bodies left out in the open, ignored by the rest. Like they hadn’t even mattered.
He felt something tighten in his chest. His subordinates were stiff beside him, unmoving, their heads slowly turning as they took it all in. Even through their armor, Gareth could tell—the stillness, the shaking fists, the sudden need to breathe deeper.
They were overwhelmed. He clenched his jaw and forced his voice low, sharp.
“Pull yourselves together.”
Both men flinched, heads snapping to him.
Gareth’s gaze didn’t leave the grotesque scene before them. “We’re not here to fight. Not today.” He stepped back slowly, never turning his back to the swarm of creatures. “We need to move. Now. This isn’t just another cursed outpost. This is a fucking battleground waiting to happen.”
The others nodded stiffly, their hands gripping weapons tighter as they began to retreat—step by slow, careful step. The city faded behind them. But its stink would follow them all the way back.
***
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2025-04-24 15:49:22 +0000 UTC
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Hello everyone, I'm pleased to announce that Book 1 is officially launched by Aethon books!
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2025-04-22 15:14:27 +0000 UTC
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Chapter 210
Once Bishop Maurice had realized there was no dodging involvement—not if he still wanted the greatest merit of his life—things began to move fast.
Kai knew he had hit the nail when Bishop agreed to all of his demands.
He hurried once he had gotten the support of the church, knowing he couldn't trust Viscount Redmont’s Mages. Not to keep burning the roots every day. They weren’t fourth-circle ones. They’d drain their mana, overuse potions and burn out. Using one spell for hours would exhaust one, not just physically, but mentally. Mana potions could only take one so far, and madness often took the rest.
Every hour wasted was another mile for the plague’s spread. He needed this done fast.
Thankfully, Killian didn’t waste time either. The knights had already wrapped up most of their duties in his new territory that required Enforcer presence, and all of them had returned to the castle—with new recruits in tow. Every week, more Mages and Enforcers were being brought under his banner through the testing program run by Claire.
And Balen—Balen had delivered.
With Tharnok, the grumbling dwarf at his side, their forge had run hot near every hour of the day. Rumor had it they slept in shifts, four hours at most, snatching rest between enchantments and reinforcement seals. It could be because of seeing Shakran so close, or the plague-twisted lands, or the urgency of war—regardless, it only lit a fire under them and they worked tirelessly. And the result of that fire now stood before him.
A full legion, armored in freshly forged lightwood sets, enchanted and battle-tested, stood in rows across the open yard. Their armor shimmered faintly, reinforced by warding lines etched into the plating. And each soldier stood firm, weapons in hand. Spears were the standard—perfect reach, ideal for airborne threats—but there were swords, axes, even glaives interspersed through the ranks.
Killian had insisted on it—every man trained in the use of multiple weapons and deciding the one they had the most affinity with.
Behind them stood the archers, lines straight, bows strung. And further back still, the support crews—blacksmiths, engineers, and handlers meant to maintain the golems, drones, and other mechanical contraptions Balen and Tharnok had cooked up.
They were followed by a small force of barbarians led by Brugnar. He felt like they would feel the absence of Yafgar and Ragnar. They weren’t here because they were working on the Berserker’s Path, and Kai understood—it was crucial in the long run. For now, Brugnar and his men would be enough alongside the rest of the force. He was just glad that they were able to send a good number of barbarians in such a short time.
And to the side, the Mages.
Cansor and Klan stood at the front, leading a tight formation of second-circle casters, each wearing light Mage armor and robes stitched with thread glimmering in the sunlight. Not one of them was here without proving their readiness. And yet, as Kai’s gaze swept across them, a cold thread of dread worked its way into his chest.
How many of them will survive this?
Beside him, Balen grinned, wiping sweat from his brow. “I believe they’ll make the weavers and fiends run for their cursed lives.”
Kai nodded slowly, eyes still on the soldiers. “They need to. We can’t afford to lose here.” He turned then, looking between Balen and Tharnok. The dwarf grunted, arms crossed, lips twitching at the rare thanks he knew was coming.
“Thank you,” Kai said. “Without the two of you, we’d never have had the resources to stand a chance against this plague.”
Balen cracked his knuckles, his grin toothy and proud. “I’m happy enough working on lightwood and golems. No better way to spend my days.”
Beside him, Tharnok let out a gruff snort, beard twitching. “Aye. Wasn’t much work. In my youth, I went on five days with no sleep durin’ the siege of Gruddenhold. Just make sure your lot don’t go aroun’ breakin’ the babies I made.” He jabbed a thick thumb toward the wagons at the back. “Those took the most dam’ed effort.”
Kai smiled. He knew exactly what the dwarf meant. The babies were the two prototype golems that had given Balen and Tharnok the most trouble—and the most pride.
His gaze shifted forward, landing on Killian, who stood at the front of the formation, already speaking with the lead Enforcers. Kai nudged his horse forward, reining in beside him.
“We’ll join the church forces at the gate,” he said quietly. “Then head for Fortress Aegis.”
Killian nodded once. “Understood.”
Kai studied him for a moment longer. Originally, he’d wanted Killian to stay back in Veralt—to watch over the nobles and handle the city. But the man had insisted on coming.
“Feroy can manage,” Killian had said. “You need strength on the field, not sitting behind a desk.”
He wasn’t wrong. Killian was their strongest Enforcer, and with a treant that corrupted mana and soil alike, Kai would need him. As for the nobles… Regina had no teleportation circle to abuse anymore, and security around Veralt had been locked tight. Even if she did pull something, she’d find herself caged fast. Kai had already arranged contingencies in case another Third-Circle Mage somehow got through.
They were ready.
He turned in the saddle. “Everyone! Mount up. We move in five!”
The formation broke. Soldiers jogged to their horses. Blacksmiths clambered into the wagons, securing crates full of gear and backup supplies. Golems and drones were tethered behind reinforced carriages.
Kai guided his horse toward the front, exhaling slowly and ran through the streets. As the gates of Veralt came into view, he saw people already gathering to watch—men, women, children lining the streets, whispering, pointing, staring in awe.
He offered a casual wave, keeping his expression calm. The story had already been planted among the commoners—a mana weaver infestation that had taken over a village. Dangerous, yes, but not enough to cause panic. The church’s involvement fit that story perfectly.
And then he saw them—white and gold glinting under the rising sun.
A small cluster of Paladins and Clerics stood waiting near the outer gate, two dozen strong, Bishop Maurice at their head. The bishop looked… tense. Nervous. His Clerics and Paladins wore standard issue robes and armor—well-maintained but uninspired. No enhancements on them.
Kai’s brow creased slightly looking at their numbers. He’d expected more.
Maurice must’ve noticed the look. He stepped forward hastily. “More will join us at Redmont,” he said quickly. “I—I wasn’t able to rally many in three days. But most of the Sylvan Enclave’s blessed Clerics and Paladins are en route. I called in favors. They will come.”
“Good,” he said, tone warm for once. “Get in line with my men. We move now.”
He turned then, eyeing the Clerics and Paladins. Most of them wore their nervousness like ill-fitted armor—fidgeting, glancing around, adjusting reins more times than necessary. It seemed like they had been told where they were heading.
Kai’s voice rang out, clear and firm, as he addressed them. “Those who can’t ride, get into the carriages. We’ll be marching without long breaks—short rests only. Our goal is to reach Fortress Aegis as soon as possible.”
A noticeable chunk of the church’s force—over a third—hurried toward the supply carriages, robes billowing as they climbed up with little grace. Bishop Maurice remained on horseback, as did the more seasoned paladins, but the energy was jittery at best.
Kai gave one last glance at the open gates of Veralt. Behind him, the armored force stood ready, sunlight glinting off weapons and armor. He raised his hand.
“Let’s march!”
The shout rippled outward like a war cry, answered by the thunder of hooves as the legion surged forward, galloping down the road toward Aegis.
The wind caught their cloaks and banners—and it wasn’t just natural wind.
Kai whispered the incantation under his breath, subtle formation lines glowing beneath his glove. A gust surged outward, subtle and controlled, wrapping around the hooves of every horse in the company. Speed surged. Dust flew. The long road began to shrink behind them. And they moved forward.
Initially, Kai had considered flying ahead. Scout the plague land, feel the mana corruption himself, and then return with a plan since he won't be able to fly around freely to conserve his mana into the plague lands.
But Killian had talked him out of it.
“They’ll need to see you ride with them,” he had said. “Soldiers remember that sort of thing. It matters.”
So he rode, cloak fluttering behind him, embedded in the center of the force. And despite everything, morale… wasn’t bad.
Whenever the horses slowed to a gentler canter or pacing stride, his men began singing. Not loud, not drunken—just rhythmic chants and melodies passed from old soldiers to fresh recruits. It was quite the experience.
Voices carried through the breeze, verses of bravery and dumb jokes in equal measure. Laughter rang out now and then, oddly grounding in the march toward death.
They’re calming themselves, Kai thought. Masking the dread.
He didn’t join in. He couldn’t. Bishop Maurice, riding beside him now, had taken to peppering him with questions that kept him busy.
“Are we expecting weavers only or will the corruption mutate beasts as well?”
“Both,” Kai answered. “The root system spreads its influence to anything with flesh and a will to kill.”
“What about divine resistance? Have your Enforcers been trained in church-based formations?”
Kai nodded absently. “Killian drilled them in two-layered formations. We’ll interlock with your clerics in sectors with a lot of enemies.”
It didn’t stop. The questions kept flowing, one after another, and Kai answered most of them—until finally, the bishop’s voice dropped, hesitant when they had been on the topic of the treant.
“So… it won’t be something you can take on yourself?” Maurice asked. “I thought you slew a vermorga. That’s not exactly a feat most mortals accomplish.”
Kai glanced at him, the corners of his mouth twitching. “I did. But I wasn’t alone. I had my men, my traps, and it was on my territory. I had time to plan. Control the battlefield.”
He turned back to the road. “This won’t be like that. And a treant isn’t something you take on alone unless you’re a peak Sixth-Circle Mage. Even then… you don’t delay. You strike. Fast and hard to finish it as soon as possible.”
Killian, riding to his left, cut in. “Why’s that, Lord Arzan?”
Kai’s gaze narrowed. “Because treants aren’t just monsters. They’re hive minds. Through their roots, they connect to everything they corrupt—fiends, weavers, corrupted men and beasts alike. You don’t just fight one creature. You fight all it controls. And if you wait too long?”
He paused, letting the silence stretch before finishing.
“You get buried under a forest of death.”
Kai fell silent for a moment, thoughts drifting to the old war records he’d read—first-hand accounts of battles against treants.
“The roots,” he finally said, “are what make it hell.”
Maurice looked over, eyes still slightly wide from the earlier revelations.
Kai continued, “The one advantage we have is that it can’t move. It's rooted. That limits its reach—but only so much. Its ranged attacks are bad, yes. Spore clouds, flying bark shards, even a mana screeching sound it lets out. But the roots?” He exhaled sharply. “Those are the real killers.”
The bishop’s brows drew in. “Can’t you just… burn them?”
“You can burn a root,” he said. “Maybe even a dozen. But imagine a thousand—thick, blackened things writhing through the air, fast enough to split stone, sharp enough to punch a hole through your stomach before you even see it. You burn a few, more just come up. Mages get overwhelmed. They falter for even a second, and they die.”
His tone flattened as his imaginations ran wild. Even the thought sent shivers down his spine. “If we want to win, it won’t be with a clean strike. It'll be a battle of attrition. That’s why I brought an entire force. If I could do it alone—I would’ve already.”
Maurice went quiet. Dead quiet.
For a moment, he looked as though he might bolt—eyes flicking down the road they’d come from, fingers tightening on his reins. But then he dipped his head instead, whispering soft prayers to Goddess Lumaris beneath his breath. His knuckles were white on the reins, but he didn’t fall behind.
Killian, meanwhile, looked… energized. The kind of man who saw a fight coming and met it with sharpened calm. “A hive mind controlling hundreds of weavers and fiends?” he muttered under his breath, smirking faintly. “Sounds like a battle that the bards would make songs out of.”
Kai didn’t smile. His mind was still working—mapping routes, adjusting the formations in his head, listing every measure he could take to bleed as little as possible.
There’s always something you don’t account for, he reminded himself. And it only takes one.
He’d brief the others once they reached Aegis—go over every tactic, every danger, every backup. They’d combine forces, unify formations. Then they’d move. As the hours passed, conversation dwindled. The further they rode, the quieter it became. The looming threat of the plague lands had begun to settle over them like a stormcloud.
Even the marching songs died out.
Of all the groups, the church forces were the most visibly shaken. Some whispered constantly with Maurice, others rode in tight clumps, white-knuckled and silent. To the bishop’s credit, he didn’t try to sugarcoat things—just offered words of resolve, hands clasped to his pendant between exchanges.
Kai didn’t mind. They were afraid, but they were still riding forward. That was enough.
By the time the sun began its descent, the dark silhouette of Fortress Aegis rose in the distance. A line of stone and reinforced battlements cut against the horizon—and with it, the tension spiked again. Horses began to fidget.
Soldiers sat straighter, eyes scanning every tree and shadow around them.
Kai felt it too—that pressure in the air. The sense that what came next would be different. He tapped his heel once, urging his mount faster. “Hard gallop!” he called, voice carrying like thunder. “Let’s finish this ride!”
The force surged forward one last time.
Within minutes, the outer scouts of Aegis spotted them. Soldiers poured from the gate, rushing to greet them—dozens in tight formation, led by a familiar face. Knight Cais.
Kai dismounted, brushing dust from his cloak as the rest of his men slowed to a stop behind him.
Cais approached with haste and bowed low. “Count Arzan. We’ve been expecting you. The rest of the expeditionary forces are here already. Viscount Redmont ensured we gathered every able fighter available.”
Kai nodded, eyes flicking past him to the fortress. “Good. I want to meet with all the different groups—Church, Mages, Redmont’s officers. We’ll hold a full briefing before we set out for the plague lands. I believe I should go check on Viscount Redmont first before anything.”
The knight hesitated then. Just a moment. Kai caught it.
“…Where’s the Viscount?” he asked, brow furrowing.
Cais straightened. “He’s on the walls, my lord.”
Kai’s frown deepened. “Why?”
Cais scratched his neck, but straightened when he saw the curious look on Kai’s face.
“You… should come see for yourself, Count Arzan.”
Kai gave a brief nod and turned toward the stairs, his cloak snapping behind him as he ascended with a handful of Enforcers in tow. Below, the clamor of movement filled the fortress courtyard—soldiers guiding horses, blacksmiths unloading gear, Mages being directed to their assigned quarters. They’d be spending the night here. No marching till morning.
But something was wrong. He could feel it.
By the time he reached the top of the wall, the reason hit him like a slap of cold water.
His eyes narrowed.
Beyond the stone parapets, the horizon was dark—not from nightfall, but from motion. Roots. Dozens of them, thick and glistening, writhing in the air like tendrils of some deep-sea monster. They twisted and lashed toward the fortress, sharp ends glinting in the dying sunlight.
And in the middle of it all—was the Viscount.
Armored and commanding, sword in hand, leading a small detachment of soldiers against the encroaching roots. Shields raised, spells slinging and blades swinging—none of it stopping the growth, only barely pushing it back.
Fuck, this is terrible.
His eyes went to a Mage who stood among them, hurling fire spells in rapid succession, but the flames sizzled harmlessly across the bark, not digging deep enough to burn. The roots were too wet, too saturated with dark mana.
Then, he looked at another man who was likely another Mage slumped against the far wall, breathing heavily, eyes unfocused. Spent. Likely the first caster, now replaced by the one still holding on.
There was no time for questions.
Kai's palm rose, mana already swirling to his fingertips. Lines of energy flickered into being, building a spell structure in the air before him with mechanical speed. The wind shifted around him—building, forming, waiting to strike.
2025-04-22 15:08:03 +0000 UTC
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Chapter 103
Their journey to Heiwu, the city closest to the vault, had been smooth—almost suspiciously so. Not a single beast had mistaken them for a midday snack, and the skies had remained a calm grey the entire way.
The city itself sat on the eastern edge of the empire, far from the regions Chen Ren was more familiar with. When he first learned the vault was hidden nearby, it had struck him how completely opposite it lay from the location of the Void Blade Sect. Whether by design or fate, someone had gone to great lengths to bury it as far away from the sect as possible.
According to Anji, the vault was sealed deep within a mountain—protected not by force, but misdirection. Complex arrays covered its location, bending perception and warping direction. Even if one walked right past it, they'd never know. Without exact knowledge, even finding the entrance was near impossible. Recovering the treasures hidden deep inside? That was another story altogether.
He spent most of the trip deep in thought, rethinking contingencies in his mind while the others enjoyed the peace of the road. That was fine. He didn't expect them to share his anxiety and even if they did, they didn't show it to face.
Once they reached Heiwu city’s outskirts, he ordered the carriage to stay hidden between dense trees, away from roads and eyes. From here on, only he and Yalan would go forward—into the city to find food, probe the local powers, and gather any rumours about strange happenings near the mountains. There was always a chance Blazing Ember Sect had gotten there first. Unlikely, sure, but not impossible.
If they had, He needed to know.
Anji had wanted to come along, but he had calmly refused. She was the only person from Void Blade Sect and needed to be hidden. He could understand her impatience—hell, he felt it—but understanding didn’t change facts.
Instead, he reached for Hong Yi’s mask and placed it over his face, his features morphing into that of an aged, wrinkled man. Disguise in place, he gave Anji a nod and slipped into the city with Yalan by his side.
It wasn’t much of a city.
More like a mining town with iron dust in the air and gunk-stained buildings lining the slope. Most of the people here earned their coin hauling ore or shaping metal—Chen Ren counted three smithies within the first two streets. But cultivation? That was rare. As they moved through the narrow roads, Yalan quietly pointed out only two cultivators in the entire place—both in the body forging realm, and from their ragged robes and wandering gazes, they looked more like rogue drifters than anything serious.
Good. That meant less eyes to worry about.
After a few casual inquiries, Chen Ren found the location of the town’s best-known tavern and made his way over. In towns like these, inns and taverns were more than just places to sleep or drink—they were the heartbeat of local gossip. And he needed information. Also, their food supplies had run thin during the journey, and while hunting a beast would’ve been easy enough, he didn’t want to risk leaving tracks or wasting qi. Jerky and flatbread would do just fine.
The place was called The Nine Heavens—a squat building with an uneven roof and a faded sign dangling on one hinge, certainly not like a heaven. But inside, the place was alive. Packed with miners and laborers, all loud voices and heavy laughter, buns and stew bowls in hand.
Chen Ren headed straight for the counter where a burly man stood, arms crossed over his apron-covered chest. The man gave him a quick once-over and grunted in greeting.
“Got stew, boiled grain, and roasted tubers,” the man said. “A meal will cost you four copper wen. Room’s another six.”
“I’m not staying,” Chen Ren replied with a faint smile. “Just passing through. Looking to stock up for the road—dried jerky, maybe something that’ll last a few days.”
“Ah, a traveler.” The man nodded knowingly, wiping his hands on a cloth. “I’ve got smoked jerky, dried flatbread, and some nut packs left from yesterday. All decent stuff. You’ll be looking at one silver wen for a good bundle.”
Chen Ren agreed with a slight nod, and the man shouted at a teenage boy darting between tables, “Go grab a pack for our friend here!”
As the boy moved to get it, Chen Ren waited until the counter was less busy, except for the customers who came for refills. This was the moment to ask what he needed. He leaned forward. “I was thinking of heading near the western ridges,” he said. The burly man’s eyes immediately came to him, for a brief moment and then he went back to wiping the dirty plates. “Heard there might be some wild berry patches around those parts—Askar berries, I think they're called?”
“Not exactly the west side,” the man replied, “but near enough, yeah. You’ll find some if you look hard enough, though beasts roam there too. Tier 1 types mostly. Nothing too dangerous, but still…”
Chen Ren gave a small chuckle. “I’m good at sneaking, and better at running. I’ll manage.”
The man grunted again but then hesitated. His thick brow furrowed for a moment. Chen Ren felt the man’s subtle opening, and his suspicion confirmed when he cleared his throat and leaned forward.
“Beasts aren’t what you should be worried about.”
Chen Ren raised an eyebrow. “No?”
The man extended a thick hand silently across the counter. Understanding the cue, Chen Ren slid a copper piece into his palm. The weight of it disappeared instantly.
“Yesterday,”he murmured, “a group passed through town. Didn’t look local. Dressed like travelers, but the kind who don't carry picks or shovels. Asking about the western side of the mountain too. Real loud about it. Caused quite a stir, then left before nightfall.”
That sent a twinge of tension through Chen Ren’s chest, but he kept his expression even. “How many?”
“Five. All cloaked. One of ’em had a big sword. Real shiny.”
“What kind of commotion?” Chen Ren asked, keeping his tone casual like he was asking about a road direction.
“One of them was a woman. Striking—pretty in the way that always stirs trouble in towns like this. Young master of the Windbone Clan spotted her and, well… thought he could charm her into spending the night.”
Chen Ren already had a bad feeling creeping down his spine.
“Didn’t end well,” the man continued with a half-smirk. “She didn’t even raise her voice. Just punched him square in the chest. Broke half his ribs and maybe more. He’s still struggling to stay alive.”
Chen Ren blinked, eyes narrowing slightly. “And the Windbone Clan let that go?”
“That’s the strange part,” the man said. “They haven’t done a thing. Sent a few men to confront them—probably looking for revenge—but they all came back quiet. No injuries, no fight. Just… came back.”
Chen Ren’s eyes widened, the pieces clicking into place. “They’re cultivators.”
The man nodded slowly. “That’s what the whole town’s whispering. Dangerous ones. No sect symbols on their robes, but even the Windbone Clan—wealthy as they are—won’t touch them now. They hold rights to three iron mines, mind you, and aren’t used to bowing their heads. If they’re staying quiet… Well, it means those cultivators aren’t just strong—they’ve got powerful backing. Something that the Windbone Clan can’t go against.”
Chen Ren didn’t say it aloud, but the thought echoed like thunder in his mind.
He asked a few more questions—about the Windbone Clan, the other local forces, the layout of the town—but his thoughts kept drifting back to the group that had come through just a day ago. It was too much of a coincidence. And he wasn’t the type to believe in luck, not when it came to things like ancient vaults and inheritance sites.
They found it. Or at least found something close enough to act on.
He left The Nine Heavens with a scowl tugging at the corner of his mouth, the dry bundle of food tucked under his arm now forgotten. He didn’t return to the carriage immediately. Instead, he wandered across the town, visiting other stalls, speaking to vendors and stable hands, confirming the story in pieces and rumors.
It was all the same. A cloaked group. One pretty woman. Dangerous. Unbothered by the Windbone Clan. Asking about the western forest.
If they were from Blazing Ember Sect—and every instinct in his bones screamed they were—then things had already grown far more complicated. By the time he made it back to the hidden carriage, dusk had begun to settle across the trees. Anji was perched on a boulder nearby, her expression distant, while Hong Yi sat cross-legged with a puppet in his lap, polishing its frame with a cloth as if it were a treasured weapon.
Both of them looked up as Chen Ren approached.
Without preamble, he dropped the bundle of supplies and said, “We need to change plans.”
Anji stood, her brows furrowed. “Why?”
“There are other cultivators heading for the same ruins. And I’m inclined to believe they belong to the Blazing Ember Sect.”
Silence dropped between them.
The weight of his words sank in immediately. Hong Yi stilled, his fingers frozen on the puppet. Anji didn’t move, but Chen Ren noticed how her skin lost a shade of color, the confident air around her faltering just slightly.
She tried to speak, then stopped. Even before she said a word, Chen Ren could already see it—the fear. Not of the fight, but of losing what they’d come for. And he felt it too. They were no longer racing time. They were racing an enemy they couldn’t afford to let win.
She had seemed relaxed throughout the journey—smiling occasionally, asking questions, reading a book she had brought when bored. But now, he noticed it. Her hand shaking furiously on her lap, fingers curling and uncurling at her side.
The mask was slipping. And for the first time, it looked like her worst fear had walked right out of her nightmares and stood in front of her.
“Ruthless heavens,” Hong Yi muttered, setting down the puppet he had been polishing. “What kind of coincidence is this?”
Chen Ren exhaled sharply. “Looks like we’re not getting an easy path after all.”
Anji pulled in a slow breath, visibly trying to steady herself before asking, “How strong are they?”
“I don’t know,” Chen Ren said, shaking his head. “But if the inheritance really holds as much value as we think, then they won’t send just anyone. Expect foundation establishment realm cultivators at the very least.” His gaze shifted to her, serious. “I thought no one else knew of it.”
“They don’t,” Anji replied quickly. “My father told me—information about the ruin is always passed down verbally. There’s no written record. It shouldn’t be possible for them to know.”
“But they know the location,” Chen Ren said flatly.
That silenced her. The fire in her eyes dimmed, and for a brief moment, doubt crept in.
He studied her carefully. If she was telling the truth—and he had no reason to believe she wasn’t—then the other group must’ve found it by other means. A rumor. A slip of the tongue. Or maybe just dumb luck. Either way, if they only knew where the vault was and not what lay inside, that gave Chen Ren’s group a single, narrow edge.
One they’d have to gamble everything on.
“What are we going to do?” Hong Yi asked. “Return to the sect? Wait for another chance?”
“No!” Anji snapped, stepping forward. “We can’t. If the inheritance falls into the hands of the Blazing Ember Sect, it won’t just be bad—it’ll be a disaster.”
Hong Yi frowned. “It won’t be good for you. Don’t act like we all swore some loyalty oath to your sect’s legacy. You’re the one that dragged us here. And now you want us to throw our lives away just to protect a few old scrolls and some inheritance you haven't told us about?”
“You’re NOT doing me a favor,” she snapped back. “You’re here for the manuals too. The treasures. Don’t pretend you’re just being charitable!”
Before the argument could spiral further, Chen Ren raised his voice. “Enough.”
They both fell quiet, though their glares still lingered.
“Fighting solves nothing,” he said. “We talk. We plan. Then we decide.”
He turned toward Yalan, who had been silent the entire time, her tail flicking lazily as she sat atop the carriage wheel. She lifted her head slightly, eyes glinting with intelligence, and chose—for once—to speak aloud instead of through the mind link. After all, there were no secrets here.
“I believe we should still head to the vault,” she said. “We’re close. If those cultivators don’t know what’s inside, we may still beat them to it. I see no reason to turn back now.”
Anji let out a breath, some of the tension lifting from her face. A faint smile touched her lips, grateful. But Hong Yi's scowl only deepened, arms crossed tightly across his chest.
Chen Ren shifted his attention back to her. “And what about the cultivators?”
Anji’s smile vanished. That was the real question.
“We plan around them,” Yalan said simply.
All eyes turned to her.
She flicked her tail, gaze resting on Anji. “Are you certain most of the vault’s knowledge is passed down verbally?”
Anji straightened, the tremble in her hand now gone. “Yes. My father was clear—there are no written records. Only trusted successors even hear about it.”
Yalan gave a small nod, as if she was satisfied with the answer. “Then we proceed assuming they only know the location. If the vault has restrictions—bloodline locks, formations that reject outsiders—then we already have the advantage. They might get there first, but getting in… that’s a different matter entirely. We just need to make sure none of them leave.”
Chen Ren grimaced.
She was right. If even one of them escaped and reported back, it wouldn’t just be a ruined opportunity—it could become a war. But still, the idea of killing people who weren’t enemies yet didn’t sit well with him. It wasn’t some duel over pride or honor. This was… preemptive. But what other choice did they have?
They couldn’t capture foundation establishment realm cultivators. If they tried, they’d just end up dead. No, the only way forward would be to lure them into the vault’s traps—if they could—and let Yalan handle the rest.
He felt far more suited to economic games and business rivalries. Profits, sabotage, trade blockades. Those didn’t involve much blood.
But this was the path of a cultivator. Everyone walked through blood eventually.
And Yalan’s suggestion made sense. He didn’t want to go back now—not when they were this close. And as long as no one learned their identities, they could finish this and leave without any trouble from Blazing Ember Sect.
He took a breath and looked around the group. “Let’s vote.”
“Vote?” Hong Yi raised a brow.
Chen Ren nodded. “Yes. Majority rules. We decide together.”
“Alright then,” he said, crossing his arms.
Chen Ren looked around. “Who’s in favor of going back? Raise your hand.”
Only Hong Yi lifted his. His two puppets, following his command, raised their mechanical arms beside him. He glanced at them, sighed, as if he knew that their votes didn’t count.
Chen Ren smirked. “Who’s in favor of going to the vault and taking on the disciples if needed?”
His own hand went up. Then Anji’s. Then, Yalan’s paw raised in silent elegance.
Chen Ren nodded. “I guess the decision’s made.”
“I still think it’s a tie,” Hong Yi grumbled.
Chen Ren walked over and patted his shoulder. “Don’t worry. It’ll be fine.”
Hong Yi narrowed his eyes. “How are you so sure? Foundation establishment cultivators aren’t pushovers. One of them alone can destroy a squad of lesser realm fighters.”
Chen Ren smiled.
“Because I have a plan.”
“A plan?” Hong Yi asked back.
“I thought of one on the way here,” Chen Ren said. “Now we just need to see if the vault is the kind of place where it’ll work.”
2025-04-22 15:06:51 +0000 UTC
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Chapter 102
The sound of Wang Fu’s footsteps followed him as he walked through the corridor. His eyes trailed at the murals and hanging scrolls that were on the wall, depictions of legendary elders conjuring flames into dragons, phoenixes soaring above burning mountains and lone cultivators tempering themselves in volcanic infernos.
But none of that compared to the qi.
It was all around the very air he breathed, coiling around his limbs. Just standing within the inner sect hall felt nourishing. It almost felt like the air was feeding his cultivation, filling his dantian and reinforcing his bones.
A few years ago, he had been wasting away his life in the outer courtyard, a nobody with dull meridians, and no hope of advancement. He remembered the cracked tiles he slept on, the cheap knockoff pills he peddled, and the rank stench of latrines he cleaned for coins. He had no fortune to call his own, no guidance to reach his goals, he was left with only a stagnant path to nowhere.
But now? He was breathing immortality. The one that everyone in this world wished for.
Disciples passed him, bowing with respectful nods.
“Senior Brother Wang.”
“Greetings, Senior.”
He gave a slight nod, allowing himself a small smile. Not arrogance—just recognition. These weren’t the same men who used to sneer at his patched robes or mock his failed breakthroughs. These were the ones who knew what it meant to survive in the Blazing Ember Sect.
And he had done more than survive. He had chosen the forbidden path.
At first, he hesitated. But desperation had carved open his heart, and once the decision was made, there was no looking back. He had nearly lost his life to a meridian expansion cultivator during his first field trial—his arms had burned for days, and he had been forced to gnaw on spirit leaves just to dull the pain—but he had endured. And survived.
As he neared the crimson double doors at the end of the corridor, he paused. On his left, the training grounds were busy with activity.
Rows of disciples meditated cross-legged atop blackened stone platforms, their bodies bathed in ambient flame. A few sparred under the watchful eye of a golden-robed instructor, their fists alight as they shattered boulders into red-hot shards. Further along, one fool had wrapped himself in a cocoon of fire, his skin bubbling and charring, only to reform with each breath. A trial by torment—for the legendary [Infernal Carapace Technique].
Wang Fu had tried that once. Lost three toes and the ability to sit for a week.
With the power coursing through his meridians, those training grounds felt like distant memories. The techniques the outer disciples bled to master were mere sparks to him now—childish attempts at kindling flame.
Still, Wang Fu didn’t linger. His destination was ahead.
He turned from the training yard, his pace quickening until he stood before an enormous set of crimson doors. Runes were alive across their surface, shimmering beneath the surface. He paused for a breath, taking in the craftsmanship—a seal of power, a reminder of who waited inside.
Then, he pushed the door open and stepped into the inner sanctum. Immediately, he was warped with the scent of burning incense and sandalwood.
And at the heart of the room, there awaited a man.
His silver beard reached the floor. His narrow, small, beady eyes stayed closed. His robes layered in gold thread and red silk, and embroidered with phoenixes wreathed in fire. He sat unmoving.
On either side of him, two female disciples attended to him, one fanning gently, and the other pressing her soft hands onto his back, fingers glowing faintly with soothing qi.
Both were beautiful, extremely beautiful. The kind poets would write in scrolls for hours. They looked untouched by time or hardship, chosen not just for their skill but for their bond to the elder.
Wang Fu’s eyes betrayed him for a moment, lingering. But just as quickly, he averted them. They were not his to desire. They were Dao Companions of the sect raegent himself.
His gaze lowered, and without hesitation, he dropped to his knees, his forehead touching the cold stone floor.
“This lowly disciple greets Sect Regent Shen Linao, Infernal Warrior of the Empire.”
He held the bow until a rough voice broke the silence.
“Raise your head.”
Wang Fu obeyed, lifting his gaze just in time to see his master flick his eyes toward the two women. Without a word, they bowed gracefully and glided out through a side door, their presence vanishing like smoke.
Now, the room felt different.
He was alone with his master, and that meant only one thing—Something dangerous. Something secret.
The last time they had spoken privately, he’d ended up barely surviving a fight with a meridian expansion cultivator and losing three of his toes while infiltrating another sect for over a year.
Still… This was how he’d gained power. And if his master was calling him again—then something important was about to begin.
Cultivation had never been a path for the safe and the soft. It was a road paved in blood, betrayal, and endless risk. And so, Wang Fu said nothing—he simply waited.
Sect Regent Shen's voice broke the silence again, rough, like stone grinding against stone.
“Your cultivation has improved by leaps and bounds. You’re approaching the bottleneck of the foundation establishment realm. Have you faced any issues?”
Wang Fu bowed his head again—not as deep this time, but still with reverence.
“This lowly disciple is grateful for the pills and treasures Master has bestowed. Without them, I would still be stuck clawing at the threshold.”
He paused, his lips tightening for a brief moment.
“There have been... whispers. Some inner disciples are jealous. Spreading rumors, questioning my progress. But none have dared act. Not with your shadow behind me.”
His master gave an approving nod. His eyes, deep like simmering coals, held a glint of something unreadable.
“Good. My shadow brings protection... but it also casts pressure. If you want to stand further within it—and perhaps one day cast your own—you’ll need to prove you're worthy of more.”
“I’m ready,” Wang Fu said without hesitation, fists clenched against his robes. “Whatever task Master commands, I will complete it. Even if I must burn for it.”
His master's gaze lingered on him a while longer before he finally spoke.
“There are two matters that require attention. The first is regarding the medallion to the Gate of Immortals. From the information I got, it resurfaced in Cloud Mist City. One of the Chosen Immortal’s own disciples attempted to obtain it, and failed. It is still in the region… for now. The task of retrieving it has been entrusted to me.”
Wang Fu bowed again. “Do you want me to retrieve it?”
Master Shen raised a single finger, silencing him.
“Not yet. First, the second task. After the war with the Void Blade Sect, we searched for their sect vault—the inheritance that was said to have been passed down since their founding. But we found nothing. Their grounds were scorched, their corpses burned, and their secrets buried. Until recently...”
Wang Fu straightened, spine tightening with anticipation.
“We finally have success.”
“That’s the best news, Master.”
Sect Regent Shen gave a satisfied nod.
“It is. After interrogating and torturing countless core disciples of the Void Blade Sect—all of it feeling like scraping ash—we finally struck gold. A tattered map, which is ancient and faded. But real.”
He tapped his fingers against the stone armrest.
“It leads to the vault. We still don’t know what traps or formations lie inside. Whatever protections their ancestors laid down have likely warped over the centuries. But the location is confirmed. And that... is enough. I want you to lead the expedition. Take a team, retrieve the treasure, and return everything to me.
“I would go myself, but I’m at the threshold of core formation. The next few weeks are critical—I can’t afford distraction. But you… you’ve already proven yourself.”
Through the usual, cold gaze, Wang Fu almost saw something akin to fondness—but before he could put it into his memory, it was gone.
“You were the sharpest dagger in the fall of the Void Blade Sect. Now it’s time to carve open what they tried to hide.”
Wang Fu bowed again.
“Then I will make preparations immediately. I’ll select disciples worthy to accompany me and head out at once.”
“Good,” Master Shen said. “But listen well, Wang Fu.”
Suddenly, pressure crushed down on him like a mountain had fallen from the sky. His knees buckled slightly even as he remained kneeling, a thin sheen of sweat instantly blooming across his brow.
“If you take anything from the vault for yourself—be it coin, pill, scroll, or shard—I will know. And unlike before, there will be no mercy. Others have done such things and lived because their betrayal was small. I will not allow such leniency with you. Not for this.”
Wang Fu’s entire body tensed, and he bowed until his forehead hit the floor again with an audible thud.
“This disciple understands, Master Shen. I swear on my soul—I will make sure no one dares to steal from your prize.”
The pressure lifted slowly, like a boulder being rolled off his spine. Master Shen nodded once, then reached into his sleeve and flicked his wrist. A flash of light, and a spatial ring arced through the air.
Wang Fu caught it instinctively.
“That ring will hold everything. Including the inheritance stone. There are spirit artifacts within the vault—some may aid you in surviving what’s inside. Use them if needed, but bring them back.”
Wang Fu stared at the ring in his palm, unable to help the gleam that entered his eyes. It was a valuable artifact and just the runes etched on it told him that it was far bigger than any other spatial rings he had owned.
“Don’t look at it like that. Even if you return with everything, even if not a single scratch appears on any of your companions, the ring won't be yours.”
Wang Fu’s fingers clenched tight around the ring.
He opened his mouth to speak, but before a single word could leave his lips, his master’s voice cut in again—calm, casual… and far more dangerous.
“But if you complete this mission well,” Master Shen said, “I will give you more of the Immortal Blood.”
Time seemed to freeze at that sentence. Wang Fu’s eyes widened, pupils contracting.
Immortal Blood.
Even a single drop was enough for him to break through his current bottleneck and achieve the realm he once thought was impossible for him. It was the treasure that had changed his life the first time—and now, another chance?
But Master Shen wasn’t finished.
“And more than that... I’ll let you have the two.”
Wang Fu’s breath hitched. He didn’t need to ask which two. His master smiled faintly, as if reading his disciple’s thoughts.
“I saw how you looked at them.”
His voice held no malice, only disinterest.
“I have a lot more dao companions. They’ll never surpass the foundation establishment realm either way. Beautiful, yes. Loyal, yes. But to me? Useless.”
The implication landed like thunder in Wang Fu’s chest.
Dao Companions. His Master’s own. To be offered such a thing wasn’t just indulgence—it was favor made flesh.
Wang Fu dropped to his knees again, bowing lower than before.
“You won’t be disappointed, Master.”
Master Shen gave no reply at first—only a long, unreadable silence. “I hope not.”
With that, the conversation ended. Wang Fu was dismissed with a flick of the hand.
The doors shut behind him with a soft thud as Wang Fu stepped back into the corridor. The light that filtered through the ornate windows felt different now—brighter, sharper.
His feet moved automatically, but his mind burned.
As he passed the courtyard again, his gaze flicked once more to the disciples meditating and practicing—same as before. Fists blazing, qi pulsing, sweat flying.
But now he grinned.
A sharp, crooked grin that didn’t reach his eyes.
They would cultivate for decades. Centuries. And they still wouldn’t touch his shadow. Not when he was about to ascend into the meridian expansion realm. Not when his blood would soon carry the essence of immortality itself.
They trained for a future he had already claimed.
He would become a powerhouse. Not equal to his master—never that. But his own mountain. A name to etch into the empire's halls of fame. The dao companions? He wouldn't lie—they were a reward he’d enjoy.
But they were fleeting.
The true prize was the Immortal Blood.
That shimmering crimson liquid that once touched his veins and changed everything. As the thought settled in, he felt it again—that tremble in his bloodstream. The way his core throbbed, the qi inside him stirring like molten lava beneath cracked earth.
His eyes turned red.
He quickly lowered his head, shadow hiding the gleam and bowed to get to the inheritance as soon as possible.
***
After making the decision, Chen Ren knew one thing for certain—he couldn’t afford to wait.
The Blazing Ember Sect had been searching for the vault for a while now. Now that he had decided to go there, he didn't want to give them any more time. It was prudent to clear it as soon as possible before they could even get a whiff off it.
So he moved fast.
When he told Anji about his decision, she looked visibly relieved, like a weight had been lifted.
“I wasn’t sure you’d go through with it,” she said, brushing her hair back. “But... I promise, it’ll all be worth it.”
He hoped so. Because now, it was all about preparation.
He wasn’t going to charge into the unknown like some hot-headed disciple in his first field trial. This was a sect vault—which meant traps, formations, maybe even ancient puppets or guardian beasts. Every mistake could cost them lives.
So the first question was, who was going with him?
Aside from Yalan and Anji, who were non-negotiable, Chen Ren decided on bringing only one more—Hong Yi.
There were reasons.
Zi Wen's fighting style was around his beast bonds. And if Anji’s description was accurate, the vault was built into a mountain and stretched deep underground. He didn’t want Little Yuze down there. The space would be tight, the formations would be layered, and a rampaging beast—no matter how loyal—would be a liability.
Not to mention, Zi Wen was busy these days trying to form bonds with the striker beaks, a species of flying beast that lived on the eastern edge of the surrounding forest and Chen Ren wasn’t going to pull him away from that. Those birds could fly and scout—things he might need later.
Luo Feng was too weak and not combat-oriented. A support cultivator without a strong defense was just extra weight in a place like that.
Feiyu was still refining his guns and working closely with Qing He on guns and even thinking of ways to build sniper rifles. Taking him now would just slow them all down.
But Hong Yi—Hong Yi brought something different.
His puppets were both shields and extra hands. Reliable. Durable. Silent. And more importantly, he had a history with secret vaults and inheritances.
So when Chen Ren mentioned the possibility of inheritance, hidden artifacts, and legacy techniques? Hong Yi agreed on the spot.
He didn’t even ask questions—just nodded, eyes already glowing with calculation as he returned to reinforce two of his older constructs.
With the team formed, Chen Ren wasted no time.
The vault wasn’t close. It would take time to reach it. So once everything was ready, they didn't delay and set off at once.
Even though all of them were cultivators, Anji wasn’t—not truly—so they decided to travel by carriage, keeping a low profile and sparing her the strain of keeping up on foot.
Inside the carriage, the ride was smooth, the rhythmic clatter of wheels against the dirt road providing a background hum. Chen Ren sat near the window, polishing a gun resting across his lap—one of the newer prototypes Feiyu had passed along.
It wasn’t as refined as the finalized model, but it would do.
Across from him, Anji raised a brow.
“Why’d you bring a gun?”
Chen Ren didn’t look up as he answered, running a cloth over the rifle.
“Testing purposes. If we come across any Tier 1 beasts, I’ll try it out. Also… helps me practice my aim. Lightning’s great, but hard to control—and right now, I’m still trash at precision.”
Anji nodded at that, settling back in her seat, but Chen Ren caught the amused glint in her eyes. He didn’t press it.
Instead, he shifted topics.
“So, how many days from the village to the vault?”
“Few days. It’s hidden pretty deep, though. Once we get there, we’ll probably be out in half a day—just need to get to the main vault, take everything and be on our way.”
“You think it’ll be that easy?”
“Why not?”
“You mentioned traps. And the vault’s entrance is near a forest. Forest means beasts. Hidden ruins usually mean layers of problems.”
Anji shrugged. “I’ve studied the place a lot. I’ve got a good idea about the outer formations and traps. I’ll handle them. The bigger issue is the guardians that protect the inner chamber. But if we reach the main vault hall, I’ll be able to handle them too. They’re programmed not to act against sect members.”
She sounded confident—too confident, if Chen Ren was honest.
He remembered her explanation from before. The guardians were golems, constructs built to defend the inheritance chamber against outsiders. Their task was simple, protect the legacy, destroy any not of the Void Blade Sect.
That’s why Anji believed they’d let her pass. Chen Ren didn’t argue. They probably would be fine.
Still… He leaned his head back against the carriage wall, exhaling slowly. He didn’t trust things to go smoothly. Not anymore. Maybe it was paranoia. Or just experience. Things always went wrong. Even Qing He had once told him, while elbow-deep in making gunpowder, that in cultivation.
“The heavens test everyone trying to climb higher. The road to immortality is supposed to be hard.”
Chen Ren didn’t know if he believed the whole “heavens are watching” thing. Sounded a bit too dramatic. As far as he was concerned, no divine judge was needed to make life hard. Life handled that fine on its own. But the thought that there was someone alive and judging—forget about it.
He wasn’t the type to brood.
He had a good feeling that something was going to go wrong. But he’d come out on top anyway. He always did.
***
Sorry for late post. I'm sick.
2025-04-20 17:59:05 +0000 UTC
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Chapter 209
Bishop Maurice felt a headache blooming behind his eyes.
Count Arzan sat before him—young, powerful, and far too cunning for the bishop’s liking. It wasn’t that the man had done anything wrong, per se. He was just the type Maurice despised dealing with, ambitious, unshakable, and untouchable.
The kind of man who had climbed the noble ladder too quickly. A Count now, after besting a Duke in a fief war. A powerful Mage, no less.
Maurice had hoped the King would clip the boy’s wings after the whole brother-killing incident. But even that hadn’t been enough. The King might punish him. Might. But men like Arzan Kellius had a way of surviving such things—and worse, rising higher from them.
That made him dangerous.
And the bishop knew it. And he wasn’t ready to take any risk. In fact, offending this man was the furthest thing he wanted. All he knew, the man was going to find himself seated higher among the nobility, making right friends in the capital and even getting the Pope's attention.
Still, Maurice really, really wanted to tell him to leave.
The bastard had interrupted his reading—right when the Dragon Rider and the Seeress were finally about to kiss. Maurice had been waiting six volumes for that moment.
Just then, this upstart Count had to barge into his hall with a straight face and asked for a small army. To enter Vanderfall. The cursed land. The plague lands. A country swallowed whole. It wasn’t brave. It was suicidal.
It was the kind of thing that earned you a heretic’s brand if you dragged paladins and priests into it. The kind of thing that got you excommunicated.
He opened his mouth to reject him. To say, “No, my lord, I don't have the authority.” To explain that whatever half-baked solution Arzan had found, it wasn’t worth the lives it would cost.
But something about the Count's gaze made the words catch in his throat. Unlike the Count, Bishop Maurice could run.
He could flee to the capital and let the Archine Tower or the royal family deal with the plague. That had been the plan ever since he’d first heard whispers of the corruption crawling toward the border. He hadn’t wanted to fight a plague—especially not one that turned people into those wretched demonic weavers.
So, he told himself he’d just hear the young Count out. Nod, smile, and find a polite way to decline. But then the bastard had said the words that had made his heart skip a beat.
“Just think about it. If you’re the one who helped lead the effort to stop the plague. If it’s your name that ends up etched into the sermons, spoken by survivors, praised in every other cathedral from here to the capital… how do you think that’ll affect your standing in the Church?”
And that—that—had made Maurice pause.
Because he did know.
A successful purge? Of Vanderfall? Saints above, that would be historic. It would mean promotion. A new title. Relocation to the capital, with real influence. Better quarters. Better wine. An easier life.
Even in The Dragon Rider’s Beloved, the main character had earned a title and the princess’s affection after rescuing plague victims. That whole chapter had made Maurice tear up—twice. And they had only just started— No. No, this wasn’t a storybook.
This was real. And agreeing with the Count would mean spending the Church’s strength. Paladins. Clerics. Lives. He wasn’t even sure the Church would allow it.
But... they should.
The rumors were clear—the Pope was tearing his hair out, what little remained of it, over the loss of holy sites and personnel in Vanderfall. The Church’s influence had taken a beating even in Lancephil. Something had to be done. This might actually fix it.
But then, of course, he’d be the one standing at the center of it. The one who either rose or burned with it. And Maurice wasn’t sure which was more likely. Not every kind of responsibility was a blessing. Some made you an Archbishop. Others got your head impaled on a weaver’s claw.
He stared at the Count again and finally spoke.
“Count Arzan,” he said, “you need to understand—the plague is too dangerous. From what I’ve been told, everyone who enters ends up corrupted. Even those who escape don’t last. It eats at them, until they—” he paused, grimacing, “until they turn. Or take their own lives.”
Arzan didn’t flinch.
“Then they don’t walk into it,” he said.
Maurice blinked. “They’re not birds, my lord. The goddess did not give us wings.”
“They don’t have to fly,” Arzan replied. “They just don’t have to go in as clerics. Normal robes, boots, gloves—they’re useless. Dead mana seeps through anything untreated. You want to enter and survive? You need full-body armor. Enchanted. Layered. Sealed. There are materials it can’t corrupt as fast. That buys us time. And if corruption does occur…”
He hesitated—but only for a second.
“I’ll handle it. Personally. I give you my word.”
Maurice’s eyes widened. “How?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
The bishop stared at him.
“You understand secrecy,” Arzan said. “Some things are better left unspoken.”
Maurice nodded. Reluctantly. He did understand, but he still felt like he was staring at a noose, one that was slowly being lowered around his neck. But the Count… looked so damn confident. And more importantly—he’d delivered results before.
Maurice wasn’t a fool. He didn’t trust people easily. Hell, he didn’t like people. But he respected competence. And if things started to go wrong… well, the Church could always pull back. Arzan wasn’t their superior. He could only ask for aid.
That gave him just enough space to breathe. Just enough space to consider saying yes. The bishop eyed the Count carefully.
“How long,” he asked, “until you can deal with the plague?”
Arzan didn’t miss a beat. “Roughly two weeks,” he said. “That’s to reach the core and neutralize the root of the corruption. We’ll be moving constantly. Minimal rest. Even at night, we’ll take short shifts but stay mobile. I don’t plan on letting us linger anywhere too long.”
Maurice nodded. That made sense. He couldn’t imagine anyone willingly sleeping in the same spot inside Vanderfall more than once.
“And how confident are you?” he asked, this time watching the Count’s expression more closely. He expected a flicker of hesitation. Even the slightest doubt. But Arzan simply answered, calm as ever.
“I’m fairly confident,” he said. “We won’t be able to cleanse all of Vanderfall, but we can halt its spread. That’s our true goal.”
Maurice leaned back slightly, fingers steepling. That was enough. The Church wasn’t looking for miracles—just containment. And so far, the Count was checking all the right boxes. Still, he asked more questions.
The army’s composition. The threats expected within the plague lands. Methods to counter the corruption, shield the clerics, and treat those exposed.
And with each answer, the bishop felt the same nagging truth sink deeper, Arzan had done his homework. Thoroughly. This wasn’t a desperate gamble—this was a calculated move. Maurice didn’t like it. He didn’t like being outmaneuvered. But he liked being left behind even less.
The Church would be satisfied with this much. Maurice might even earn his long-desired promotion. But… he wondered if he could squeeze a little more out of this. People, in his eyes, were like a brimming coin pouch—if you were clever, you could always take just a bit more before they noticed. After hearing everything, he leaned forward, offering a generous smile.
“I think your preparations are quite solid,” he said, voice pleasant. “I believe the Church would be more than willing to send aid. Some of our clerics and paladins would be honored to assist in such a mission.”
Arzan’s lips curved into a faint smile.
But Maurice wasn’t finished.
“Of course,” he continued, tone tightening just a fraction, “I’m not sure how many we’ll be able to provide. Not right away, anyway. This is still a developing plan, not yet an official doctrine. It would take considerable… effort on my part to gather the right support, you understand.”
He waited. Expecting the usual reaction. Tension, a bribe offer, perhaps a veiled threat masked in courtesy. Instead, Arzan smiled wider.
“It’s alright,” he said with a subtle sigh in his tone. “I wouldn’t want to trouble you too much.”
Maurice blinked.
“Before coming here, I sent a letter to Bishop Carridan in Veyrin,” the Count added. “If you’re unable to provide assistance, I’m fairly certain he can pull together a sizeable force from the Church there.”
The bishop’s smile vanished.
Carridan.
Of course it was him. That silver-tongued bastard.
The goddess’s temple in Veyrin had flourished under Carridan's leadership—and now that Veyrin was practically under Arzan’s thumb, it made perfect sense. Carridan could do it.
But had the letter really been sent? Or was this just a bluff?
Maurice stared at the Count, trying to read beneath the words. But Arzan’s expression didn’t flicker. He looked calm, he looked polish—the type of demeanor a politician had. And worse, the type to remember slights.
If Maurice refused now and the purge succeeded under Carridan’s banner, all credit would go to him. And Bishop Maurice would be left with nothing but regret and the ruins of a missed opportunity.
No, he thought bitterly. I’m not letting that bastard take the glory. Not this time.
“Actually…” Bishop Maurice straightened suddenly, offering a warm smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Now that I think about it, I might be able to gather a decent number of people. It’ll take calling in a few personal favors, of course, but if it's to stand against the plague that’s taken so many lives…” He gave a gracious nod, folding his hands as if burdened by virtue. “Then I’ll do my utmost.”
He gave a little chuckle, light and dismissive. “There’s no need to bother Bishop Carridan. I’ve heard he’s quite busy with the reconstruction efforts in Veyrin. Especially after your generous donations.”
Arzan inclined his head slightly.
“I’m glad to hear you’re offering such support to this cause,” he said. “Once you have a number on how many you can spare, send them to the estate. We’ll be departing soon.”
Then he paused. Just long enough to let the silence draw a thread of unease before he added,
“Thank you, Bishop. I can only rely on your thoughtfulness in difficult times like these.”
The words were pleasant. Even appreciative. But Maurice heard what wasn’t said just as clearly. He was being boxed in. The Count had laid the trap neatly—left him only one path that wouldn’t make him look weak or replaceable. Internally, he sighed. As if I had a choice.
Outwardly, he smiled, the very picture of a holy man eager to serve.
“Yes, yes… of course. May the Goddess guide our hands,” he said smoothly.
But as Arzan turned to leave, the bishop’s eyes lingered on his back. This better work, he thought. If not, I’ll be the one pushing good men to their deaths. And for the first time in a long while, Bishop Maurice felt the weight of a future that wasn’t entirely in his hands.
***
Wind stirred the air, rustling through brittle, blackened leaves that clung to the treant’s limbs. It felt each gust like a memory, brushing past the huge figure of rot and silence, standing unmoving upon a field of ash and dead soil. The land beneath its roots had once been green—alive—but that was before it had awakened, before its presence had sunk into the marrow of the earth and remade it in its own image.
Now the earth cracked and steamed with quiet corruption. And from that cracked earth, its roots spread like veins—feeding, expanding, claiming.
Small fiends skittered up and down its massive trunk, their clawed limbs scraping bark that pulsed faintly with unnatural energy. They were mindless things—born of pestilence and death—but they clung to the treant as if it were a god. To them, it was.
Around it, the air was thick with decay. Weavers, once-men twisted into impossible shapes, sat in reverence. Their hollow faces lifted toward the treant, blank eyes wide with worship. Bigger fiends—stronger beasts whose flesh had been warped by corruption—rested at its feet like hounds at the side of a master.
They were his children now. Once feral, once free, now made perfect.
Once cursed with limitation, now blessed with purpose.
They had been remade by the treant’s influence, touched by its roots, molded by the essence of death itself. Now they stood guard, silent and waiting, ready to tear apart anything that dared come close to the heart of the plague.
And they would not be the last.
Even now, deep below the surface, its roots continued to spread—a slow, implacable crawl of black tendrils that threaded through stone and clay, poisoning everything they touched. Grass died. Trees withered. Small animals that once burrowed now screamed in silence as their bodies were broken and reborn. The treant saw it all through those roots.
It felt everything. Every single thing.
In the north, it watched the humans run. Desperate. Weak. Their minds filled with panic as they tried to flee his spreading dominion. But they would not escape. No one ever did. They would fall. Sooner or later. And when they did, they would join the weavers.
In the west, his roots pressed through jagged mountain stone. There, fire licked the edges of his growth—natural heat, perhaps from deep fissures or long-slumbering volcanoes. It hurt. The fire hurt. But it did not stop it. Pain was temporary. Its will was not. Beasts roamed those slopes, and already some had been taken. Not by force—by inevitability.
In the east, its roots had stretched to the continent’s edge. Beyond them lay the ocean—vast, endless, unknowable. It stirred something inside, an unfamiliar curiosity. But it was not ready for the sea. Not yet. One day, perhaps, it would send his roots beneath those waves and claim even that domain. But today was not that day.
No.
Today, its attention turned south.
It saw something there. A great human settlement. Alive, bustling. Full of scared, fragile beings clinging to stone walls and firelight. A city. A prize.
A nest of future servants. its roots were already beneath its outskirts. Watching. Listening. Slowly bleeding poison into its foundations.
But then—Pain erupted.
A flash of it, hot and sudden, tore through his senses. One of his roots burned. Severed. Destroyed. Through it, he saw a man. A human Mage, casting flame. Fire rained down upon his tendrils—intentionally, not accidental. And when the roots regrew, the man burned them again. Over and over.
It hurt.
It angered.
Its branches quaked, limbs groaning like a dying forest. The fiends perched upon the massive treant shrieked and fled, terrified of the ancient fury awakening beneath them.
The man was gone now, already vanished into the safety of his stone walls. But others remained. More humans, moving in groups, finding the roots and burning them. They thought they could stop it. They were wrong.
It poured power into the earth, forcing its roots to surge forward—faster, thicker, stronger. The ground twisted. Rocks cracked. New tendrils burst from the soil, black and pulsing.
The humans hesitated. He felt their surprise. But they did not stop. They pressed on.
And that was when the treant understood: it could not keep this up. Not like this. Not with them burning its limbs faster than it could regrow. Not without sacrifice.
So it reached inward, tapping into the pulse that connected him to every corrupted beast, every twisted man, every loyal servant that drank of his rot.
And he gave them one command.
Move! Kill!
A single thought.
Immediately, the weavers and fiends around him stirred, rising from their stillness like puppets pulled by invisible strings. They did not question. They did not speak. Their bodies rippled with readiness.
With crazed howls and chittering cries, they launched southward—dozens, then hundreds—running through the blighted plains and charred forests, straight toward the human city.
Let them burn the roots.
Let them fight.
In the end, they would all kneel.
Whether in flame, in death, or in perfect, rotting silence.
***
Sorry for late post. I'm very sick.
2025-04-20 17:55:53 +0000 UTC
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Chapter 208
In the long-spun history of the world, there had only ever been three great powers.
The first two were well known—Mages and Enforcers. Paths of cultivation etched in blood and wisdom, refined over centuries, both reaching toward the same peak, absolute power. Some even claimed immortality sat at the summit. Their existence was orderly, structured, with steps to ascend and names to remember.
But there was a third.
It wasn’t the Spirit Trainers of Sylvastra, nor the beast-bound clans blessed by dragons or phoenixes. No—this power was older, quieter, and, by the third golden era of magic, nearly extinct.
The Church.
Not the kind that babbled sermons for coins or waved banners for invisible Gods. No, the churches of old had power—real power. Their Gods existed. Beings born from the raw concepts of the world—elementals shaped by virtue, given form by belief, and strength by worship.
Faith, it turned out, was a God’s mana.
The more hearts bent in devotion, the more power the divine could wield. And with that power, they blessed their followers. A bishop’s prayer could mend bones a healer couldn’t. A paladin’s strike could cleave a weaver in half. And while they never ruled a kingdom, it wasn’t because they lacked strength.
It was because they lacked progress.
Unlike a Mage who advanced through knowledge, or an Enforcer through grueling mastery of body, a believer could only go as far as their God willed. Their strength plateaued until the divine saw fit to raise them—and the Gods, distant as they were, often remained silent for centuries.
That, more than anything, limited the church’s reach. Especially in Lancephil.
Here, the dominant temple served the goddess Lumaris—a deity of light and life. While paladins did exist, used to combat weavers and beings the Church openly labeled as demons, the vast majority of the blessed were healers. Gentle hands and closed eyes. No kingdoms were built by those who only mended broken men.
Still, they had their use.
During the fief war, Kai had used the church extensively. His men had bled in battle—and it was within the tall, pale-stoned cathedral he’d erected that many had been saved. His Mages didn't have the capacity to heal everyone and potions could only be used so much, so he had brought the injured back to the Church. Bishop Maurice had overseen it all, and since then, Kai had left him to his devices, trusting one of Francis’s apprentices to maintain contact.
But now, that silence had gone on long enough.
After the encounter at the wall and the truth of the plague’s roots revealed, Kai knew he had to act fast. Before leaving, he told Viscount Redmont to continue burning any roots they uncovered and prepare a force for the expedition.
“I’ll return in a few days,” Kai said, already preparing the spell to propel into the sky. “With Mages and men. Enough to push into the heart of the plague.”
Redmont wasn’t thrilled. He argued, predictably. “We should wait for Archine Tower. More reinforcements would be better for us.”
Kai’s gaze hardened.
“By then, it’ll be too late. The treant will grow stronger. And if it slips past your walls, it won’t stop at Aegis. It’ll reach the heart of Lancephil itself.”
That shut the Viscount up.
What Kai didn’t say was that he didn’t want Archine Tower’s Mages near the expedition. He trusted none of them. Paranoia, perhaps—but one betrayal in the field could doom them all.
After settling matters in Aegis, Kai didn’t linger. He flew back to Veralt with wind curling at his heel. His landing was quiet, but his presence was immediately noticed. Killian found him first—armor scuffed, eyes sharp.
“Lord Arzan,” he said, following it up with the question: what happened?
Kai gave a short, efficient briefing. The plague. The roots. The treant. Enough to make the man’s jaw tighten with concern. In return, he listened to the updates, particularly about Balen and every project he had been working on. Gear production had advanced—enchanted insulation and anti-corruption linings were being tested, and his army was in the final stages of mustering. Not enough yet. But close.
After confirming the direction of progress, Kai didn’t waste a single second.
He took a carriage toward the Church district accompanied by Gareth, watching from the window as Veralt’s newer streets blurred past. Stone mixed with scaffolding, workers sweating under banners bearing the crest of the goddess.
When he arrived, he stepped out and found himself standing before a building that now towered over its surroundings. The cathedral had grown by a lot in the past few weeks and now was one of the biggest buildings in the city, renovated to fit the current aesthetic of the era.
Smooth white stone carved with delicate motifs of wings and vines stretched towards the sky, sunlight glinting off its high arched windows. From what Kai remembered, the first floor housed the main cathedral hall—already functional. But now the structure has grown taller. Upper floors were being fitted with classrooms to “guide the young,” or so Bishop Maurice had insisted.
Kai didn’t like it.
He’d agreed on one condition, classes only on weekends, and completely optional. He had no desire to raise a generation of children who only knew piety and obedience to doctrine. The Church, at least on paper, had agreed.
Now, with Gareth walking quietly behind him, Kai stepped through the wide double doors. It was the middle of the week, yet the cathedral was far from empty. The soft murmur of whispered prayers echoed off high ceilings. Incense lingered faintly in the air, and the pale light filtering through stained glass painted the stone floor in shifting colors.
Every time someone noticed him, they bowed—low and reverent. Parents nudged their children to mimic the gesture. Some even dropped to one knee.
Kai gave brief nods in return and kept walking.
They walked up the polished stone staircase. On the first floor, a Cleric in pale gold robes turned the corner, nearly walking into them.
He froze, wide-eyed.
“This humble servant of the goddess Lumaris greets you, my lord,” the Cleric said, recovering quickly into a bow. “What can I assist you with?”
“I’m here to speak with Bishop Maurice,” Kai said, already stepping past him.
The man hesitated, his polite mask faltering. “The bishop is currently in his office, my lord. He’s asked that we not disturb him today. He is... engaged in important work.”
Kai raised an eyebrow, voice dry. “I think that restriction was meant for you. I doubt he’d mind a discussion with me. Lead the way.”
The Cleric’s grimace said everything. But there was no real choice. He turned with a muted sigh and led them up another flight of stairs, pausing only when they reached a wooden door marked with delicate golden script.
“He’s inside,” the Cleric said, gesturing toward it. Kai nodded.
“Wait here,” he told Gareth, then raised his hand and knocked twice.
From within came a muffled, irritated voice. “I told you all not to disturb me! I will ask the goddess to burn you where you stand—”
Kai opened the door.
The voice cut off instantly.
Inside, Bishop Maurice stood frozen mid-sentence, a half-eaten slice of strawberry cake hovering above his desk. A steaming cup of tea sat beside a book—its gaudy cover depicting a shirtless man with a dragon tattoo embracing a wide-eyed princess against a flaming sunset.
For a second, they both just stared.
Kai arched his brow. “I didn’t mean to interrupt,” he said slowly. “But I had something important to discuss. I hope I’m not stealing time from...”
His eyes dropped deliberately to the book. The bishop’s face turned red. He had taste, Kai could give him that.
“...your leisure period.”
Maurice coughed violently, slamming the book shut with a flick of his wrist. “A... just a fictional work! Helps with stress. You know how it is. Please—close the door.”
Kai stepped inside and did as asked, quietly shutting them away from the rest of the Church.
“I didn’t know you were coming,” the bishop said as he waved him to the seat across from his desk. “Had I known, I’d have cleared my schedule.”
“It’s fine,” Kai said, sitting. “I only just returned from Fortress Aegis.”
Maurice leaned forward, fingers laced. “Trouble across the border? I doubt it’s Vanderfall. From the whispers the devotees brought, they aren't in a good shape.”
“You are right. It's not their army. It’s the plague. It’s threatening to break containment. If we don’t act, it’ll reach the fortress... and from there, it’ll spread into our lands.”
At that, Bishop Maurice’s face lost its color.
Not subtly. His lips parted slightly, a thin line of sweat already forming at his temple. Kai could practically see the gears turning behind the man’s eyes—already thinking escape routes, fallback cities, plausible deniability. If Maurice had a bag packed beneath his desk, Kai wouldn’t have been surprised.
Too easy to read, Kai thought. The bishop’s face, for all its careful composure in public sermons, betrayed every emotion now. Guilt. Fear. And more importantly—knowledge of what the plague brought with it.
“I know the plague already destroyed most of your churches in Vanderfall.”
Maurice flinched—just a twitch—but that was enough.
“And I’ve been hearing whispers,” Kai continued. “That people over there are starting to lose their faith in the goddess.”
The bishop said nothing.
“It’s natural,” Kai went on. “Especially when the first ones to flee were the priests. I’ve heard they called the plague the curse of the goddess.”
That snapped the bishop out of silence.
“You need to understand,” he said, voice tight, almost pleading, “our priests had no way to stop the plague. They’re as vulnerable as any common man. Most aren’t fighters. They weren’t abandoning their people—they were trying to survive.”
He straightened, a flash of the old fire returning to his tone.
“Despite that, we’re still doing everything we can. We’re using our divine power wherever possible. Healing. Warding. Blessing food. Anything to help.”
Kai gave a slow nod. “And I do appreciate that. Truly. What the Church is doing is commendable.”
He let the pause stretch, just long enough to make the next part land like a blade.
“But it doesn’t change the truth, does it? The Church is losing its power.”
The words hit like a stone in water. The ripples showed in the bishop’s eyes. He didn’t deny it—just gave a slow, reluctant nod.
“And that means,” Kai said, “the goddess will stop giving out as many blessings.”
This time, the nod wasn’t just reluctant—it was forced. The man stiffened, eyes flicking to the side like a guilty child caught stealing food off the altar. He hadn’t expected Kai to know that much.
But he did know. More than most.
Though it was no longer widely taught, especially outside theological circles, it was once common knowledge that the divine drew their power from an energy called faith. Pure belief. The kind that bent knee in prayer and whispered names to the sky. The less faith a god received, the weaker they became. It wasn’t universal. Some gods—like the old God of war or the Beastmother—had no temples or hymns, yet retained their natural strength. Their power waxed and waned with worldly events. The god of war rose in times of bloodshed, when battle cries echoed across nations. The Beastmother surged when great beasts evolved—when instincts gave way to cunning and command.
But the goddess Lumaris… She was different. Her existence, her very identity, was bound to devotion. Built on belief. Her strength didn’t rise during war or chaos. It withered. And now, with so many churches destroyed and worship crumbling in the west, her power—like her blessings—was beginning to fade.
Maybe Maurice didn't understand the mechanism. But he felt the symptoms. Fewer worshippers meant weaker blessings. And fewer Clerics and Paladins that could be fielded in battle. Kai could see the weight of that realization setting in across the bishop’s face, and for the first time since entering the office, he felt like he was in full command of the conversation.
So he leaned in.
“I’m sure the Church headquarters in Lancephil is doing what it can,” he said evenly. “Trying to hold things together. Scrambling to respond.”
The bishop sat straighter, trying to recover composure—but he didn’t interrupt. Not anymore.
“That’s why I came here. Because I think we both know that if something isn’t done—now—there won’t be much of a Church left to argue over.”
Bishop Maurice straightened, spine stiffening as if trying to pull himself back into the grace of conviction. “We are trying to find a way to end this plague,” he said, his voice laced with earnestness—perhaps too much of it. “Not for our churches, but for the people of Vanderfall.”
He paused, as if waiting for Kai’s reaction, then added, “I know Lancephil and Vanderfall are at odds, Count Arzan—but the Church does not take sides in political conflict. We care only for the good of the common man.”
Kai smiled, but not with warmth. It was a polite smile. Noncommittal. A smile that said you speak well—not that I believe you.
He had read the bishop well enough by now. Maurice wasn’t a bad man. But he wasn’t a saint either. The idea of him losing sleep over starving villages on the other side of a contested border was laughable. No, his concerns were closer to home—his title, his blessings, the slow erosion of faith creeping toward his doorstep.
“So,” Kai said, “has a solution been found yet? With the plague now pressing into Lancephil,” he added, “I imagine the urgency is growing.”
The bishop’s expression shifted—his lips pressed together for a moment before he gave a reluctant nod. “That’s true. From what I last heard, our headquarters has been organizing mass gatherings. Vigils. Unified prayer.”
His gaze rose to the ceiling as if drawing strength. “We’ve asked the goddess to show us the path forward in this time of darkness. And I believe she will.”
He’d heard that kind of hope before. Delayed hope. The kind that looked upward and waited for rescue rather than acted. The kind that drowned kingdoms.
The gods won’t save you, he thought. Not unless you drag the problem to their main altars and beg loud enough to shake the stars.
They were beings of ego, not empathy. Above mortals, yes—but not beyond need. In the end, even they had perished, just like the rest, when the second golden era’s tide of dead mana swept over the land and the faith in any god had ended. Kai folded his hands together, calmly.
“I don’t doubt the goddess will show us the way,” he said. “But we don’t know when that will be. And as you know, she trusts her followers to resolve the problems before her intervention becomes necessary.”
The bishop sighed. “That may be true. But our abilities are limited, Count. There’s only so much the Church can realistically do—”
“No,” Kai cut his bullshit off right there. “I believe the Church can do a great deal.”
“A... great deal?”
Kai nodded. “The Church can be a central component in solving this plague crisis. Not a support. A pillar.”
That took the bishop by surprise. His mouth opened, but no words came out for a second. Finally, he tilted his head, narrowing his eyes.
“How? Even the Magus of Vanderfall have failed to contain it.”
“That’s true,” Kai agreed. “But every problem has a solution. And while I may not hold the title of Magus yet…”
He met the bishop’s gaze squarely, letting the words land like iron.
“I have the solution to the plague.”
The bishop stared. There was a flicker of disbelief at first, brief but visible in the slight twitch of his brow. But as the silence dragged on and Kai’s expression remained deadly serious—calm, resolute, certain—the bishop’s skepticism faltered.
“You’ve found a cure? A cure for the ones afflicted?”
“No,” he said. “Unfortunately... not a cure. Not at any meaningful scale.” He paused, then added, “But I have found a way to hold the plague in its tracks. To stop it from spreading any farther. No more towns lost. No more roots crawling beneath our feet.”
Maurice leaned back slightly, the tension in his shoulders rising again.
“It won’t require decades of research,” Kai continued. “No esoteric rituals. No divine miracles. Just brute force. And a lot of people willing to march into plague-ridden Vanderfall.”
At that, the realization dawned behind the bishop’s eyes.
“You’re here for our forces,” he said, sitting straighter. “The Church’s men.”
His voice held a note of quiet dismay, as though he'd just seen the size of the monster outside his door.
“You must understand, Count... Most of us can barely function as support in battle. We heal, we protect, we bless. But we don’t... involve ourselves in military conflicts.”
“This isn’t a war between nobles, Bishop. This isn’t a fief war where you can stand on the sidelines and chant neutrality while the dead walk. This is a crisis the Church itself has openly declared its enemy. A ‘curse,’ remember?”
The bishop’s face twitched.
“And as for your people’s capabilities—I know them. I’ve seen what your Clerics can do. Your Paladins. Your wardens. You say they aren’t made for war, but they are made for purpose. Just think about it.”
He said the following words… slowly. “If you’re the one who helped lead the effort to stop the plague. If it’s your name that ends up etched into the sermons, spoken by survivors, praised in every other cathedral from here to the capital… how do you think that’ll affect your standing in the Church?”
Kai smiled inwardly as he watched it happen.
The bishop’s expression shifted—not all at once, but in stages. The confusion faded first. Then the weariness. Then the worry. What replaced it was subtle but unmistakable: the flicker of ambition. A tilt of the head. A slight gleam in the eye. Opportunity.
It had always been there, waiting beneath the surface—Kai just had to carve deep enough to find it. He didn’t press. He didn’t need to. Now, the bishop was thinking for himself.
Exactly as planned.
2025-04-18 04:42:23 +0000 UTC
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Chapter 101
There were things in life you thought you'd be good at—really good at. And then, when the time came to actually do them, you realized how terribly, disgustingly wrong you were.
Right now, Chen Ren was wrestling with one such thing—making a decision.
Now, he wasn’t bad at decisions. You couldn’t build a business from the ground up without having some talent for it. He'd made dozens of choices before—cutthroat ones, desperate ones, bold ones—and survived every time. But for the past two days, he’d been stuck.
Frozen between two paths.
Should he go with Anji to retrieve her sect’s lost inheritance? Or should he make his move toward the Corpse Lands? It wasn't about profit anymore.
It was about risk.
Real, life-threatening, possibly-never-coming-back-from-it kind of risk. Anji’s option was, comparatively, safer—at least on paper. Her father had taught her the vault’s inner workings. They wouldn’t be walking blind. Sure, there were bound to be traps, maybe guardians or puzzles, but she knew what they were stepping into.
The problem was what came after.
They might be stepping on the tail of Blazing Ember Sect. A name that held weight, disciples, and legitimacy built over centuries. If they caught wind of what was being retrieved… things could get messy.
Then there was the Corpse Lands.
Dangerous in an entirely different way.
Unknown terrain. Wandering undead as strong as Tier 2 or Tier 3 beasts. Other cultivators sniffing out treasure. No maps. No guides. Just death waiting behind every shadowed ruin. But… at least he wouldn’t be offending anyone powerful. Probably.
Chen Ren sighed and rubbed his temples, feeling the headache creep in.
He liked being cautious. Knowing something before he got into it. But again, he had no issue taking risks—but only when he knew what he was risking. Every enemy he had beaten before, he had studied. Understood. Outplayed.
This? This was different.
Against an Established sect, he couldn’t predict the retaliation. Against the Corpse Lands, he couldn’t even predict survival. He closed his eyes, letting the thoughts swirl again—until he felt a light sensation over his shoulder.
He opened his eyes to find Yalan perched behind, staring at him blankly, a half-gnawed piece of roasted corn in her paw.
“Your tea is going cold,” she said.
Chen Ren frowned, coming in contact with reality and blinked. He glanced down, startled to see the cup near his hand. Steamless. Cooling. Neglected.
Fuck.
He quickly took a sip, more out of reflex than thirst before using a bit of his qi to heat it up. Then he finally looked around, registering his surroundings. He was in the courtyard.
After the talk with Anji, he'd split his time between brooding over the decision and working on the new pill formula, but after feeling a headache creep in, he’d come out here for a break. Somewhere along the line, he’d started watching the kids playing nearby, laughing as they tried to catch the small, darting figure of a weasel—Zi Wen’s new bond, he recalled. The thing had a name, but for the life of him, he couldn’t remember it now—
“Xinxin! Careful!” One of the kids yelled, and the others followed.
Right, Xinxin. That’s the name.
At some point, a mortal had quietly handed him tea. Yalan had appeared beside him, chewing corn like it was divine food. And he—he had spiraled deep into thought again.
He sighed again.
This wasn’t getting easier.
As he took another sip of his reheated tea, his eyes drifted toward the center of the courtyard where the playful laughter had taken on a more competitive tone.
Apparently, Whiskey had decided to join the kids when he had been deep in thought.
What was once simple running and chasing had now turned into a full-blown “battle” as the lunari and the weasel faced off against each other—while two of the kids, Bo and Jian, stood behind them like miniature generals shouting commands. The whole thing looked like a budget-friendly beast battle arena, with dirt kicks, squeaky war cries, and over-the-top moves that didn’t land.
It wasn’t anything serious—he remembered Xiulan once mentioning that Whiskey and Xinxin had been at odds for a while now. No real fights. Just tension. Maybe they were natural enemies. Maybe it was personal. Who knew?
Still, it was amusing.
He kept the tea in his hands warm with a light trickle of qi and settled in to watch.
Standing to the left, Xinxin was bigger than he remembered. Brown-furred, sleek, and bounding across the grass. It had quite agility, he could give it that.
It let out a high-pitched hiss as it launched itself toward Whiskey.
The lunari dodged with a flick of his tail, using his smaller frame and sheer speed to outmaneuver every lunge. Chen Ren blinked. He hadn’t actually seen Whiskey fight before—but the little thing was fast. Very fast. The weasel was clearly annoyed. Claws swiped. Teeth snapped. But Whiskey was always just out of reach.
The problem, however, became clear soon enough.
Speed wasn’t strength.
Every time Whiskey tried to land a claw swipe on Xinxin’s side, it either bounced off harmlessly or barely even ruffled the fur. Xinxin, being a grown spirit beast, had defenses Whiskey simply couldn’t crack. Not that it mattered to the audience.
The kids were loving it. Bo and Jian were already shouting at the top of their lungs, one backing Whiskey and the other Xinxin like they had bets riding on the outcome.
Chen Ren smirked. Beast battle showcases… huh. Could be fun. Might even make a good event for the locals. Something light to balance out the training drills and the brewing chaos in his life. But he doubted Zi Wen would be thrilled about turning them into a sideshow.
Still, the idea sat in the back of his mind as a maybe.
Just as he took another sip, Yalan spoke beside him.
“What’s on your mind?”
Chen Ren didn’t flinch. Of course she’d noticed. Him going blank, falling silent—it wasn’t hard to read.
“Just… thinking of ways to get the manuals,” he admitted.
Yalan flicked a bit of corn off her paw. “I heard you were considering the Corpse Lands. Rotten place.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You’ve been there?”
“Twice,” she said, licking her paw casually. “I’ve been to a lot of places in the Empire, you know. You keep forgetting how much older I am than you.”
Right. Chen Ren exhaled, remembering again who she really was—not just some oversized talking feline, but a guardian spirit, tied to his bloodline, one who had watched over his ancestors long before he was even born.
“So?” he asked. “Why don’t you like it?”
Yalan narrowed her eyes, staring into the distance like she was remembering something particularly disgusting.
“It’s far too much trouble for too little gain. Sure, you might find a treasure or two, but half the time you get attacked by rogue cultivators before you even make it out. And the artifacts?” She shook her head. “Too old. Too unstable. And don’t even get me started on the zombies.”
Chen Ren blinked. “What about them?”
“They taste horrible.”
He stared. “Wait. You ate a zombie?”
“What else was I supposed to eat there? Poisonous berries?”
He stared at her, utterly baffled, as she calmly licked the last bit of roasted corn from her paw.
“There’s no proper food in the Corpse Lands,” she continued. “You can bring some with you, sure—but unless it’s stored in a high-grade spatial ring, it spoils within a day. The miasma seeps into everything. Then you’re left with two options, demonic monsters and zombies.”
She made a face like she’d just recalled the worst mistake of her life.
“And let me tell you—zombies taste like rubber that’s been soaked in pig’s piss.”
Chen Ren made a sound of pure disgust and gently pushed his tea cup aside, all appetite to sip it gone.
“I never want to try that again,” Yalan grumbled. “My tongue deserves better. I have standards.”
He glanced at her with an unreadable look. “Clearly.”
But as she casually stretched out in the sun-drenched corner of the bench, he found himself watching her—not with amusement, but consideration.
How do I even bring this up without giving it all away?
He hesitated. Tried to weigh his words. Then he gave up, deciding that he didn't need to be subtle until he didn't say anything that went against his oath.
“Let’s say,” he started slowly, “there was another way to get those manuals. And treasures. But it might draw the ire of an Established sect. Do you think it will be a better option than the Corpse Lands?”
Yalan turned her head slightly and stared at him, squinting like she was trying to decide if he was speaking hypothetically or not.
After a moment, she replied, “Depends.”
“On what?”
“On what kind of sect you’re poking,” she said bluntly. “And what kind of treasures we’re talking about. If it’s just Mortal-grade junk and low-level talisman scrolls, it’s not worth it. But…”
She tilted her head thoughtfully.
“If we’re talking Earth-grade manuals or better, then maybe. From what I know, sect wars in the Empire can’t just happen anymore. Not without permission or legitimate cause. It’s too costly. Too political. The empire regulates them now. So, this Established sect can't just send out cultivators to blast this village off the map until they have very definite proof you have their property. What you need to watch out for is the quiet retaliation—assassins, spies, subtle sabotage.”
Chen Ren nodded slowly.
“And I thought,” Yalan added, giving him a sideways look, “you were already working on a large-scale defensive array around the village and the sect?”
“I am,” he admitted. “After hearing about how the beasts become in winter, I asked Qing He about what kind of array formations could be set up. We agreed on two. one for the village’s perimeter and another tighter one for the sect grounds.”
“Good.” Yalan nodded approvingly. “Most large sects have that. Soaring Sword Sect’s defensive array is strong enough to keep out mid-tier beasts without a single disciple lifting a blade.”
“She said it’ll be hard to create something that advanced,” Chen Ren added. “Too many components, not enough skilled array masters.”
“But?”
“But I can get basic structures in place. Early warning wards, alarm triggers for foreign cultivators entering the perimeter, and beast detection.”
“Not bad,” Yalan muttered, curling her tail around herself. “Not enough for war, but enough to buy you time. And time,” she said with a yawn, “is half the battle.”
Chen Ren leaned back, eyes flicking to the “battle” in the courtyard again—Whiskey now standing victorious on Xinxin’s tail as the children cheered like it was the championship of the decade. Xinxin somehow escaped Whiskey’s grasp. And they were at it all over again.
Ignoring the beast battle, he pondered upon Yalan's words. He still wasn't sure on antagonising an Established sect. But he was slowly laying the groundwork for the worst-case scenario. And that, at least, made him feel a little more in control.
Chen Ren looked over at Yalan, steam from the reheated tea curling faintly between them.
“I thought you’d be against taking on an established sect,” he said, her words more than surprising him. She didn't look entirely against the idea, if at all.
Yalan’s whiskers twitched. “It’s something you’ll have to do eventually. I’ve been thinking,” she continued, “sooner or later, you’ll reach the foundation establishment realm. And once that happens, things will shift. You’ll have more cards to play. More eyes on you, too. And I honestly don’t think we’ll have much trouble with me here unless you manage to offend multiple meridian expansion realm cultivators.”
She paused, tapping a claw against the bench.
“Moreover… you’re going to have to take them on economically anyway. In the Immortal Market.”
Chen Ren nodded, his thoughts turning to a different kind of battlefield. The Immortal Market—sprawling, ruthless, and utterly dominated by Established sects and Guardian sects monopolies. It was the Empire’s own brand of internal warfare—fought not with blades, but spirit stones, artifacts, and connections.
“There’s no way around that,” he murmured. “It’s a playground made for them. If I don't go against them, I won't get any share of the market. But taking them there and offending them over treasures and manuals they covet?” He shook his head. “That’s a whole different level of risk.”
Anji had said they might not know where the vault was. They might be able to sneak in and out without ever drawing attention.
That was the best-case scenario.
But would that actually happen? This was a Xianxia land. And in this world, best-case scenarios had a tendency to explode halfway through. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, still feeling undecided, when Yalan suddenly said, “Why are you thinking so much about it, anyway?”
He looked at her.
“I need to choose the option with the least risk—for me and for the sect.”
Yalan stared at him, unimpressed. “You didn’t think like that when you took on a gang. Or when you tried to manipulate sect leaders. Or when you challenged a trade union head-on.”
Chen Ren exhaled. “In all those situations, I knew I had a good chance of winning. I had plans.” He looked at her. “Even if I didn’t win, I knew I’d survive. I could run. Lay low. Preserve what mattered. I had you with me. That gave me confidence. In a way, you’re my cheat in this world.”
Yalan’s ears twitched slightly, tail swaying lazily.
“But if I offend an Established sect?” Chen Ren continued. “This time, it won’t just be me. The entire sect… the village might suffer. We don’t have enough strength to protect everyone if things go wrong.”
The words lingered in the air for a moment, heavier than before. Because they were true. And that was the risk of leadership.
“Situations like this will always come,” Yalan replied.
Chen Ren looked at her.
“You think you won’t offend someone in the Corpse Lands?” she asked, eyes narrowed. “You will. Maybe not intentionally. But someone’s going to take offense. Always. Some rogue cultivator, some vengeful idiot who wants what you find… and chances are, they’re connected to someone stronger. That’s how it works. Half the cultivators around come from a clan or sect of stronger cultivators.”
For a second, he could see all of her experience in those words. She’d clearly been there, done that. So, he listened.
“And then what?” she continued. “You’ll still have a problem. You’ll still have to fight or run or outsmart them.”
“What I’m saying is,” Yalan said, “cultivation is risk. You can’t escape it. It’s not for the weak-hearted. You think I reached my current realm by chewing fish and relaxing in the sunbeams?” She snorted. “I’ve taken risks. You need to, too. You’re trying to calculate which path has less risk. But you don’t know either path well enough to make that choice.”
“Then… what should I do?”
Yalan didn’t hesitate.
“Choose the path that will benefit you the most,” she said. “And prepare for when things go wrong. That’s always been your strength. You’re not like most cultivators, Chen Ren. Even if you don’t have endless resources, what you have is unique. Think. Plan. Use what’s yours. You always had backup plans before—have them now, too.”
A loud cheer erupted from the center of the courtyard, breaking the stillness.
Chen Ren glanced up.
The battle had ended. The weasel—Xinxin—stood triumphantly, fur puffed and stance proud, over Whiskey’s twitching, mildly humiliated body. Bo and Jian whooped dramatically. A few of the other kids were already surrounding Whiskey, trying to console the lunari, who glared up at the weasel like he was vowing eternal revenge.
Chen Ren didn’t even crack a smile. Because Yalan’s words were still echoing in his head—and the more he thought about them, the more he realized how true they were. No matter which path he chose—Corpse Lands or the sect vault—danger was a given. There was no safe option.
The Corpse Lands were chaos incarnate. Unknown terrain. Rogue cultivators. Demonic beasts. Undead things he’d only heard of in passing—like corpse kings, zombies and skeleton drakes. Worse, if he actually did find a treasure, it would put a mark on his back. Blood would follow.
And that was if he found anything at all.
The sect vault, though? At least he knew the risks there. And the vault itself? That he could prepare for—with Anji’s knowledge guiding the way. As long as the Blazing Ember Sect didn’t know, they couldn’t retaliate.
Even if they do, sect wars required the Emperor’s approval. The Empire was strict on large-scale conflict. Unless Blazing Ember had concrete proof—not suspicions, not rumors—they wouldn’t be able to start anything overt. They’d turn to subtler methods, sabotage, assassinations, targeting his allies.
And those? Those he could plan for. He already had Yalan. Qing He was no pushover. And if… if he managed to awaken the golden dagon, he’d have the strength of a heavenly beast at his side.
That wasn’t just protection. That was deterrence.
The more he thought about it, the clearer it became. He didn’t have to choose safety, he had to choose what was worth the danger. That line of thought was enough, enough to anchor his confidence and push every ounce of hesitation away.
He could prepare for this one, plan for it and control more variables. Especially since he knew that he wasn’t walking blind anymore.
Yalan tilted her head slightly and looked up at him, eyes narrowing with a knowing gleam.
“I think you made a decision.”
Chen Ren exhaled slowly and nodded. “I did. But I’ll need your help with it.”
Yalan gave him a flat look. “That’s a constant thing by now.”
Chen Ren allowed himself a small smirk. “Fair. But this time it’s a bit more… unconventional.”
“Oh?”
“We’ll be raiding the secret vault of the Void Blade Sect.”
Yalan blinked. Her tail paused mid-sway. “Void Blade Sect?”
“It’s a long story,” he said. “And I’ll tell you. But first… We need to do a qi oath. I made one with someone else before I learned about this. I can’t talk freely until we’re bound by it. But I’ll tell you this, It’s interesting,” he said.
And he meant it.
2025-04-18 04:41:09 +0000 UTC
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Chapter 100
The moment the words left her mouth, Chen Ren felt the urge to sit down. He wanted to sit down and slowly process whatever she’d said—if it was any truth.
He didn’t; he didn’t sit down. But the impulse was heavy. His fingers twitched at his side, and he felt his muscles spasming. He looked around the workshop and noticed that this wasn’t the place for this kind of conversation.
He gestured for her to follow and led her out of it, across the hallway, and into his room. No one ever came here, not wanting to disturb the sect leader.
And fortunately, even Yalan wasn’t in the room.
He shut the window, latched the door and looked at her again, fully.
“You’re telling me that you’re the daughter of the previous sect leader of the Void Blade Sect?”
Anji nodded like her background was of a farmer's daughter rather than a sect leader's. “Yes.”
Chen Ren stared at her. A second passed. And another. And a third.
“Adopted.” she muttered. “I was adopted, so I didn't get the family name. But he treated me the same. My father, Ilang—he never married. He was one of those who’d die for cultivation and thought starting a family would just take his time from it. He had disciples, but none of them survived.”
As she spoke, Chen Ren felt something change.
The air around her… shifted. Not literally, but perceptibly. Previously, whenever they’d interacted, he’d noticed a quiet nervous energy surrounding her, like the way she looked around a room, the way she spoke—hesitantly. They were all gone now. She was staring directly into his eyes. She stood taller, shoulders squared, and spoke like someone who used to be listened to.
Was this who she truly was? Or was this simply the version of her that emerged now that the masks were off?
Maybe both.
But what she said made sense now. With no blood kin, no surviving disciples, she would have been the closest thing Ilang had to an heir. Adopted or not, that meant something—especially in a sect as serious and deadly as Void Blade.
It explained the vault.
But it also raised more questions than it answered. Still, there was one question he needed answered before anything else.
“How did you get adopted by a sect leader? No offense, but… someone like that doesn’t just pick up an ordinary child out of pity.”
Anji sighed. “It’s a long story.”
“I have time.”
Anji pressed her lips together, sighing again, she gave a firm nod.
“My village was destroyed. I was one of the survivors. Demonic cultivators raided the area. Void Blade Sect came to handle it.”
The way she spoke was too casual. Like she was talking about a trade caravan getting robbed, not a massacre. It was the kind of detachment that came only with time… or trauma.
“They scattered the survivors, dropped them off at nearby villages. But my father… he took me in.”
She stopped there.
Chen Ren watched her carefully. Her face was still, but the pause wasn’t empty—it lingered. There was more. Of course there was more. No matter how kind Ilang might have been, a sect leader didn’t adopt a random child with no spirit roots unless there was a reason.
A good reason.
And Chen Ren intended to find out what it was. The rest of her story was believable enough.
Sects led clean-up missions after demonic attacks weren’t uncommon—especially a decade ago when chaos ran deeper across the empire and demonic cultivator attacks were much more common. And children orphaned by such raids? Even more common. But Chen Ren wasn’t satisfied with half the truth.
He leaned back slightly, folding his arms.
“I thought mortals in sects were mostly assigned to menial tasks. Working farms. Cleaning. Maybe carrying resources for outer disciples if they were lucky.”
Anji’s lips twitched—not quite a smile. “They are. But there are perks to being adopted by a sect leader.”
Her voice wasn’t arrogant. Just matter-of-fact.
“I wasn’t a princess, if that’s what you’re thinking,” she continued. “I didn’t have a courtyard of my own or servants at my beck and call. But I didn’t scrub floors either. My father believed that even if I couldn’t cultivate, I could still be useful.”
He tilted his head slightly, curious.
“So?”
“So… I was sent to the alchemical halls. I studied ingredients, measured qi emissions, learned how to control flame temperature and track the quality of a pill by scent alone. I worked as an alchemist’s assistant.”
Her tone faltered at the last sentence, softening in a way that made Chen Ren notice.
She’d never told him that before.
He blinked, registering the weight of her words. Alchemy assistant? That was no minor thing. Not in a sect that size. She might know techniques or processing methods that could help him refine his own systems. Temptation passed through his thoughts—wondering how he could use that knowledge—but he shoved it away.
Now wasn’t the time.
Because she wasn’t done.
“Until the war,” she finished.
Chen Ren frowned, his mind already pulling up what little he knew. He’d heard of the Void Blade Sect’s fall. Back in Cloud Mist City, it had been a favorite rumor of the tea houses and gossip-hungry cultivators for a while until Gu Tian had changed that. Theories ranged from betrayal by a core disciple to the sect being far weaker than its reputation.
But no one really knew what had happened. He hadn’t even heard of the name of the sect that had brought them down and had never expected to learn more about it. Until now. She must’ve noticed his thoughts spinning, because she spoke again.
“You want to know what happened in the war,” Anji said.
Chen Ren gave a slow nod. “Let me guess—the vault is a hidden treasure your sect managed to protect. One the invaders didn’t get. And now you want to reach it before anyone else does.”
“Perceptive as usual.”
Then her gaze darkened, brows drawing together as she looked past him—as if remembering something bitter.
“It was a war between the Void Blade Sect and the Blazing Ember Sect.”
Chen Ren narrowed his eyes. Blazing Ember Sect? That name was vaguely familiar. He briefly recalled it was one of the Established sects focused on the flame arts and alchemy.
“We were from the same region,” Anji continued. “Always had minor conflicts. Nothing serious. Border disputes, resource allocation, recruitment scuffles. But two years ago…
“…a disciple entered our sect. Quiet. Talented. Rose quickly through the ranks. His name was Wang Fu. He was undefeated in sword combat and skilled in alchemy—so much that he created improved recipes of common pills. Our sect had always been weak on the alchemy side, so people began to see him as someone who would raise our foundation.”
Chen Ren listened silently, heart slowly picking up speed. Because if this was heading where he thought it was, the real story behind the Void Blade Sect’s fall was going to be far uglier than gossip ever hinted.
“But soon,” Anji continued, “Blazing Ember Sect accused him of stealing those alchemical recipes.”
Chen Ren’s brows drew together.
“They claimed he’d taken the formulas directly from their archives. There was a whole scandal about it. They wanted his head.”
He could almost see it—how it would’ve played out. Accusations flaring like wildfire through both sects, pride and blood boiling beneath the surface.
“My father was furious,” she went on without minding his silence. “He interrogated Wang Fu personally. And eventually… he admitted it. Said he’d found the recipes on the corpses of some Blazing Ember Sect disciples after a skirmish. Apparently, he’d been out on a mission when they attacked him, trying to steal his belongings. He fought back. Killed them. Found the ring with the formulas.”
“And in his mind, that made it worth it,” Chen Ren said.
Anji nodded. “Exactly.”
Chen Ren closed his eyes briefly, mind piecing it all together.
It was messy. Not just betrayal or theft. It was about honor. About lines blurred by violence. Either Ilang gave up a promising disciple—or stood against a rival sect demanding blood. And it was clear what choice he had made.
“So… he didn’t give him up.”
“No,” Anji said quietly. “He was a good sect leader. He would have defended even an outer disciple, let alone someone the whole sect had pinned their hopes on.” She looked down, fingers curling slightly at her side. Chen Ren didn’t miss it.
“He tried to defuse the situation. He gave the recipes back. Sent additional tributes—spirit stones, rare herbs. Everything short of groveling. But…”
She hesitated.
“One of the disciples Wang Fu killed… was an elder’s first grandson. That’s why he had the spatial ring in the first place.”
“So there was no walking back from it.”
“No,” she said. “The elder wanted vengeance. The sect wanted face. And before anyone realized it, the tension had already begun to rot the peace.”
“Then how did it spiral into a full sect war?” he asked.
“Negotiations dragged on for over a year. During that time, small clashes between our sects increased. At first it was just words. Then fists. Then blades. Outer disciples started dying. Missions turned into ambushes. Beast hunts became bloodbaths. If you left the sect borders, you didn’t come back in one piece. If you came back at all.” She sighed, closing her eyes as if remembering everything. “And the worst part was… once disciples with strong backers started dying, elders got involved. ‘Personal revenge’ they called it. ‘Justice for their kin.’ But all they did was fan the flames. It stopped being about the sect and became about grudges.”
Fire and void tearing through forests, mountains scarred from the power of two factions clashing unchecked. The imagination sent a shiver down Chen Ren’s spine, knowing these two were one of the most destructive elements other than lightning.
Anji’s tone grew bitter. “The sect war lasted barely over a month. But for that month, everything burned. Fire and void—pure destruction. And in the end… Void Blade Sect lost. I still remember the moment I saw my father. In the sky, fighting half a dozen elders from Blazing Ember Sect. He was still standing. Still holding his blade. Until he wasn’t.”
Her gaze didn’t waver, but Chen Ren could feel the storm behind it.
“It was a complete victory for them,” she said softly. “When I saw him fall, I knew it was over. I took one of the hidden pathways out of the sect. I ran. From city to city. Hid my name. Burned everything that could tie me back. Eventually, I ended up in Cloud Mist City.”
She gave a hollow laugh. “Being a mortal has its perks. No one bothered chasing me.”
Silence followed.
“You know the rest,” she finished.
Her voice was a mixture of guilt, sadness, and a venom so cold it could freeze flame. She hadn’t cried. She hadn’t asked for pity. But there was something to her words that left the room feeling smaller.
Chen Ren stared at her, unsure what to say. Part of him wanted to offer a shoulder. But the look on her face told him not to.
She wasn’t asking for comfort. She just needed him to understand.
And now… he did.
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
Anji didn’t respond, but a faint nod acknowledged his words.
Still, one question gnawed at him. The kind of question that didn’t leave room for sentiment.
“But how?” he asked, his brows drawing close. “How did the Blazing Ember Sect manage to win so decisively? Were they just… better at large-scale warfare?”
“No. Both sects were evenly matched. Our sect might’ve even had the edge in terms of defensive techniques. It’s just…”
She hesitated.
“There was a betrayal from inside.”
“Huh?”
“Yes,” she said. “Wang Fu was compromised. Maybe he wasn’t a spy when he first joined,” she continued. “But somewhere along the way… he turned. Everything he did—the stolen recipes, the conflict that started it all—it was a setup. A trap to push the sects into war.”
“And how do you know that? Did he reveal his betrayal?” he asked.
Anji’s voice dropped lower. “Yes. During the war, I saw him kill our disciples. The ones who called him senior brother. He didn’t hesitate. I believe he shared everything he knew about our formations, our defenses, weaknesses and our emergency protocols. Everything.
“We had background checks. Screening. Protocols to catch spies, especially demonic ones. His background was clean. Too clean, in hindsight. And none of us expected someone we had invested so much into to turn on us.”
Chen Ren fell silent. It seemed like the rumours about a betrayal was true in the end, but if that was the case, then Blazing Ember Sect had prepared this for a long time. It was clear that there was a rivalry between both sects, but will they do something like this just for that? He wasn't sure and decided it was better to ask.
“Was it for something specific? Some treasure your sect had? It sounds like they planned this long before any conflict started and took a lot of risk with everything.”
“Yes. They wanted our inheritance.”
She looked him dead in the eye.
“According to sect war rules in the Empire… the victor takes everything—techniques, land, spirit veins, artifacts, even the buildings if they’re still standing. The Emperor allows it. Says it’s the most effective way to resolve deep-rooted conflict. He even takes a share of the spoils. A tax on death.” She paused. “And the Blazing Ember Sect had always coveted our sect’s inheritance.”
“So they engineered a war,” Chen Ren muttered, disgusted.
“Yes,” Anji said. “And they won.”
Chen Ren nodded slowly, arms crossed once more.
In the world of cultivation, inheritances were everything. They were the foundation of power, the roots of legacy. A single inheritance could birth a sect, elevate a family, or change the fate of an empire. Of course it would be coveted. Of course someone would wage war over it. There was a reason even Hong Yi was chased so much.
Still… knowing it and listening to everything about it were two very different things.
“So going after the sect vault,” he said, bringing the topic back to the vault, “would mean opposing the Blazing Ember Sect.”
Anji nodded, but then added quickly, “They won’t know. I don’t think they even have a clue where the inheritance is. Only my father knew the exact location. He never told anyone else—not even the elders or his own disciples. It was something passed only to his direct successor.
“He told me before the war… in case he didn’t make it. I didn’t think much of it at the time. I didn’t think he would lose. But now…”
Her voice tightened.
“Now it haunts me. If I had the strength, I would’ve gone to retrieve it long ago. But I can’t. I’m too powerless.”
“Hence, you need my help.”
Anji nodded again. And Chen Ren sighed.
There it was again—that feeling. Like he was stepping into another mess. One more fire waiting to burn him alive.
He doubted he could even back out. Not easily. The qi oath was there, and he suspected Anji knew that. Still, he couldn’t say he hadn’t expected this. Nothing valuable in this world came without risk.
Inheritances didn’t come easy.
Fighting through the Corpse Lands was dangerous—but so was this. Blazing Ember Sect was an Established sect. Going for the vault could put him on their radar. And worse, the inheritance technically belonged to them now—at least, in the eyes of the empire. If anyone found out…
Still, maybe no one would. It wasn’t like they’d put up a sign saying “We’re robbing a dead sect’s vault.” If Anji was right, and only her father had known the true location, then even Blazing Ember might have given up looking by now. They could’ve assumed it was destroyed. Lost. Gone forever.
But if they were still looking…
That would be a problem.
Even so, the rewards… the manuals, the techniques, the weapons, the artifacts—an entire sect’s foundation. That could solve so many of his problems in one move. Not just strengthen his sect, but attract true cultivators to it. No more scraping together scraps. No more having to settle.
As he thought it through, Anji must have noticed the silence in his expression, the gears turning behind his eyes.
“You don’t have to help me.” Chen Ren’s eyes widened ever so slightly. “Not if you don’t want to.”
“The qi oath?” he asked.
“It only binds you if we actually go for the inheritance. If you decide not to, that’s fine. I only used the oath to make sure you wouldn’t reveal anything without my permission. I didn’t want to force you.”
Chen Ren let out a breath, this time deeper, the weight in his chest easing just a little.
That… was a better deal than he expected.
He’d already started to feel bitter—like he’d been maneuvered into standing against an Established sect. But this? This gave him control. Gave him the choice.
So now the real question hung before him like a blade.
Would he risk it all to go against an Established sect, gambling for a chance at power, legacy, and growth? Or would he walk away… and put his hopes into the danger of the Corpse Lands instead?
2025-04-16 05:02:40 +0000 UTC
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Chapter 207
As Kai entered, Viscount Redmont immediately stood. He gave a curt nod and extended his broad, calloused hand. Kai grasped it without hesitation. It was firm, and was nothing like his physical state.
“When I sent Corwin I hadn't expected him to bring you back with him. But it’s a pleasant surprise,” Redmont said. His voice belied his toughened face. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting the man who held off the beast wave.”
Kai smiled at his last statement. “I intended to come here. I’m mightily happy to meet a warrior like yourself. The honor is mine. You’ve been the shield of the kingdom for a long time.”
Redmont exhaled, and with that his shoulders slumped. “That’d be not entirely true.”
Kai raised an eyebrow.
“That’s just the talk they throw around in ballrooms. And soon enough, even that will stop—once the plague sweeps through Aegis. I’ll just be a broken shield then.”
Ah, so that’s where his mind is at.
“I heard of the situation from Corwin,” Kai said. “I came here precisely to see the plague. With my own eyes. I want to analyse the situation before we discuss anything further.”
Viscount Redmont nodded. Kai expected him to stand up and lead him to the plague, but the former cleared his throat. “Before that, Count Arzan, you don’t want to talk about the refugee request? I’m willing to pay compensation.”
Kai shook his head once. “I already said yes. Corwin can walk you through the details, but you can begin sending the refugees.”
For the first time, a flicker of relief crossed the viscount’s face. He turned toward the envoy. “I expect a report by evening.”
“You’ll have it, my lord,” Corwin replied, bowing slightly.
“If you’d waited a day or two,” Redmont said, already turning, “you would have seen the plague yourself—spreading over Aegis like smoke on water. Come. I’ll show it to you.”
Kai followed, the Viscount’s Knight and soldiers falling into step beside them. The path ahead was lined with withered trees, the faint tang of ash and rot in the air. As they walked, Redmont spoke again.
“I believe Corwin told you of the plague’s nature.”
“He did,” Kai said. “But I need to see it for myself. It's spread, its symptoms. That way I can judge its strength. If we want to stop it, I need every bit of information I can gather.”
Redmont stopped so suddenly that Kai nearly collided into him. He turned, his face now fully serious, eyes narrowed.
“You came here to stop the plague?”
Kai met his gaze without flinching. “Observe it. But I have methods if it's what I'm thinking it is.”
There was a pause. Redmont’s eyes searched his, like a man watching the wind for a coming storm. “Your words make me feel like you know what this is.”
“I might,” Kai said truthfully. “If we don’t act, the plague will devour most of the Sylvan Enclave. And I’ve already bled too much for this land to see it swallowed by mindless decay.”
Redmont’s pace resumed, the crunch of gravel under his boots the only sound for a few seconds.
“I was hoping Archine Tower would act before it swallowed the region whole,” he said, his voice rougher now, wearied. “Magus Veridia was said to be working on a countermeasure. Or so my sources claimed.”
Kai didn’t stop, but a subtle tension crept into his shoulders at the mention of her name. He kept his voice even.
“I don’t think Archine Tower will manage to solve it faster than I can. Even the Mages of Vanderfall fell.”
The Viscount glanced at him, brows lifting. “What gives you that confidence? No offense. I’ve heard of your magical prowess, of course. But from what I know, you’re only at the third circle.”
“Circles don’t matter. Knowledge does. And I have a good idea of what this plague is—and how to stop it. I just need confirmation before I begin throwing out solutions.”
That silenced the Viscount.
They walked in step, the fortress looming larger with every stride until the path curved and spilled out onto the outer wall. A cold wind bit against Kai’s robes as he stepped onto the platform and looked past the battlements.
The breath he didn’t realize he was holding slipped out slowly.
It was exactly what he had expected. Not worse. Not better. But that wasn’t comforting.
Beyond the fortress, the land stretched into a distorted shadow of its former self—where once-thriving woods had stood, now only a creeping void remained. The color had been stripped away like dried paint from a dying canvas. Trees shimmered faintly within the blackened miasma, their trunks cracking and limbs bending as the natural strength within them was devoured, twisted into something unholy.
And at the fringes—barely visible in the haze—skittered things.
Once, they might have been squirrels. Now, they were husks of motion, with elongated bodies, black veins crawling through their fur, and jagged teeth exposed in grotesque maws. They moved in bursts, like static across a corrupted screen.
The plague had rewritten the ecosystem.
Kai felt the weight of it press against his chest—not just the stench or the sight, but the quiet grief of it. So many lives, lost or worse—turned. Minds hollowed out and filled with hunger.
His gaze tracked the land, skimming far below toward the lower foothills. The mountain the fortress rested upon gave them some elevation, but even so, he could see it—the black tide inching its way upward.
Three more days.
That’s how long they had before it reached the base of the fortress.
Two weeks after that, it would reach the outer boundary of Redmont City.
And beyond that... the rest of the Sylvan Enclave.
He couldn’t allow that. Not again. Not after everything. He had ideas. Temporary, but still something.
Before he could follow the thought further, Viscount Redmont spoke again, his voice loud. “So,” he said, eyes narrowed. “What do you think?”
“I’m assuming it’s the worst plague in recorded history. At least... until this point.”
The Viscount grimaced, his jaw clenching. “So can you solve it?”
“Not yet,” Kai said. “To solve it permanently, we’ll need an expedition force. More Mages. Fighters. Gear. And that’ll take days at best to assemble.”
Redmont’s eyes flicked to him, understanding the hidden meaning of his words. “But there’s a temporary solution.”
Kai nodded slowly. “There is a way, I think. To halt its spread. Slow it down long enough for us to prepare.”
The Viscount caught a sharp breath, but it wasn’t him who broke the silence.
It was Knight Cais.
“We’ve tried everything to stop the plague,” he said, gesturing out toward the barren land beyond the wall. “The trenches we dug are still there.”
He raised a hand, pointing further out. “We even tried to build walls. Wooden palisades, reinforced stone... None of it worked.”
Kai narrowed his eyes, following the Knight’s finger. He saw them then—gashes in the earth, trenches long since abandoned and half-filled with soot-streaked debris. Some sections of the stone wall still stood, crumbling and blackened as if they'd fought and lost against the very air around them.
“You should have kept digging,” Kai said simply.
Cais blinked. “What?”
“You didn’t dig enough,” Kai replied. “You needed to go deeper... if you wanted to find the truth. Let me show you.”
Before either man could stop him, Kai’s feet left the ground in a burst of pressure. He surged upward, cloak fluttering behind him, wind magic lashing at his sides as he floated at the edge of one of the abandoned trenches.
Dead mana curled up in wisps around him like smoke from a smoldering pyre. The earth itself reeked of decay, but Kai didn’t hesitate. He held out his hand, and glowing spell structures spun into place—circles laced with runes, sharp and angular, forming in the air.
Wind gathered at his palm, but not as blades. Instead, it was shaped into a massive, ghostly hand—translucent, bladed fingers bent like a scoop. It slammed into the dirt, dragging up great chunks of blackened earth. Kai gritted his teeth, pushing more mana into the spell as the plague-fouled ground resisted, dead mana gnawing at his construct like acid.
The shovel-hand kept working, each strike hurling more dirt aside. The pile to his left grew quickly, the trench sinking deeper, broader. From the wall, Redmont’s voice rang out—sharp, angry, and confused.
“What are you doing?!”
Soldiers pointed. Some yelled. But Kai didn’t pause.
“You’ll see,” he called back, eyes locked on the dark soil as it fell away.
Ten feet. Fifteen. The air grew colder. At twenty feet, something shifted beneath him. Roots.
Not ordinary ones. They pulsed.
Thick, gnarled strands, like veins grown too large for the body. They weaved under the earth like serpents, covered in black lines that moved—alive, corrupted, pumping with sickly energy. Dead mana surged along them in rhythmic pulses, spreading outward like a cancer beneath the ground.
Even from above, the Viscount and his men gasped. The roots twitched. One of them snapped free from the soil with a violent lurch, surging toward Kai like a spear thrown from the earth itself.
But he was ready.
He spun midair, his fingers snapping out. A sphere of flame ignited in his palm, but it wasn’t ordinary fire—it flickered white and hot.
[Fiendfire]. He hurled it downward.
The blaze struck the root and erupted, coiling around it like a hungry serpent. The creature shrieked—not in sound, but in the way it twisted, spasming in pain as the unnatural flame consumed it.
Kai shot backward, riding the wind, keeping just outside the reach of the other roots as the burning one collapsed, still thrashing, smoke trailing up toward the sky.
When the fire had done its work, Kai landed on top of the wall once more. Viscount Redmont, Cais, and a dozen soldiers stared down at the pit, at the still-simmering tendrils curling like dying snakes.
Their faces were pale.
“That,” Kai said, “is what you were trying to wall off.”
Smoke curled lazily from the charred trench as the root spasmed one final time and stilled, blackened and cracked. The flames had lessened, reduced to embers glowing faintly in the dirt.
Viscount Redmont’s eyes never left it.
Then, finally, he turned—eyes sharp, jaw tight—and pointed toward the still-simmering tendril. “Count Arzan,” he asked “what the fuck is that?”
Kai stepped forward, the wind still whispering around his cloak. “We call them Netheroots. The reason your defenses failed—the reason nothing worked—is because the plague spreads from below. These roots tunnel through the earth, carrying the infection with them. By the time it surfaces, it’s already too late. The corruption seeps into everything it touches.”
He gestured out to the horizon. “They’re likely buried all throughout Vanderfall. Deep. Deeper than most spells or tools can reach. That’s why no one found them. And even if someone did…” He turned back toward the trench. “They’re nearly impossible to kill. Their regeneration is on par with a drake.”
As if summoned by his words, the burned root shifted again. Tiny black tendrils twitched along the edge, creeping out from the charred husk. New growth, budding from the corpse.
The hope in Redmont’s face withered.
He stepped closer to the edge, eyes wide with disbelief as he watched the root squirm—alive once more. “They’re... already growing back.”
Kai nodded grimly.
“So how are we supposed to deal with this?” Redmont asked. “We can’t keep burning them forever.”
“No,” Kai said. “We can’t.”
He let the silence settle before he continued. “But if we destroy the source, the roots will stop growing.”
The viscount blinked. “The source?”
Kai turned his gaze south, toward the unseen heart of the plague. “If I’m right, somewhere in Vanderfall... There's a treant. Rotheart treant to be specific.”
The name struck the Viscount like a slap. He stared. “A what?”
“The rotheart treant is a dead mana fiend—a treant twisted beyond recognition. The worst kind. It doesn’t move, but it spreads. Massive. Towering. Its roots burrow for miles, feeding on the land, spreading corruption. When one grows, it claims everything around it. That’s where the netheroots come from.”
He pointed again at the trench. “They’re extensions of it. Cut off one, and the tree simply sends more.”
Redmont’s brows furrowed. He hadn’t heard of such a creature—that much was obvious.
“They’re classified as a grade six threat. Difficult to kill. Near impossible, if unprepared. But they have a weakness.”
He held up a finger. “They can’t move. They’re bound to the spot where they first sprouted. And they guard it well—branches, roots, corrupted guardians. Everything around it is infected. But if we can reach it—really reach it—and burn it to the ground... the roots will die with it.”
The Viscount exhaled slowly, still processing.
Then Kai added, almost as an afterthought, “And if you’re not familiar with dead mana... it’s the core reason weavers exist. Any human or beast that soaks in it long enough loses themselves. Turns into something else. Something hollow.”
At that, Redmont gave a slow nod, his gaze distant. “I’m aware of what dead mana does.”
“Good. Then I can refrain from the lecture.”
He let his arms fold behind his back, the burned trench still smoldering below them. “Still... we need to move fast. The longer we wait, the more the plague spreads. Every hour costs us lives.”
The Viscount frowned, silent for a moment, then turned to him with a cautious question. “Where did you get this information? About the treant. If it came from another Mage, perhaps we can contact them. Ask them to assist.”
Kai didn’t miss a beat, having practised the lie before he revealed the truth. “The knowledge came from records left in my mother’s inheritance.” He looked away for a moment, letting his voice drop just slightly. “She passed. So it’s just us now.”
Redmont studied him for a moment longer, then gave a small nod—accepting the answer, or choosing not to push further.
“Actually,” Kai continued, “I came here to speak with you precisely because of that. We’ll need a large force to enter the plague zone and bring down the rotheart treant.”
The Viscount didn’t hesitate. “I’m willing to give you every soldier I command. But how will they enter the plague lands? Touching dead mana corrupts.”
“I’ll handle the equipment,” Kai said. “What I need are trained fighters. Preferably Mages.”
Redmont rubbed his jaw, thinking. “I have three mages in my service. All second circle.”
Kai grimaced.
“That... might not be enough.”
His thoughts raced. Even if he somehow convinced the Sorcerer’s Tower to lend their Mages, it still wouldn’t be sufficient. They were too few, too isolated. Even the noble prisoners he had taken during the war hadn’t brought many magic-users with them. Most houses relied on swords, not spellwork.
That was the hole in his plan.
The rotheart treant wouldn’t be unguarded. Between here and its location, there would be dozens—if not hundreds—of fiends and weavers. Their numbers would matter. And right now, his side didn’t have enough. His gaze drifted to the horizon, where the black tide swallowed the forest edge. As he stared, something clicked.
A force he had dealings with, but had never truly relied on.
They might not be eager at first, but Kai had grown confident in his ability to negotiate. He turned back to the Viscount, the beginnings of a smile forming.
“I have a plan.”
2025-04-16 04:59:50 +0000 UTC
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Chapter 206
The first thing Kai did after leaving Amyra’s astral realm was tell her to rest. Her soul had handled the strain better than most would, but it was still best to give it time.
Once she was settled, he returned to his chambers and locked the door behind him.
He didn’t even bother changing out of his robes.
Within minutes, his desk was covered in parchment, and he was scribbling furiously—sketching out every line, every shape of the soul inscription from memory. His quill practically was at war, attempting to replicate each twist of the formation exactly as he had seen it floating behind the mana circle.
The room was silent, only the sound of ink scratching paper and his occasional muttered thoughts.
It reminded him of those early nights at the Sorcerer’s Tower, back when he had first reached the fourth circle. With extra mana to spare and the arrogance of youth on his side, he had stayed awake night after night, building his own spell structures from scratch—something that would be his, something no one else had ever made. Back then, even if progress was slow, he moved forward every day.
But now?
Now, he was stuck.
The inscription he’d seen inside Amyra’s soul was beyond anything he had ever studied. Beyond what any book in the Tower had ever described. Aside from a faint summoning structure embedded near the center, the rest of it was alien. Fragmented. Unreadable. It made him feel like a novice again.
Decades of study, he thought bitterly, and I’m still not good enough.
But giving up was not an option.
Not when this—this miraculous, maddening inscription—was the only key he had found that could resist dead mana, absorb dead mana, even purify it. He couldn’t abandon it, not when people were still dying from corrupted magic and fiend exposure. If there was even the smallest chance he could replicate this—adapt it—then it was worth every sleepless night.
And so, through the night, Kai worked. Copying. Analyzing. Rearranging. Trying to match unfamiliar glyphs to known arcane roots, pulling every forgotten memory from the Tower to the surface. But when morning arrived, and a knock sounded on his door, he had made… no progress.
No breakthrough. No deciphered pattern. Just more questions and a growing headache.
The knock came again. Then a third, louder one.
Kai finally opened the door, blinking at the harsh morning light—and found Killian standing there.
Killian’s eyes widened the moment he saw him. “You look like you haven’t slept in days.”
Kai’s voice was dry. “I don’t think dark circles form after just one night.”
“It’s not just the circles,” Killian said with a subtle frown in his always-stoic face. “It’s your hair. And your face. You’ve got that frustrated look—the same one my men get when they’re stuck, no matter how much they train.”
Kai sighed and cast a quick [Refresh] spell on himself, feeling the tightness in his eyes ease slightly. “It’s similar,” he admitted, stepping back to let Killian in. “What do you do with them?”
“Usually?” Killian said, walking in and glancing around the cluttered desk. “I find out what they’re doing wrong. Then I show them the right way.”
Kai snorted faintly. “I wish someone could show me the way.”
His expression dimmed, suddenly reminded of someone, the spell’s cool clarity doing little to ease the weight pressing on his chest. His thoughts turned to his master—the one who had always been there with a nudge, a word, a correction at just the right moment.
But now, there was no one.
Only him.
Only silence.
And for a brief moment, he wished his master was there to say something—help him.
Killian caught the shift in his eyes and spoke gently. “What’s wrong, Lord Arzan?”
Kai glanced at him, then back at the half-finished inscription sketches on the table. “I found it,” he said. “The method Amyra uses to purify dead mana.”
Killian blinked. “Isn’t that—” he said slowly, “—the best news we could’ve asked for?”
“It is. But I don’t know how to replicate it. I barely even understand it. The inscription is far beyond my level.”
Killian looked over the notes again, then shrugged. “That doesn’t sound like a bad thing.”
Kai gave him a tired look. “I don’t think there’s a single positive in what I just said.”
“It’s a wall.”
“A… wall?”
“Yeah,” Killian said. “It’s a wall you need to overcome. In training, we hit them all the time. Points where nothing works, and it feels like there’s no way forward. But you keep trying, and eventually… something clicks.”
He looked at Kai with a nod of understanding.
“You were a Fifth Circle Mage in your past life, right, Lord Arzan? That means you’ve always been in control—always able to plan things ahead since you were starting over. But this?” He motioned to the inscriptions. “This is your first real challenge in a long time. So treat it like one. Push through. Break through.”
Kai stared at him, then slowly—grudgingly—smiled.
A wall, huh?
Maybe it wasn't a failure. Maybe it was just something he hadn’t climbed yet.
Kai nodded at that—admittedly a little surprised that Killian had offered such wise words this early in the morning. The man looked like he belonged on a battlefield, not speaking philosophy with sleep-deprived Mages.
But he was right.
Up until now, everything Kai had faced had been within the bounds of his past knowledge. With how less developed magic was in this era, most of what he did came easier than it should have. He was moving in a familiar ground, solving problems that, while frustrating, were still predictable.
But this inscription?
This was something else. A true unknown. A challenge that gave no clear answer, that made him think, adapt, and rethink everything he knew. And, though he hated to admit it—it was exciting. Just finding that one summoning glyph hidden in the web had given him a rush he hadn’t felt in years.
But the problem is time.
He didn’t know how much of it he had left. Not just in the grand scheme of things, but with the plague, the fiends, the Archine Tower Mages—everything moving at once. He wanted to crack the inscription now, but rushing would only ruin it. And ruin him.
So, wanting to shift the topic, he looked at Killian, knowing why he was here. “Is Corwin ready?”
“Yes, Lord Arzan. You can leave anytime you want. But… you sure you don’t want to take a few Enforcers with you?”
Kai shook his head. “I’m just going there to inspect the plague first. Depending on what I find, we’ll need to start gathering a force to deal with it properly. That’s when I’ll need the Enforcers and the Mages.”
He turned back to his desk, taking the notes he’d poured his night into and sliding them into a drawer. With a flick of his fingers, a soft pulse of mana sealed it shut—layered with a locking spell sensitive enough to reject even accidental tampering.
Once that was done, he turned back. “Let’s go. I’m sure you didn’t come all the way here just to knock on my door three times.”
Killian chuckled. “You know me too well. Yeah, there’s a few things.”
They stepped out into the hallway, the morning sun spilling in through the high windows. As they moved, Killian finally spoke.
“First of all—the princess left.”
“She didn’t tell me she was leaving.” Kai’s feets slowed down, waiting for the Knight’s reply.
“She left about an hour ago,” Killian said. “Said since you’d be busy checking on the plague, it made sense for her to head to the capital ahead of you. I wanted to call you, but she asked me not to. Said it’s better to meet later when you go for the assembly.”
“I think she’ll be a major help.”
“Hope so,” Killian muttered. “We’ll need a lot of it.”
They continued down the corridor, boots echoing on stone. Kai thought over Amara’s absence. He had grown into a habit of eating breakfast together with her and since today he had been busy with the inscription studying, he had missed it. He wondered if she felt bad about it.
Maybe it would be good to send a letter apologising. As he was thinking that, Kiliian spoke again, bringing his attention back to him.
“And… my men found the ritual site.”
Kai’s eyes narrowed. “So it was a teleportation ritual.”
“Yeah.” Killian looked grim. “It was right in the sewers. Took a while to find—was hidden under one of the older maintenance sectors. But the circle matched the diagrams you gave the Watchers.”
Kai nodded to himself. That had always been the most likely answer.
“Any idea who made it?”
“No,” Killian said. “We brought in two people who were assigned to do regular surveys of that section. According to them, they didn’t see anything. One of them claimed a few others had access too, but…” he frowned, “I think they know more than they’re saying. Ansel’s interrogating them now. Said he’s confident he’ll get the truth out.”
Traitors. He hated the word, hated the rot it brought. But it wasn’t surprising. Veralt was growing too quickly. And with growth came cracks. Cracks others could slip through.
“I just hope we get the surveillance system working soon,” he muttered. “I don’t want to deal with this again.”
Killian grunted in agreement. “More Mages sneaking in would be a disaster. Especially with you gone.”
Kai didn’t say anything for a moment, his mind flickering back to the attack that night. It had been dealt with, but could have caused worse destruction.
“Post guards. Focus on areas no one checks regularly—old warehouses, sewer junctions, even houses with basements. Anywhere someone could etch a ritual unnoticed. If there are more traitors hiding around the city, we need to find them before they could do anything.”
“I’ll get on it.”
Their conversation didn’t need more than that. With swift steps, they moved through the halls and exited into the courtyard where the morning sun had fully risen. The front of the estate buzzed with quiet anticipation. Corwin was already waiting with a few of the estate workers, all of whom straightened and bowed the moment they spotted him.
Kai’s eyes moved to the two horses—sleek, saddled, and clearly well-fed. He walked over and raised an eyebrow. “So we’re riding these?”
“Yes, Count Arzan,” Corwin said quickly, pointing at one of the horses with a black mane. “This one here is the fastest horse in all of Redmont.”
Kai studied it for a second, then frowned. “This… will be slow.”
Corwin blinked, confused. “I—I beg your pardon? Do you have faster horses?”
Kai smirked, the corner of his mouth lifting. “I do.”
He raised his hand and began to weave a spell. Mana gathered quickly around his fingers, lines forming in the air—concentric circles intersected with angular glyphs, glowing brighter with each moment as wind began to stir around them. The ground trembled slightly under the pressure.
[Tempest Steed Conjuration].
The structure pulsed once—then shattered into wind.
The breeze howled. The air shifted. And from the swirling storm, a figure emerged—translucent, yet solid. A horse, taller than any of the ones standing nearby, its bodies formed from compressed air and concentrated wind essence. Its manes flowed in a constant breeze, and eyes glowed with faint azure light, flickering like calm lightning. It took a step and it sent out a soft breeze.
Corwin’s jaw dropped. An audible gasp came out of his lips. The estate workers took a few steps back, one falling over himself.
Kai walked up to the tempest horse, patting its neck, feeling the mana beneath his fingers.. “I believe we should take this,” he said casually. “We’ll be there soon.”
“I haven’t… I haven’t seen such magic before,” Corwin said, moving his hand to touch the mana creature.
“Well, today’s your lucky day. You get to ride it.”
In truth, if it were just him, Kai would have flown. It would’ve been faster, and he wouldn’t have had to deal with the company. But Corwin couldn’t be left behind, and dragging someone through the air would cost far too much mana to sustain.
This was a compromise. A very fast, very effective compromise.
Without wasting another second, Kai mounted the wind horse with practiced ease, his cloak fluttering in the breeze. He extended a hand to Corwin, who hesitated before climbing up behind him—trembling slightly as the horse shifted beneath them.
Kai looked over his shoulder. “Get ready.”
The wind surged.
With a sharp neigh, the steed took off.
Wind bled in his ears as they launched forward, the speed sudden and violent. The envoy screamed, arms wrapped tight around Kai’s waist as the city blurred around them. Buildings, courtyards, market stalls—gone in a blink. They crossed from the estate to the main road in seconds and reached the gates in under a minute.
The guards, already informed of his departure, barely had time to shout before they pulled the gates wide open.
Shouts echoed. Refugees near the entrance gasped, stepping back in awe and confusion as the wind-born steed bolted past, leaving only a rush of air.
And then they were out—leaving Veralt behind.
Kai squinted ahead, wind tearing through his dark hair. He already knew the direction, having studied the map to Redmont’s territory the night before. All that remained now… was to get there.
All the way through the wind-lashed journey, Kai could hear Corwin behind him muttering something repeatedly, his voice lost to the roar of air rushing past them. Kai didn’t try to make sense of it—whatever he was saying was between him and the spirits at this speed.
He focused instead on the land blurring beneath them.
Grasslands whipped by in waves and waves of green and gold, fading into the smoother stonework of merchant roads carved into the hills. With the wind in his hair and the thrill of speed in his chest, Kai found himself forgetting the passage of time. Even the weight of the soul inscription—the wall he couldn’t climb—slipped to the back of his mind.
No beasts dared approach. Even the wind seemed to bow to the storm around them.
Eventually, the land began to change. Stone outposts appeared in the distance, followed by a long stretch of fortified earth—tall walls rising from the plains like a defiant scar across the land.
Fortress Aegis.
And to its left, nestled just beyond the hill's curve, was the city of Redmont—close, but deliberately separate.
But his destination wasn’t the city.
Corwin had told him that Viscount Redmont had refused to leave the fortress, opting to stay near the heart of the plague zone. It made sense—the man wanted to maintain control, but for Kai, that worked out well. He hadn’t come for pleasantries. He had come to see the plague itself.
As the fortress neared, Kai slowed the tempest steed with a slight tug of mana, reducing its speed into a smooth glide. The sudden drop in momentum made the envoy gasp behind him—and finally, Kai could hear him clearly.
“…That… that was something,” the man said between shaky breaths. “I almost felt like I was going to die.” He patted his heart loudly, as if trying to calm it down.
“But you didn’t.”
Corwin coughed, straightening his robes. “Let me go ahead. If I don’t speak first, the soldiers might fill us with arrows.”
Kai nodded and pulled the horse to a full stop. Corwin dismounted with wobbly legs and hurried forward, waving as he approached the towering gates. From his position, Kai could already see soldiers lining the walls—bows drawn, eyes locked onto him.
And he knew those weren’t just arrows pointed his way—he could feel the faint tension of mana signatures. Mages. Not particularly powerful, but skilled enough to hold their ground.
Border soldiers. Trained, seasoned, Kai thought. House Redmont do knows how to grow soldiers.
He watched as the envoy spoke to one of the soldiers. The man ran up the stone steps without hesitation, returning moments later accompanied by a figure that drew attention immediately.
A tall, broad-shouldered Knight stepped into view, he wore dark plate armor with red trimming. His helm was off, revealing a square jaw.
Knight Cais—the man tasked with overseeing the fortress’s defense. He had heard of him from Corwin and even Killian had met the man before since he apparently was one of the most experienced Knights around.
Cais exchanged a few brief words with Corwin, then turned his gaze toward Kai. Without hesitation, Kai dismounted and approached.
The Knight gave a respectful bow. “Count Arzan. We weren’t expecting you today.”
“It’s fine,” Kai said. “I came to see the plague for myself. But before that, I’d like to meet your lord. I was told he’s still stationed here.”
Cais nodded. “He is. He’s already been informed of your arrival. Would you like me to take you to him?”
“Yes,” Kai replied. “Lead the way.”
As they walked, Kai kept his gaze sweeping across the interior. Every soldier they passed was alert, their gear polished, their weapons within reach. Their formations weren’t ceremonial—they were practical, tight, and silent.
Border discipline, Kai mused. Makes sense, considering the past skirmishes. Still… I’m glad Redmont stayed out of the fief war.
He could’ve dealt with their forces if it had come to that, but defending the border afterward would’ve stretched his own too thin. Especially now.
They moved through a narrow corridor built into the rock behind the walls, until Cais finally stopped at a reinforced wooden door embedded into the stone. With a quick knock, he opened it.
Inside was a modest chamber built into the natural cave structure of the fortress—rough stone walls, a desk, a map table, and behind it all… the Viscount.
Viscount Redmont.
As the man looked up, Kai immediately noticed the contrast between his reputation and reality.
His name carried weight—Redmont. His crimson hair had once been a banner of fire, but now it clung in thinning strands to a balding scalp. His face was pale, eyes sunken and rimmed with the kind of exhaustion that sleep wouldn’t fix.
Even as surprise flickered in his gaze at Kai’s presence, the man looked like he was barely holding himself together.
Not physically but mentally.
The plague hadn’t just harmed Redmont’s lands. It had wounded its lord.
2025-04-13 23:39:43 +0000 UTC
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Chapter 99
The Corpse Lands were exactly as dangerous as Qing He had warned.
It had been a proud home of a powerful sect once and then, the entire region had turned into a cursed wasteland after its mysterious destruction. No one knew the exact cause—only that when the sect fell, the land changed with it. Miasma had crept out like smoke from a smoldering ruin, infecting the very air and soil, turning the dead into twisted mockeries of life. The name came later—Corpse Lands—but it had stuck fast.
According to what Qing He told, she’d recounted the rumors. Some said an experiment went awry. Others claimed the sect had been attacked by demonic cultivators. A few exaggerated about a cursed technique, something forbidden, too ancient to control. But her personal theory had stayed with him the most—a corpse collector. One of those foul demonic practitioners who cultivated death itself. If one of them had breached the sect’s walls, and their arts seeped into the earth… it would explain the endless tide of undead.
He didn’t know what was true, and frankly, he didn’t care. His eyes were on the treasures buried deep within—ruins laced with ancient runic weapons, long-forgotten manuals, and maybe, if fate smiled, recipes for pills and potions that he could use to breach deeper into the immortal market.
But therein lay the problem.
The Corpse Lands were crawling with other cultivators—most of them already at the foundation establishment realm. More than capable. More than dangerous. The undead themselves were no joke either. Tier 2 beasts roamed the mists like hounds, and Tier 3 threats were not uncommon. Even if he found something, others would find him. And in a place like this, law didn’t matter. Disputes were settled with blood, and the losers often didn’t stay alive for long.
Chen Ren’s current strength wasn’t enough. Not yet.
He would need to rely on Yalan completely—and he wasn’t sure the cat would agree. She had been watching over him from the start, more guardian than companion, and she hadn’t let him enter battles she thought he couldn’t win. This… this would be a stretch even by her standards.
Pushing the thought aside for now, he stepped into his workshop and slid the door shut behind him with a soft click. The earthy scent of herbs and ash welcomed him. He moved toward the low table and took out a cloth-wrapped bundle.
One by one, he unrolled the items.
Qi replenishment pills.
Scarlet bloom healing pellets.
Bone-refining capsules.
He examined them in silence.
In the world of cultivation, spiritual products were categorized much like techniques—Mortal, Earth, Sky, and Heaven grade. These, unfortunately, were firmly at the bottom of that ladder. Low-tier Mortal-grade. Common enough that any outer disciple or early-stage rogue cultivator had likely bought them at least once. They did the job, barely, but lacked potency or refinement.
Still, they were all he had for now.
Chen Ren narrowed his eyes, picking up one of the dull green bone-refining pills and rolling it between his fingers. They smelled faintly of iron and camphor—unpleasant, but tolerable.
He had a lot to think about. And not much time to prepare.
Being the most common of spiritual products, the recipes for these pills were no great secret. Chen Ren had found several variations tucked within the books Qing He had sent him, all describing the basics in a clear and straightforward manner. But knowing how to make a pill and making a good one were two very different things.
Most sects added their own ingredients—special herbs, refined essences, or long-lost alchemical techniques passed down within their inner circle. That was how they increased the potency of their pills. That was how they gained an edge.
It was also why Chen Ren would never be able to compete with them. Not in raw strength. Not in raw potency. He knew better than to ask Qing He for those secrets. Even if she had access to them, sharing such knowledge would invite more problems than it solved.
But he didn’t need to walk the same path. Potency wasn’t the only thing that made a product unique.
There were other angles—effects that lingered longer, pills that dissolve faster, ones that were easier to absorb for certain constitutions, or even ones that simply had fewer side effects. If he could carve out a niche, create a formula tailored for a large number of people that was better in some way from the pills in the market, then he wouldn’t need to go head-to-head with the sects at all.
Still, before he could test anything, he needed a baseline. A standard.
He would have to break down the entire process—measurements, heating times, spiritual flow, ingredient sequence—everything had to be reproducible, teachable. If he wanted to build a supply chain, he couldn’t be the only one crafting pills. He had plenty of mortals under his wing, but not cultivators skilled in pill-making.
Alchemy required precision, discipline, and time—none of which his people had in abundance. Yet, there was one exception. Luo Feng.
The man was already managing his future herb garden with surprising dedication. Chen Ren had handed him a small pouch of common spiritual seeds after the tournament—rewards he had earned from the tournament but couldn’t store indefinitely. Pills could be sealed and preserved; herbs, less so. They decayed, lost their vitality, and became useless over time. It made more sense to put them inside the ground than on a shelf.
And Luo Feng had taken the task seriously. The spirit farm was beginning to take shape, tiny shoots poking through the enriched soil, visible faintly under the influence of the land’s weak spiritual energy.
If things went well, he might be able to bring him into the alchemy work later. But for now, it would be just him.
He rolled his shoulders and stretched his arms, feeling the back muscles tight. Letting out an exhale, he walked over to the side of the workshop where the cauldron was.
Placing the basic ingredients for the qi replenishment pill onto the workbench, he began sorting them by age, type and dryness. His hands moved without a pause, eyes narrowed in focus.
Today wasn’t about breakthroughs. Today was about repetition. Standardisation.
He’d had some success with pills before—some being the key word.
Truthfully, his results had been passable at best. Potions were where he truly shone. There was a fluidity in crafting them, a kind of intuitive precision that made it easier for him to manage. But potions weren’t as sought after by cultivators. Pills were cleaner, more concentrated, and far more versatile. They lasted longer, stored better, and came in dozens of specialized types. A single pill could boost qi circulation, calm the mind, restore broken meridians, or even awaken dormant bloodlines.
He’d often wondered why pills held such prestige over potions, but he had shelved that question for later. There were too many pressing concerns for these types of musings.
Moving over to his cauldron, he set out the herbs he needed for a basic qi replenishment pill. Alchemy in this world wasn’t as straightforward as it had been in the world he came from. It wasn’t merely about chemical reactions or combining ingredients in the right sequence. Here, he had to draw the qi out of the spiritual herbs, guide it, bind it, then compress it under controlled heat and pressure until it formed a pill.
Simple to describe. Complicated to perform. Especially when trying to standardise the process. He eyed the first few herbs as he began to heat the cauldron, the flame shifting into a blue-white hue under his qi's influence. The familiar hiss of warming metal filled the air.
Then the door creaked open.
Chen Ren turned, surprised. He had been too focused to sense anyone approaching. He narrowed his eyes at Anji who stood there, her eyes being different than usual.
They looked at him directly, but she seemed to be in deep thought. Her stance screamed urgency, restraint, a small flicker of… fear? And something else entirely. The kind of expression someone wore when they had just outrun assassins and knew that jumping off a cliff sounded like a better option.
He didn't speak immediately, letting the silence stretch, hoping she’d break it first.
But when she didn’t, he sighed and decided he needed to break the ice.
“Do you need something?” he asked. “I doubt you’re here to greet me for my glorious return. We already met at the shooting range.”
Anji shook her head slowly, her hands clenched at her sides. “I heard… about your talk with Senior Qing He. About you going to the Corpse Lands to find treasures.”
Her voice didn’t tremble. Not quite. But there was weight in it. Enough for Chen Ren to straighten and let the flame beneath the cauldron die down. He gave her his full attention. This wasn’t going to be a casual conversation.
Chen Ren nodded slowly. “Then… are you worried?”
He didn’t wait for a reply before continuing. “I am thinking of going to the Corpse Lands. Our sect’s short on too many things. I know it’s dangerous, but if I decide to go, I’m going to—”
“I’m not worried,” Anji cut in. “I know you need manuals,” she continued. “Cultivation techniques for the disciples. Xiulan told me about it.”
He paused, her words settling in more than he expected. Xiulan told her? That meant the two had grown closer than he’d realized. He didn’t mind it—there was no harm in it—but still, a part of him had hoped things like that wouldn’t spread too far. It wasn’t exactly a secret, but…
He had wanted the sect to look a little more prestigious in the eyes of outsiders. A bit less desperate.
He sighed. “It’s true. I do need them. That’s the main reason I’ve been considering the Corpse Lands,” he said, then tilted his head slightly. “But why are you asking?”
Anji hesitated.
He caught the flicker in her eyes—like she was weighing something, some unspoken cost.
“What if you don’t have to go to the Corpse Lands?” she asked softly.
Chen Ren gave her a wry smile. “Then I’d be a terrible sect leader. Can’t even provide a proper cultivation manual for my disciples? What kind of face would I have left?”
She shook her head. “No. I meant… what if there’s another place you can look for manuals?”
His smile faltered. His eyes narrowed, not in suspicion, but in realization. Slowly, he straightened.
“You’re serious,” he said.
Anji didn’t reply, but she didn’t need to. Her silence was confirmation enough. His mind whirled. Another place? If such a site existed—and it was less dangerous than the Corpse Lands—it could change everything. He wouldn’t have to gamble his life just to scavenge some ruined scrolls. It was the best possibility he’d heard in weeks.
But that only raised more questions.
Why now? And why had she never mentioned this before?
He had known from the beginning that Anji’s background wasn’t ordinary. The way she carried herself, the way she observed others, and even the way she knew how to read and write—it all hinted at a past buried under layers of half-truths and avoidance. But knowing of a place where cultivation manuals could be found?
That was another level entirely.
He studied her closely now.
“If there really is such a place in the empire,” he began slowly, “wouldn’t the other sects have already scoured it clean? Something like that wouldn’t stay hidden for long.”
Anji didn’t hesitate. “No, they can’t.”
His brow rose.
“It’s a hidden location,” she said. “Even if someone finds it, they wouldn’t be able to open the sect vault on their own.”
That gave him pause.
A sect vault?
So that was it. A hidden vault belonging to a sect—untouched, sealed away, inaccessible to outsiders. But not to her. The way she spoke, the certainty in her voice, the quiet control—it all pointed to one thing, Anji knew the internal workings of this vault. And that meant her connection to it ran deeper than he’d previously guessed.
She had just confirmed what he’d suspected, though he hadn’t expected the truth to come this soon.
“Do you have a way to open the vault?”
Anji nodded slowly.
“And… Do you know what’s inside?”
Her lips twitched—not quite a smile, more like restrained emotion.
“I have an idea,” she said. “Cultivation manuals. Secret techniques. Some of them are easily Earth grade. Weapons, all of them spirit artifacts. And a whole sect inheritance that even I have no clue about. But it’s real. And it’s powerful enough to elevate any sect to an Established Sect overnight.”
Chen Ren’s eyes widened.
That… that was beyond anything he expected.
If even half of what she said was true, this vault wouldn’t just solve his problems—it would propel his sect into prominence. With Earth-grade techniques alone, he could begin recruiting serious cultivators. In the Empire, those were rare treasures. Most sects reserved them for their most promising core disciples. Guardian sects might grant one or two to inner disciples, but never to the outer ranks.
Techniques like that could help someone leap ranks. Fight above their cultivation. Survive battles they had no business surviving. And that wasn’t even counting the inheritance she hinted at.
With all that combined… It would be worth risking everything. But there was still one question burning in his mind.
“How do you know all this?” he asked carefully. “I can’t imagine this kind of knowledge being available to just anyone. Even a sect’s inner disciples might not know of a hidden vault like this.”
“It’s not. Very few people know about it,” she said. “And I can’t tell you more unless we’re on the same page.”
Chen Ren’s eyes narrowed slightly, waiting.
“If I tell you everything,” she continued, “you’ll have to go with me to the vault. No turning back.”
He nodded without hesitation. If this was real, he had to go. Only a fool would pass up an opportunity like this. But still, he needed questions to be answered.
“Then let me ask this,” he said. “If we do get access to the vault, how would we divide what we find?”
Anji answered almost immediately. “I’ll take the inheritance. I want access to the manuals, but you can keep and use them however you want—so long as you don’t sell them to any sect, clan, or outsider not affiliated with your sect.”
Chen Ren fell silent.
It was a sharp deal. The inheritance might very well be the most valuable thing in the vault—possibly a bloodline legacy, techniques tailored to a specific cultivation path, maybe even unique methods that could reshape a sect’s foundation. Something priceless. He wondered why a mortal like her needed the inheritance. She couldn't possibly use it, but it didn't look like she was going to budge from her condition.
He could try to negotiate. But… None of this would even be an option without her.
The inheritance wasn’t his to begin with. And he knew it.
So after a moment, he nodded.
“That’s fine by me.”
Anji exhaled slowly, her shoulders easing in the faintest show of relief.
“Before I reveal anything else,” she said, her voice more composed now, “I want a qi oath between us. On everything we discussed. That way, we can trust each other.”
Chen Ren didn’t react immediately. He just studied her face, the seriousness in her eyes. Then he gave a slow nod. “That’s fair. But we’ll need to discuss the wording first. Oaths aren’t something you rush.”
“It’ll be simple,” Anji replied. “Both of us will go to the vault. You’ll protect me, and I’ll lead you all the way to the entrance and unlock access. Once we’re inside, we divide the spoils like we discussed—me taking the inheritance, you keeping the rest.”
Chen Ren raised an eyebrow, waiting for her to continue.
“There’ll be no betrayals,” she added. “Neither of us will go back on our word. The oath ends when we leave the vault safely, but even after that, you can’t attempt to take my life or the inheritance—directly or indirectly.”
Chen Ren tapped his fingers against his arm, thinking it through.
“That works for me,” he said after a moment. “But I might have to bring others along. And I’ll need you to explain every danger we’re walking into. Clearly.”
Anji gave a small nod. “That’s fine. But they’ll have to swear the same oath.”
“Deal.”
With the terms set, they moved to the center of the workshop. The air stilled as he pulled on his qi, weaving it into the space between them. He drew patterns in the air with his qi, sealing his qi to his words. The symbols shimmered in the air and disappeared ever so slightly.
“I promise to…” Chen Ren put everything to words, and that rippled the qi around him. Anji stared at him and said the same words. And then, she let out a breath. She looked like she’d just passed a point of no return.
Chen Ren noticed.
“So,” he said, voice quieter now, “can I know everything? About the vault. And about you. I want to know what I’m getting into—even with the oath.”
Anji looked at him, long and hard, then gave a slow nod.
“I’ll tell you everything,” she said. “Since we’ll be working together from now on.”
She paused, just for a heartbeat.
And then the next words out of her mouth shattered the silence between them.
Words that made Chen Ren’s heart still in his chest.
2025-04-13 23:38:07 +0000 UTC
View Post
Chapter 98
Anji felt her arm shake as the recoil pushed back into her shoulder, a familiar jolt of force echoing through her bones. The bullet tore through the air and carved cleanly into the wooden target ahead.
One. Two. Three. Four. She emptied the entire cartridge (that was what they called it) with a calmness she found in her, each shot finding its mark without deviation. Every trigger pull was certain, her breathing steady, body aligned perfectly.
She’d been doing this for a week now—helping Feiyu and Qing He test the new bullet molds and gun modifications—but for her, it was never just help.
Firing bullets was therapy.
There was something satisfying about the thunderous crack, the sense of raw force controlled by her hands. A mortal woman wielding something that could pierce through a bear’s skull… it made her feel powerful. Important.
But today? There was no satisfaction. No thrill. No smile. No goosebumps.
Only questions. A weight she couldn’t shake. A rising storm in her thoughts that had nothing to do with targets and everything to do with the man behind the design of these weapons.
As the final bullet snapped free and smoke curled from the barrel, she lowered the gun and turned. Feiyu stood at the edge of the range, notebook in hand, scribbling something before giving her a nod.
“That was good,” he said. “I think we can end it for today. I’m going to work on more gun diagrams—based on the notes Sect Leader Chen gave me.” He glanced up again. “When we finally start training mortals with these… I think you’d make a good instructor.”
Anji blinked. “I’d be willing.”
Feiyu smiled lightly, satisfied. “Then I’ll leave it at that. Good session.”
He turned, heading for the workshop—but before he could round the corner, Anji felt something tighten in her chest. Her throat moved, the words clawing their way out before she could think twice.
“Wait. Can I ask you something?”
Feiyu paused mid-step and looked over his shoulder. “About guns? Ask away.”
“No…” she said, and cleared her throat, unable to fathom what she was about to ask. “About Sect Leader Chen.”
He turned fully this time, brows arching faintly. “What about him?”
“Do you trust him?” she asked plainly.
There was a pause. Not long, but enough for her to catch the flicker of change in his expression. His posture didn’t shift, but his eyes… they sharpened.
“He’s my benefactor,” Feiyu said. “He severed my bloodline from slavery—something my ancestors suffered through for generations.”
Anji didn’t move. “That… doesn’t answer my question.”
Feiyu's lips twitched—not quite a smile. “Then yes. I trust him.”
He stepped closer, speaking slowly now, not for her understanding but for his own recollection.
“I’ll admit, when I first met him, a lot of what he said sounded… ridiculous. Risky. Honestly? A little insane. He spoke of weapons, systems, markets, and mortals holding power like cultivators. I thought he was deluded.”
His gaze drifted briefly, before locking with hers again.
“But every promise, every risk—he held to it. Even when things went bad, and it looked like we'd all die… he never wavered. And because he didn’t, I’m here today. So yes. I trust him.”
A quiet fell over the training ground.
“Does that answer your question?” he asked.
Anji nodded.
Feiyu looked like he wanted to ask why—but then, true to his nature, he simply said, “Goodbye,” and turned, already more focused on blueprints and designs than whatever battle was playing out in her head.
Anji remained where she stood.
The gun was still warm in her hand. Her ears still rang faintly from the last shot. And yet her thoughts were somehow louder.
She hadn’t expected Feiyu to say so much. He rarely did. He never spoke about himself. In fact, the few things she knew came from overhearing Xiulan in the main courtyard over tea.
But now, just for a moment, she had seen something else in him. Faith. She had her answer—or so it seemed.
But the words gnawed at her. Not the ones he said, but the why behind them. She knew Feiyu had once been a slave, saved by Chen Ren. How? She didn’t know. But it made her wonder—was that trust born from gratitude alone? Or from something deeper? Something real?
She needed more than one perspective.
Without wasting a moment, Anji set off through the sect buildings, her eyes sharp and her mind buzzing. There were others who had stories tied to the sect leader, people who had seen different sides of him.
She just had to find them. And It didn’t take long.
In the training yard near the outer hall, she spotted Zi Wen, his hands moving, fingers twitching as he guided his bonded wolf—through drills. The wolf pounced, rolled, and retreated on command, eyes always on its master.
“Zi Wen,” Anji called out.
He glanced at her, brushing a strand of hair out of his eyes. “Something wrong?”
“I wanted to ask you something. About Sect Leader Chen.”
He tilted his head.
“Do you trust him?”
Zi Wen’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. The wolf padded to his side, tail still wagging as it sat obediently.
“Trust?” he repeated, then nodded. “Yeah. I do.”
He said it so casually, like it wasn’t even a question worth doubting.
“I’ve always been wary of cultivators,” he admitted, wiping sweat off his brow and walking closer. “But what I’ve seen of him… he has a good head on his shoulders. More than that, he’s not arrogant. Doesn’t act like the world owes him something just because he’s powerful.” He gave a faint smile. “He helped me find my path. I was just some middle aged man with a pet wolf, barely hanging on and having given up on cultivation. Now, I’ve got a bond, I’ve got a direction—and that’s thanks to him. So yeah. I’d trust him with my life.”
With that, he turned back to his training, the wolf immediately springing back into action.
Anji lingered for a moment, her brows furrowed.
Is it still just gratitude? Was that what tied everyone to him?
She needed more.
Leaving the training yard, she made her way toward the farmlands. The scent of tilled soil and spiritual herbs filled the air, and the sun beat down steadily on the plots of land where crops glimmered with faint qi.
Luo Feng was crouched over one of the rows, mud up to his knees, sleeves rolled, his hands gently adjusting a set of spirit roots that glowed faint green. When he noticed her, he smiled, a streak of dirt across his cheek.
“Need something?” he asked.
“I have a question,” she said, getting right to it. “Do you trust Sect Leader Chen?”
Luo Feng didn’t even blink.
“I trust him,” he said simply.
“Why?”
He returned to adjusting the roots before answering. “Because he seems like someone worth trusting.”
She blinked. “That’s it?”
“Yeah.” He gave her a wry smile. “I’ve been lost before. My parents died when I was still figuring out who I was. I drifted for a while… felt like a seed with no soil.”
He straightened slowly, looking across the rows of shimmering crops.
“But now, I’ve got a purpose. I want to make the best spirit farm this world has ever seen. That goal… that anchor? It came from Sect Leader Chen. If not for him, I wouldn’t be here. I wouldn’t be a cultivator. At least not the kind that could ascend to immortality one day.”
Anji gave Luo Feng a short nod, ignoring his attempt at humor. She thanked him politely and walked off, her mind already drifting elsewhere.
Luo Feng, for his part, was more than happy to be left alone. His trust in Sect Leader Chen Ren came from instinct and gratitude, not deep shared experiences. Their interactions had been few, but Chen Ren had given him a field and a future, and for a man who once had neither, that was more than enough.
But Anji needed more.
She needed something firmer than kind gestures and vague admiration. Her next steps led her to the outskirts of the main building, to the slightly scorched, metal-laden workshop where Hong Yi lived among blueprints and half-built wooden nightmares. Today, he was hunched over a new creation, a tall puppet with eight mechanical arms, each ending in a different wicked tool. Its wooden face was twisted in a manic grin, and its limbs clicked and whirred as he adjusted joints with movements.
“Why so many arms?” she asked, more to break the tension than out of curiosity.
“For fear factor,” he answered immediately, not even looking up. “Imagine this thing crawling out in the middle of a battle, painted pale like a ghost, eyes glowing, that smile staring you down. Fear alone will slow a man's blade.”
Anji said nothing. Just waited.
Hong Yi tinkered for a moment longer, then finally glanced her way. “You're not here to critique my puppet aesthetics, are you?”
She shook her head. “Do you trust Sect Leader Chen?”
That made him pause.
The puppet’s head gave a final click as it settled into place. “Trust?” he echoed, then gave a dry chuckle. “Yeah… I guess I do.”
He leaned back and tapped one of the puppet’s arms absently.
“He’s my benefactor. Helped solve a… problem of mine. One most would’ve stayed far away from. I still think he was insane for doing it, but he did it anyway. And more importantly—he’s never once asked me for my knowledge.”
Anji tilted her head. “You mean the puppet techniques?”
Hong Yi nodded. “Most sect leaders would've tried to make me hand it over, or at least demand I teach it. But he hasn’t. Not even once. He said he’d give me a workshop, and he did. He said I could work on my craft, and I can. So yeah. I trust him. But I’d call it a professional trust. He lets me do what I’m good at, and I help the sect grow.”
That was enough for her. Before he could spiral into another tangent about why the puppet needed blood-red eyes, she slipped away.
They trusted him because he had done what he promised. Because he treated them like people, not tools. Because he didn’t just talk about ideals. He acted on them. And she couldn’t deny it. Even for her, their first meeting hadn’t been one of orders or expectations. He had found her half-starved and offered food without asking anything in return. It had been a small gesture, but one that stuck.
Still… This question wasn’t about kindness or leadership. This was about duty. The secret she carried. The truth of who she was and what might come of it. And she wasn’t sure if Chen Ren was someone she could entrust that to.
Not yet.
Her feet, lost in thought, brought her to the sect kitchen. The scent of fresh noodles wafted out like an invisible hand tugging her back to reality.
Inside, Tang Xiulan stood surrounded by children, sleeves rolled up, hair tied in a loose bun as she deftly sliced vegetables. She was clearly trying to teach the kids how to make noodles—but judging by the way the kids looked at the food around them, the lesson was leaning heavily toward “eat everything when Miss Xiulan turns her back.”
Anji stepped into the room, ignoring the chaos and heading straight to the counter.
“Do you trust Sect Leader Chen?”
Xiulan turned around, knife in hand, a brow raised.
“Obviously,” she said without hesitation. “Why are you asking?”
Anji blinked.
The tone in her voice was different from the others. Not soft or uncertain. Not professional or grateful. It was final. Like she’d already placed a stake in the ground and dared the world to move her.
There was conviction.
“Why?”
Xiulan returned to slicing vegetables, her movements fluid and steady, voice calm.
“I hated him at first.”
That made Anji pause.
“Thought he was a lecherous, arrogant hedonist who thought way too much of himself. Always scheming, always smiling like he knew something no one else did.”
She chuckled, just a little.
“But one loss… one real defeat was all it took for him to change. Completely. Like he’d been broken down and built back up into someone new.”
Her hands didn’t stop moving, but her voice softened.
“And that’s when I saw the truth. If he wants to… he puts in effort. He takes care of people. He holds to his word, no matter what. And deep down, he has a good heart. Even if sometimes, he doesn’t show it that well.”
Tang Xiulan stirred the pot with practiced grace, her hands moving almost without thought as she added the chopped vegetables to the simmering soup. The scent of broth thickened in the air, wrapping around them like a comforting blanket.
“Before,” she said slowly, “I felt like the good in him was shrouded. Covered up by all the worst things—arrogance, indulgence, carelessness.”
Her voice didn’t hold bitterness, just memory.
“But once the good side took over… he felt like the kind of man I’d want to support.”
She gave the soup a stir and smiled faintly.
“And also, let’s be real—it’s good for me. I mean, come on. From a maid to the manager of a sect? That’s a promotion even cultivators would envy. He’s generous, and I have a feeling he’s just getting started. If there are more steps up, I will be climbing them.”
Anji watched her in silence, absorbing every word. There was something deeper under Xiulan’s practical tone, something not fully voiced… but this was enough.
It always was, wasn’t it? Just enough.
Still, it was the first part of her answer that clung to Anji's thoughts.
She leaned against the doorframe, eyes fixed on the boiling soup. “His bad side,” she said quietly. “Do you think it’s still there?”
Xiulan stopped stirring.
She didn’t look up at first. Just stood, spoon in hand, the steam curling past her face.
Then she said, “It should be. We all have bad sides. Yin and yang go together. That’s just how it is. Greed, anger, lust—they’re all part of us. What matters is what we choose when those parts whisper to us.”
Anji hadn’t expected something so philosophical, but it made her… oddly comforted. She nodded slowly, then asked the real question that had been clawing at her from the inside.
“But what if the opportunity comes? Something big. Something he could only get through deceit. Do you think… that would bring it out?”
This time, Xiulan’s gaze met hers. No smile. No evasiveness. Just clear, sharp attention.
Anji braced herself for a question in return, but it never came.
“I don’t think so,” Xiulan said. “Not anymore.”
She turned down the fire beneath the pot and crossed her arms, watching Anji like she could see more than just the question.
“If something like that was going to bring the old him back, it would’ve already happened. Like with Hong Yi. The man had puppet knowledge—something sects would kill for. And young master Chen Ren? He never even asked how it worked. Never tried to claim it. Just gave him a workshop and let him be.”
She paused, then added more gently, “That’s not the choice someone makes if they’re still driven by greed or lust for power.”
Then, for the first time, she asked the question.
“Why are you asking this, Anji?”
The air shifted.
The kids were laughing in the background, arguing over whose bowl of noodles looked
the best, oblivious to the quiet weight pressing between the two women. And Anji… Anji didn’t answer.
Because she still didn’t know what the answer was.
“I had questions.” It was the only explanation.
Xiulan didn’t press. She didn’t tilt her head or narrow her eyes the way others did when they sensed a secret. She simply watched her for a beat longer before nodding and returning to her soup.
“I think,” she said, “you’re trying to figure out if you trust him. But my trust won’t give you any reason to. That’s not how it works. Trust is a bridge built between two people—not borrowed, not passed around.
“Whatever made you ask, I don’t want to know. I’ve got enough of my own secrets to keep me busy. You need to think about it yourself.”
With that, Tang Xiulan returned to her task, her hands already reaching for the ladle, her attention shifting back to the children and their noisy, flour-covered excitement.
Anji didn’t stay. There was nothing more she could learn here. The questions had ended. Now came the answer.
Did she trust him? If she was being honest with herself, she didn’t know. Trust wasn’t a switch to flip—it was something fragile. Something once shattered that never quite returned to its original shape. And Anji had seen it break before. Felt it. Lived it.
But the truth was undeniable—she needed him now. And not in some vague, “sect leader helps people” way.
And if she was going to go through with what was in her mind—if she was going to hand over the truth of who she was and what she carried—then she would have to trust him with it.
Not with her tasks. Not with her job. With her secrets.
That was a much heavier ask.
Her mind kept turning, looping back through everything she'd seen, everything she'd heard. The words of Feiyu, Zi Wen, Luo Feng, Hong Yi, and finally Xiulan—each like a thread wrapping around the core of her doubt.
And in the center of it all, something her father had once said came to the surface.
The old man had a habit of talking too much, borrowing lines from ancient texts just to sound wiser than he actually was. But every so often, a line slipped through the noise—sharp and lasting.
“Sometimes, you must force yourself to trust someone when you’re desperate. Not because they’ve earned it, but because the alternative is worse. And it doesn’t mean you’ll be betrayed. Human civilization is built on risk. And the greatest of those is the willingness to be vulnerable.”
Anji could still see him, puffing on his pipe, waving his hand like he was narrating the fall of an empire—only to end the lecture by asking her to brew his tea.
But she remembered that line. And now it felt heavier than when she first heard it. Was the risk worth it? She didn’t know. And yet her feet were already moving, thoughts tangled in uncertainty, her heart hammering despite the calm of the sect grounds.
She didn’t even realize where she was heading until her boots tapped against the stone threshold of the alchemical workshop. Chen Ren was inside. She hadn’t asked anyone. Someone had mentioned it, maybe in passing—but the face didn’t matter. The knowledge stuck, and her legs had obeyed.
Now, here she was.
All it would take was one step forward. One decision.
Because if she went in… If she spoke… Then she wasn’t just testing trust. She was offering it.
The question didn’t wait anymore.
Did she take the risk?
2025-04-11 21:43:33 +0000 UTC
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Chapter 205
Amyra’s astral soul was very different from Amara’s cold wasteland.
There were no cracked plains, no ice, no silence heavy enough to drown thought. Instead, there was warmth—gentle, constant, and comforting. The ground glowed beneath Kai’s feet, coated in a soft silver sheen that reflected the astral mana like moonlight on calm water.
It gave the realm an ethereal beauty, not unlike the feeling of standing inside a memory one didn’t want to forget.
Above, her mana circle spun in the sky—a golden ring swirling slowly like a controlled vortex of light. It pulsed with power, more refined than he’d seen from most at her stage. With every slow rotation, it exhaled winds of mana, and Kai felt each one as it brushed against him—warm, steady, pushing gently at his robes, as if the soul itself was breathing.
He stood still, eyes scanning the edges of the soulscape. The boundaries were clear, and already, they extended well beyond what was normal for a novice. Most Mages struggled to stabilize even a fragment of this space, yet hers stretched wide, stable and full of promise. He knew it would only grow—if she was trained properly, if she survived what was coming.
A voice broke through the stillness.
“…Is this my astral realm?”
He turned.
Amyra stood a few steps behind him, barefoot, her white hair catching the soft light as if it too belonged here. Her golden eyes were wide, uncertain as they darted around, taking in the silver glow, the warmth, the spinning ring in the sky. She looked more like someone stepping into a dream than a Mage stepping into their own soul.
Kai nodded. “Yes, it is.”
She hesitated, as if unsure of how to react.
“I know it feels strange,” he said. “But take it as a lesson. With your inclination toward the healing arts, you’ll be walking through astral realms more often than you think. Some of your patients will carry their wounds deeper than the flesh.”
She blinked, clearly still processing it all.
Over the weeks they’d spent together—days of diagnosis, minor procedures, and quiet observations—Kai hadn’t just been testing her mana flow or understanding her innate abilities. He had also been studying her aptitude that had led him to one conclusion.
She wasn’t meant to be an offensive Mage.
When he asked what kind of Mage she wanted to become, she hadn’t spoken of fireballs or dominance or duels. Her words had been quiet, thoughtful—filled with concern for others rather than power for herself.
And she was already good. Her affinity leaned naturally toward light, and her healing spells were steady and focused, even before any formal instruction. That alone would’ve been enough. But what sealed his judgment was the way she looked at people. With empathy. With real compassion.
The kind no technique could teach. Because of that he’d already decided to teach her more about the three mana organs and their surgeries to better prepare her.
Although he hadn’t come here to teach her, he figured this was still a good opportunity for her to learn—if not through instruction, then through observation. The soul had its own world, and sooner or later, any healer worth their mana would need to learn to explore it.
She gave a slow nod, still glancing around the shining silver plains, then looked back at him. “So… what are we going to do next?”
“Explore,” Kai said simply. “There should be a spell inscription here—something we talked about. If we find it, I might be able to tell whether it’s a purification aid or something more complex. There might even be multiple inscriptions.”
He turned his gaze toward the distant horizon. The realm was larger than most, and searching it could take hours if not more. “It’ll take time. Let’s split up. If you see anything strange—especially monsters—let me know.”
Her brows shot up. “Monsters?”
Kai gave a slight shrug. “Manifestations of fear. They show up sometimes. Or they don’t. Depends on the person. But if they do appear, I’ll deal with them.”
Amyra didn’t look entirely convinced, but she nodded nonetheless and headed off across the silver field, her figure soon blending with the ambient light.
Kai watched her for a moment, then muttered the incantation and lifted into the air with a soft rush of wind, his flight spell activating. He turned toward the boundaries of the astral realm and shot forward, scanning the landscape from above. His eyes flicked from one glowing ridge to another, watching for any unnatural symbols or disruptions in the mana flow.
But no matter where he flew, the realm remained the same—pristine, cohesive, and whole. There were no cracks, no anomalies, no lurking distortions. Everything felt like it belonged. If anything stood out, it was just how stable the realm was. Stronger, even, than many full-fledged Mages he’d encountered. It was compact, fortified—not artificially, but naturally, like a soul that had unconsciously chosen to protect itself from within.
It was impressive. But admiration wasn’t his goal here. He needed to find the soul inscription.
And unfortunately, no matter where he looked, he wasn't able to find the damn thing.
Maybe I’m just looking at this the wrong way, he thought, slowing his flight. It could be hidden with a spell… or carved so minutely that I can’t even see it.
Both ideas, however, felt far-fetched.
Hiding a soul inscription behind layers of spellwork would require extra mana, and no one in their right mind would waste that kind of energy. Astral spaces weren’t easily invaded to begin with—soul spells were rare, difficult, and incredibly volatile. Not to mention, he doubted any Mage from this current era had the finesse to manage such soul-layered deception.
As for the possibility of it being etched in microscopic detail?
Also unlikely.
Soul realms were delicate—inscriptions had to be placed with care, and the more complex they were, the higher the chance of shattering the host’s soul entirely. If someone had tried to embed something that intricate, Amyra’s soul would have imploded the moment the spell was completed.
And according to her, the man who’d done it hadn’t only done it to her—he’d done it to everyone in her village. She hadn’t mentioned any accidents, any collapse, not even a single failure. That ruled out both theories. So then why the hell couldn’t he find it?
He let out a breath, scanning the quiet silver plains again, the golden circle above casting soft shadows as the winds of mana continued to swirl.
No… it has to be here.
Somewhere in this realm, the answer was hidden—he was sure of it.
But half an hour later, he’d found nothing. Not even the smallest hint of a trail. The more he searched, the more he began to wonder if maybe… maybe he was wrong. Maybe her astral soul didn’t hide the mechanism behind her ability to purify dead mana. Maybe it was just a rare, passive trait. An anomaly of the body.
Except that didn’t explain the spell she’d used during the beast wave—the one that hadn’t just purified dead mana but had actively destroyed the fiends. That had been no accident. It had been structured, guided. Designed. And he still hadn’t found the soul inscription responsible.
Another fruitless loop later, he sighed and veered off toward Amyra. She was standing near a rise of smooth silver terrain, her expression troubled. Clearly, her own search had been just as disappointing. He flew down and landed softly on the glowing ground.
“I’m assuming you found nothing?” he asked.
Amyra shook her head. “No… What about you?”
Kai exhaled sharply through his nose. “I’ve searched the boundaries. Every inch. It’s not here. Not visibly, at least.” He paused, running a hand through his hair. “I’m leaning toward the possibility that it’s been hidden somehow. But… I’d have to verify that with a spell. And frankly, I don’t even have a spell that can detect inscriptions inside an astral realm.”
Amyra blinked. “Wait, that kind of spell doesn’t exist?”
“Not to my knowledge,” Kai muttered. “Soul spells are... narrow. They’re either for attacking the soul directly—soulfire, severing techniques—or for entry and surgery. Nothing more. There’s no real variety.”
There was a pause before she asked, “Then what are we going to do?”
He looked at her, mind racing as he turned over possibilities. But nothing came to him. Every idea collapsed under its own weight—too complex, too dangerous, or too impractical. His eyes flicked across the glowing field again, but it was like trying to find a whisper in the wind.
Then he looked up.
And something clicked.
The circles.
He had looked everywhere—across the plains, the edges, the flow lines—but not once had he thought to check the mana circles itself. It didn’t even occur to him. After all, a soul inscription placed near the circle risked destabilizing it. That alone should’ve disqualified the idea. But… maybe that assumption was wrong.
Maybe whoever carved the inscription wanted it hidden—wanted it precisely where no one would think to look.
He turned to Amyra.
“I’m going to inspect the circle,” he said. “It might be near it. Maybe even behind it.”
She gave a small nod, clearly unsure but trusting him enough not to object.
Kai muttered the flight spell again and soared upward, heading toward the golden circle that rotated slowly above the realm like a radiant wheel. The moment he approached, a wave of pressure hit him. The mana here was dense—compressed to the point where it felt almost solid, the sheer weight of it pressing against his skin and lungs.
Mana circles don't look like much, but they are a very compressed source of power, he thought. A self-contained storm.
But he ignored the resistance and forced himself closer, eyes scanning every inch of its edge, searching for any flicker, any deviation. He didn’t need to look long.
Just behind the circle, nearly buried in the light it gave off, something glowed.
A soul inscription— carved into the very air, floating just behind the rotating ring of mana. It shimmered with radiant threads, pulsing faintly in rhythm with the circle’s spin. Kai hovered there, staring.
It wasn’t hidden. It was cleverly hidden—positioned in a place where the natural radiance of the circle would cover its glow completely unless someone looked at it from the right angle.
Whoever carved this... knew the astral realm well. Too well. It would’ve taken not only an understanding of the circle's flow but also precision on the level of soul-weaving. But that was a mystery for another time. Right now, he focused. And studied.
The inscribtion floated motionless behind the golden circle, suspended in the air as if the astral realm itself was holding its breath around it.
A rectangular plate of glowing script—etched with hundreds, no, thousands of lines—interwoven, curved, layered, branching off into patterns and loops. Shapes and symbols twisted through the lattice, some glowing brighter than others, each line brimming with a purpose Kai couldn’t immediately grasp.
His brows furrowed as he drifted closer, the glow of the inscription painting his face in pale light.
It was—without question—the most complex and impressive soul inscription he had ever seen. Nothing from the Sorcerer’s Tower, no spellbook or relic or a Magus’ thesis, came close to this. The sheer intricacy of it made his breath catch for a second.
Immediately, his eyes landed on a segment near the left corner—part of the pattern looked familiar. A spell structure. Yes… that spell. The one Amyra had used during the beast wave to kill the fiends in one move. It was embedded into her soul, fixed there like a permanent brand. Unlike the rest of the array, that segment seemed added after everything else—lighter in etching, less integrated, like someone had patched it on as an emergency safeguard.
But everything else? It was foreign.
Kai wasn’t a novice. He had studied soul inscriptions, seals, and internal spell architecture more than most ordinary Mages ever dreamed of. But this… this was something else entirely. The lines looked like they belonged to a living mechanism.
A machine.
That idea struck him hard, and it changed the way he looked at it. Instead of approaching it as one unified spell, he broke it down—dividing the structure mentally into sections, imagining each as a different cog or engine, meant to serve a unique function. A regulation system here. A redirection path there. A storage conduit.
That made things easier. Slightly.
He threw himself into it, slowly studying segment after segment, trying to recognise what each part did. It still didn’t make sense. The functions didn’t align with known spell forms. Some segments seemed like they had nothing to do with magic at all—as if they were meant to translate something else entirely. Every time he thought he had a thread to pull, it split into something more complex, or doubled back into itself, twisting logic into a knot.
Time stretched.
He sent a quick message spell to Amyra so she wouldn’t worry, then kept at it, not even noticing the shift in the realm’s lighting or the toll on his body. Midway, he stopped registering how long he had been at it—he just kept comparing the lines to every memory, every book, every margin sketch from his years in the Sorcerer's Tower.
He’d trace one line mentally, only for it to morph, slip into another form, or fold into a deeper layer of meaning. The worst part was that it wasn’t just complex—it was intentional. Every line was there for something. There was no fluff, no wasted mana, no overlapping structures meant to dazzle or confuse.
Whoever made this knew how to engineer them. And slowly, painfully, Kai came to a realization. This was likely the pinnacle of soul inscription work.
Not just the most advanced he had ever seen—but possibly the highest level that even existed. Because every single part served a reason. Kai stared at it, mind humming.
Even if he couldn’t understand it all… this was worth preserving.
Because if he ever hoped to learn how Amyra’s body purified dead mana… this was where the answer lived. There was no wastage in any of the lines.
Even if he couldn’t decipher the whole inscription, he could say that much with absolute certainty. It wasn’t just a gut feeling—it was a fundamental truth about soul inscriptions. They were difficult. Painstaking. Grueling to construct. No one who etched them would leave in anything unnecessary. Every stroke cost something, and no sane inscriber would pay the price for nothing.
Still… the question remained.
Who had made this?
Amyra had said someone in her clan had inscribed it. But had that person actually designed this?
Kai seriously doubted it.
This was the work of someone at least at the sixth circle—maybe even seventh. If Amyra’s clan had access to a Mage like that, they wouldn’t have been defeated, wouldn’t have fallen. Power like that didn’t just vanish without consequence.
As the minutes bled away, Kai’s brow furrowed with unease.
It wasn’t just the complexity that troubled him now—it was the time. He couldn’t linger in Amyra’s astral soul indefinitely. Astral realms weren’t built to contain two minds for extended periods. The longer he stayed, the more strain it would place on her subconscious. Left unchecked, it could even fracture parts of the realm itself—maybe not now, but over time.
Grinding his teeth, he made a decision.
Just one more pass. He’d trace the inscriptions one last time, from start to finish. If he couldn’t learn anything new, he’d leave. But as his eyes followed a strand near the upper-center edge—something flickered.
His breath caught.
For a moment, he thought it was a trick of the light—some distortion caused by the mana circle—but when he leaned in, his eyes widened.
A jagged triangular formation, partially buried under overlapping lines, pulsed faintly. Three circles sat inside the triangle like nested glyphs, etched in sharp, clean patterns. A summoning inscription.
Kai blinked hard, then narrowed his eyes. It was small—so small he’d missed it before—but unmistakable. He remembered seeing something similar in one of the older tomes from the Tower’s archives, buried deep in a volume on ancient summoning rituals. But what the hell was a summoning formation doing inside a soul inscription?
Is it throwing the dead mana into another realm? he thought.
It could be a gateway spell—one that redirected corrupted mana into a void space. It was clever, if true. A permanent solution to a persistent problem. But it didn’t explain the gain. Amyra didn’t just purge dead mana—her body became stronger afterward, her reserves fuller.
If the inscription was ejecting the mana out of her system, she wouldn’t be getting more energy. She’d simply be cleaner. But she wasn’t just cleaner—she was richer.
And if this formation was a gateway to another realm, it should’ve shattered her soul by now. Her astral realm would’ve cracked from the strain of maintaining it. But everything here was… stable. No signs of stress. No degradation.
All of it just raised more questions.
Kai exhaled slowly, frustration gnawing at the edges of his thoughts. He had taken one step forward, only to discover he was standing at the base of a mountain with no peak in sight.
Still, it was something.
He leaned in, preparing to examine it again—
And the world trembled.
The silver plains rippled. The sky above dimmed for a split second before returning to normal, and a deep, thunderless pressure pressed down across the realm. Kai’s eyes snapped wide.
No. Time’s up.
The realm was reacting. It had held steady for longer than most, but it was still trying to purge the foreign presence—him. Another few minutes, and it would start collapsing segments to push him out.
He clenched his jaw, unwilling to leave, but he knew better than to risk it.
With one last look, he closed his eyes and began rapidly etching the patterns into his memory—line by line, shape by shape, until the image was burned into the inside of his skull.
Only once he was sure he had it all did he let go of the spell and drifted downward.
Amyra sat curled on the ground, knees hugged to her chest, face pale. She looked up the moment he landed, eyes wide with panic.
Seeing him come closer, Amyra visibly relaxed, the tension in her shoulders melting as she slowly got to her feet. Her eyes were still wide, uncertain, but the panic had faded now that she wasn’t alone.
“We need to get out of here,” Kai said, his tone quiet but firm.
Amyra blinked. “What happened?”
“Nothing,” he replied, already weaving the exit spell between his fingers. Threads of light coiled and shimmered in the air around them. “It’s just… an astral realm isn’t meant to hold two people for too long. We’ve stayed longer than we should have. If we don’t leave now, it might start fracturing.”
Amyra’s eyes widened slightly at that, but she gave a small nod, trusting his judgment.
Light pooled around them like rising mist, forming a glowing cocoon. The mana reacted instantly to Kai’s command, wrapping around their forms. As it tightened, Amyra let out a startled shriek—reflexive, more from the pressure than pain—
—and then they were out.
The light shattered like glass, and they blinked into the real world.
Kai was the first to open his eyes, breath steady as he adjusted to the chamber’s ambient mana. Around them, the Enforcers and Mages were watching—half-guarded, half-curious—but their presence barely registered to him.
His mind wasn’t in the room.
It was still in the sky above that silver realm, staring at the jagged triangle, the circles within it, and the impossible complexity etched into Amyra’s soul.
One thought echoed in his head, relentless.
What is the inscription… and how do I replicate it?
***
Bonus chapter for Amazon 100 ratings in 5 days.
2025-04-11 21:41:54 +0000 UTC
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