Chapter 82
Chen Ren knew that he was somehow tied up in a conspiracy far above his pay grade. It wasn’t something he liked to dwell on—knowing he was missing crucial pieces of the puzzle only frustrated him—but the truth had been clear for a long time. A dragon lived in his star space.
No one in history had ever carried a dragon in their star space and lived a simple merchant’s life. That just wasn’t how the world worked.
Despite that knowledge, he had stubbornly clung to his chosen path. He built his businesses, trained when he could, and tried to carve out a future where, if trouble ever came knocking, he’d be strong enough to handle it. But now, he thought grimly, it seems like the time has come to stop pretending.
The book lay sprawled on the floor in front of him, standing out among the others Qing He had gathered. Just looking at it sent a shiver of unease down his spine. The cover was unlike anything he had ever seen—old, yet pristine, as if untouched by time. The dark leather was embossed with different designs, and at the center, surrounded by the four sacred beasts—the white tiger, the black turtle, the crimson phoenix, and, of course, in the middle was the golden dragon coiled in a spiral, its head raised as if it were staring straight into his soul. It reminded him of the actual dragon he’d seen in his star space.
His fingers hovered over the cover before he slowly picked it up. It was heavier than expected, the kind of weight that made him feel like he was holding more than just a book.
Taking a steadying breath, he opened it.
His eyes scanned the first few lines, expecting something that would shake his world. Instead, his brows furrowed in confusion. He blinked, rereading the words, but he knew he couldn’t.
"I can’t read this," he said finally, glancing at Qing He.
She scoffed. "Obviously, you can’t."
Before he could react, she plucked the book from his hands, flipping through the pages with a sharp snap of her fingers. "If it were that easy to decipher, I wouldn’t have been able to get my hands on it in the first place. Do you know how many dusty old coots in my sect would sell their souls to study this?" She tapped a page. "The only reason they let me keep it is because no one understands Ancient Immortal script, the language it’s written in. Even I could only make sense of parts of it, and that was after hours of painstakingly translating every single word."
Chen Ren mulled over Qing He’s words, his mind catching on one detail in particular—her sect. She had never once let anything slip about her background before. Not even a hint. Yet now, she had practically confirmed it. She did belong to a sect.
But which one?
That, he would have to find out in time.
For now, he kept his attention on the book still in her grasp. His eyes shifted to the cover again before he asked, “Ancient Immortal script? What’s that?”
Qing He’s gaze lingered on him for a second before she spoke. “It’s ancient like its name. We call it the Language of the Old. From the Era of the Ancients. Even among top cultivators, it’s not something widely known—unless they’re deeply invested in history.”
She flipped through the pages idly, then added, “I found this book in an old tomb, buried near the lair of a Tier 5 beast.”
Chen Ren arched a brow. “And you can read it?”
Qing He smirked. “Parts of it.”
Then, as if realizing how much she’d revealed, she snapped, “Do you even want to know what’s inside the book or not?”
Chen Ren met her gaze steadily. “Yeah. I do.”
She studied him for a moment before nodding. “Alright.”
Flipping back to the first page, she ran a finger over the faded ink. “This book is an account from the Era of the Ancients, a time when the world was ruled by four primary sects. There were no empires, no kingdoms—just those four, each one tied to one of the Heavenly Beasts.”
She began listing them out.
“The Sect of the Crimson Phoenix—the heart of alchemists and blacksmiths. They harnessed the flames of the beast they worshipped, refining artifacts and pills unlike anything seen in our time.
“The Sect of the White Tiger—a brotherhood of warriors. Martial cultivators of the highest order, acting as the protectors of the world.
“The Sect of the Black Tortoise—masters of restoration and healing, wielding techniques that could mend not only the body, but the very land itself.”
Then she paused.
Chen Ren caught the hesitation immediately. “What about the golden dragon?”
Qing He exhaled, glancing back down at the book. “That… is harder to say.”
She tapped a passage thoughtfully. “The book describes it as the sect that ruled over all the others. It didn’t just govern—it oversaw prosperity itself.”
At that, Chen Ren tilted his head. Prosperity?
Was that a metaphor, or something else entirely?
Did it mean the Golden Dragon Sect was simply a prosperous governing body for the other three sects? Or was there a deeper meaning behind it?
A thought crossed his mind, and he asked, “Is there any mention of it being focused on wealth? Money?”
Qing He immediately shook her head. “No. The character for prosperity in Ancient Immortal script is entirely different from the one used for wealth or trade. There’s no connection.”
She sighed, flipping a page. “Let me continue.”
Both Chen Ren and Feiyu, who had been quietly listening this whole time, nodded.
“The four sects were rivals, yet they functioned within the same system, supporting one another,” Qing He explained. “It was an era of opportunity and peace. Back then, spirit manifestations were as common as rice. Nearly every cultivator had one, and the Heavenly Beasts themselves frequently revealed their presence in the world.”
Chen Ren’s brows furrowed. Spirit manifestations as common as rice?
Qing He continued, “And from the way this book describes it, the average cultivator back then was much stronger than the ones today. But in the end, all of it… changed.”
Chen Ren caught onto the shift in her tone. His mind immediately jumped to something Yalan had once mentioned—a calamity that changed everything.
His throat felt dry as he asked, “Changed? Did something happen that ended the Era of the Ancients?”
Qing He’s eyes flickered to something Chen Ren couldn’t point exactly. “The book doesn’t go into details, but something forced the sects to come together. Every cultivator in the world was called upon to deal with it.”
She took a breath, her fingers tightening around the book’s cover. “And with that… a war erupted.”
Chen Ren’s eyes narrowed.
“It says that during this war, tens of thousands died every single day. And it lasted for months.”
For months? Tens of thousands dead every day? That sentence alone brought a grave silence that stretched between them.
Then, Feiyu, who had remained quiet until now, spoke up. “What were they fighting against?”
Qing He let out a slow exhale. “The book calls them Devourers.”
Chen Ren felt an uneasy chill crawl up his spine at the name. “Devourers?”
Qing He nodded. “There’s no information on where they came from or what exactly happened. Not even a description of what they looked like.” She hesitated, then added, “For all we know… they could have been giant bugs.”
Chen Ren shuddered.
Giant humanoid bugs… that could stand against every cultivator in the world?
No amount of coin would help him with that.
Seeing the look on his face, Qing He chuckled. “Relax. I wasn’t being serious. Like I said, we don’t know what they looked like.” She tapped a finger against the book. “All we know is that they destroyed everything.”
Chen Ren’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Everything?”
“The war left no clear victors.” Qing He’s expression darkened. “There’s no mention of who won or how it ended. Just that civilization collapsed, and the Heavenly Beasts disappeared—leaving their sects buried in the ground.”
She sighed. “I’d assume the Devourers were either defeated or driven away, or we wouldn’t be ignorant of them today. But even though humanity survived, the structure of the world was completely crushed.”
Chen Ren’s mind raced.
The Era of the Ancients—gone. Their sects, once the ruling force of the world—buried. The Heavenly Beasts—vanished. All of it felt more like a story than what had actually happened, but a part of him knew it was true. Maybe there were parts the book was missing, but it helped give him a general sense of what had transpired.
Qing He turned another page. “The book briefly details the rise of a few small civilizations after the war… but none of them lasted. Most cultivators had died. Without them, society crumbled.” She frowned. “There’s no mention of the Kalian Empire, which I’m guessing came much later. In fact, this book might have been written during that transitional period.” She tapped the page again. “But one thing it does say is that the Heavenly Beasts were so injured, they had to hide—to heal themselves in case another threat ever came to the world.”
At that, Qing He finally stopped speaking, letting the weight of the words settle between them.
Chen Ren exhaled slowly, his fingers tightening slightly.
A lost civilization wasn’t surprising. Even on Earth, there had been ancient societies that disappeared—the Aztecs, the Indus Valley civilization. History was filled with collapse and rebirth.
But an entire world built around worshiping the Heavenly Beasts?
That was different.
His mind spun as he pieced things together. If Qing He’s information was correct, the Heavenly Beasts had been damaged in the war, needing thousands of years to recover.
But the dragon he met…
It didn’t look injured in any way.
So… had it already recovered?
And if so—what was its purpose now?
Had it chosen him to rebuild the civilization that had once been lost? Or was it something else entirely?
As Chen Ren pieced everything together, an extremely terrifying possibility formed in his mind. His heart thumped harder as he glanced at Qing He.
“Do you think… the golden dragon is back because it believes the devourers will return soon?”
Qing He’s fingers stilled against the ancient pages.
For a moment, silence stretched between them. Her face seemed more serious under the lanterns that casted heavy shadows, but he could see it—the same thought had already crossed her mind.
“I don’t know,” she finally admitted. “It could be. But it could also be that it’s just… healed.”
Chen Ren scoffed. “I doubt it.” His arms crossed, brows furrowed. “That goes against cultivation logic.”
Qing He raised an eyebrow. “I don’t know your ‘logic.’ All we have are possibilities right now.”
That was true.
He exhaled sharply, nodding. He understood her point, but the frown on his face remained.
Learning about an ancient civilization connected to the Heavenly Beasts and their destruction gave him context—but in the end, it wasn’t something he could act on.
Not yet.
Not until he spoke to the dragon again.
But that was another problem. He hadn’t seen it since that encounter in the tournament. He could only hope it would appear again—perhaps once he broke through further in qi refinement and became stronger.
His fingers tapped against the table, mind whirling, but eventually, he turned his gaze back to Qing He and inclined his head.
“…Thank you,” he said. “For finding more information about the golden dragon for me.”
Qing He waved a hand dismissively. “It’s fine.”
He smirked slightly, then leaned back against the wall. “That said, I think the best thing I can do is just—get stronger. Prepare for what’s coming.”
At that, Qing He nodded. “That’s a good way to go.”
Chen Ren’s lips curled into a small grin. “Glad we agree. Speaking of that… I wanted to ask for your help with a weapon.”
Qing He blinked. “A weapon?”
Chen Ren nodded. He glanced toward Feiyu, who silently pulled out a tightly rolled parchment and placed it before Qing He.
She picked it up, unrolling it carefully.
She went through everything in a single swoop of her glance—detailed schematics, exact measurements, notes written in a mixture of his own script and symbols meant for easier understanding.
For the next five minutes, Qing He said nothing.
She simply studied it.
Her eyes flickered over every detail, scanning the blueprint with intense focus.
And for the first time, Chen Ren saw it—
A spark of genuine surprise on her face.
Finally, she placed the parchment down and met his gaze.
“I’ve never seen a weapon like this.” Her fingers tapped lightly against the paper. “Making the body might be simple enough… but I’m guessing what you really need my help with is this—” She pointed at the description of a powder. “The explosive compound that gives it the strength to fire off this shell called a bullet.”
Chen Ren grinned. “You’re smart.” His hand came up, rubbing his temple with a sigh. "The problem is," he admitted, "I know the components of the gun and exactly how to make it. But the powder... that's where things get tricky." His brow furrowed. "I barely remember the formula. I need someone experienced in alchemy—like you—to create a replacement."
Qing He tapped her chin thoughtfully. "Alchemists aren’t usually known for making explosive pills. Their focus is more on enhancing the body, healing, or refining qi."
"Yeah, I figured that much after going through the books you gave me." He exhaled, drumming his fingers on the table. "But I was hoping there was an exception to that rule. Is there no alchemist you know who could help us?"
As he hoped, Qing He’s eyes suddenly lit up, a ghost of a smile played on her lips.
“Well," she said, "I can think of one alchemist who was very interested in making explosions out of pills."
Chen Ren straightened. "Who?"
Instead of answering immediately, Qing He stood and walked over to a shelf, rummaging through a small pile of old, leather-bound books. She pulled one free, dusting it off before setting it on the table in front of him.
"This one."
Chen Ren glanced down at the cover.
An Idiot Cultivator’s Guide to Blowing Himself Up – Volume 1 by Yandi.
A long pause ensued between them. Chen Ren blinked, unable to hide his surprise, shock and confusion at the title of the book.
"...What?"
Qing He smirked. “You should read it first.”
Chen Ren gingerly picked up the book, turning it over in his hands. "Who wrote this? And why does the title sound so—" He struggled for the right word. "—unhinged?"
Qing He crossed her arms. "A short-lived cultivator who only reached the peak of qi refinement realm before dying while testing what he called the All-Consuming Explosion Pill." She shook her head. "Ironically, it consumed him."
Chen Ren let out a low whistle. "I guess he knew what he was getting into."
"He lived around two hundred years ago," Qing He continued. "Got kicked out of his sect for blowing up too many buildings while experimenting with explosions. But he became famous for his series on explosive pills, which are now considered treasures."
Chen Ren exhaled through his nose, a dry smirk curling on his lips. "Yeah, I can definitely imagine some lunatic cultivator with an anarchist streak running around, throwing bombs like a madman. That’s... honestly terrifying."
Qing He nodded in agreement.
He flipped through a few pages of the book, scanning the chaotic notes and diagrams. "How many of these books did he write?"
Qing He shrugged. "I don’t know. The first volume has a few copies floating around, but the second and third are much harder to find. There are rumors of a fourth, but nothing confirmed. I only managed to get my hands on the first volume thanks to some contacts I have."
"Figures," Chen Ren muttered. "Explosive pills aren't exactly standard market fare."
"Right," Qing He agreed. "But this guy was known for using pills exclusively for battle and destruction. If we’re looking for a substitute for your black powder, I’m pretty sure his work will help us."
Chen Ren grinned. "That would be great. We can go over his work, and I’ll try to piece together what I remember about different types of guns and gunpowder."
For the first time since the discussion started, Feiyu, who had been completely silent, suddenly spoke up.
"...There’s more than one type?"
Both Qing He and Chen Ren turned to look at him.
Chen Ren smirked. "Oh, Feiyu, you have no idea. You can make a lot of different types," he said, glancing at him. "Simpler guns, deadlier ones like rifles, and even long-range weapons like snipers."
Feiyu nodded in curiosity before a frown covered his face. Chen Ren couldn’t tell if the man was happy that there were so many other types or was unhappy that it could only get complicated from here. But it didn’t matter.
"Then if you do start this, I’m guessing it’s going to be a long project." Qing He asked, bringing him back into the conversation.
Chen Ren nodded without hesitation. "Yeah. I plan to arm everyone in my sect with these things. Even mortals can use them."
"That’s a dangerous undertaking." She crossed her arms. "If these weapons are really strong, then even the guardian sects might take interest. And trust me—the current order of the empire might collapse if mortals get that kind of power."
Chen Ren’s gaze was steady. "I do understand that," he admitted. "And I don’t plan to sell them." He exhaled. "But right now, even with a few cultivators, my sect is grossly weak. I need to do something about it. If sects come for it, then I’ll deal with that when it happens." His fingers clenched into a fist. "If we actually pull this off and get more mortals into the sect, I’m pretty sure we’d be strong enough to not get crushed—even by a guardian sect."
Qing He shook her head. Chen Ren caught the smile that played in her face. "You and your ambitions." She sighed. "Just make sure you don’t slip up. You’d fall headfirst if you do."
Chen Ren smirked. "I’ll try not to." His gaze softened slightly as he looked at her. "So... are you willing to help me with it?"
Qing He didn’t answer immediately. She drummed her fingers on her robes, staring at the book in thought. "...That would mean leaving my shop here." Her lips quirked into a half-smile. "I think I said the same thing last time when you asked me to come to that little village where your sect is. The answer is the same."
Chen Ren shrugged. "It’s temporary this time. Once we figure out the gunpowder, I don’t think you’ll be needed much after that." He leaned forward. "Besides, I have something I can trade you for your help."
Qing He narrowed her eyes. "Oh? And what would that be?"
"How would you like recipes for different types of tea?"
2025-03-09 17:41:06 +0000 UTC
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Epilogue 2
A man walked up the stairs carved into the rock of the mountain, his steps silent as torches flickered on the wall. The labyrinth of corridors, each winding deeper into the heart of the cave, had long since become his home. He could smell the scent of ‘home’ in the damp earth and stone. For a century, this had been his sanctuary—a web of stone and shadow. Yet, today, he was not here for comfort. He had a destination, a duty that could not be delayed.
As he ascended, figures passed him by, their faces half-hidden by cloth masks, eyes glinting with respect. They bowed without a word, an unspoken acknowledgement of his status. He paid them no mind, his thoughts firmly set on where he was heading. Blessings, even to the loyal, were not given freely, not today. His journey was urgent, and time was slipping away.
He quickened his feet.
The spiraling staircase seemed endless as it wound upward, the stone steps cold under his bare feet, the flickering torches lighting only a portion of the way. When he reached the top, he was greeted by two guards standing before a massive stone door. Without hesitation, they bowed, recognizing him instantly, and opened it for him.
The scent hit him the moment he entered. It was intoxicating, rejuvenating, a reminder of his long existence. The dark corridors stretched before him, walls, floor, and ceiling all soaked in a thick, oppressive aura of dead mana. The air around him felt thick with the weight of this forsaken power, each breath he took filled with the essence that made him feel alive in ways that nothing else could.
The dead mana clung to his skin like a comforting shroud, an old friend that healed more than it harmed. The farther he walked, the more the sense of vitality filled him.
That was why he loved it here. Every cell of his being thrummed whenever he visited.
He walked deeper into the blackened passage, drawn to the heart of this place, where the largest concentration of dead mana pulsed like a heartbeat. The power here was overwhelming, almost suffocating, yet it was precisely what he sought. It was a fountain of dead mana, and he reveled in its embrace. It was the closest he had ever been to true healing, to the restoration of something that had been lost long ago.
He continued forward, the silence of the cave stretching on around him, until he finally emerged into an opening. The ceiling was high above, a jagged hole in the rock allowing the sunlight to pour in, filling the cavern with a wash of pale light. But the man did not see the sunlight. His gaze was locked on the center of the cavern.
A creature lay sprawled in there, occupying nearly all of the vast space. It was a dragon, magnificent in its sheer scale, its body black as the void itself. Every inch of its form seemed forged from the very dead mana that saturated the cave. Its wings were folded neatly against its body, the tips almost touching the farthest reaches of the cavern, and its horns were so large they seemed to stretch up toward the hole in the ceiling, reaching for the very sky.
Their master. This was the hope that burned within their hearts. The creature lay motionless, but its very presence reverberated with power, with a force that could shake the world. A god, yet to descend upon the realm, waiting for the right moment to emerge. It was more than a creature—it was the embodiment of an ancient cycle, a being of unimaginable power that could alter the fate of the world.
As the man stood before the dragon, contemplating its majestic form, a voice broke the silence. A low, rumbling sound that vibrated through the air like distant thunder.
He turned swiftly to see who was approaching him. The newcomer’s height reached easily eight feet, and his robe trailed along the ground, dark and flowing like liquid night. As the man opened his mouth to speak, the light flickered off his sharp, elongated fangs. The man’s eyes narrowed, recognizing the blood drinker for what he was. Dravros.
“Xantheus,” Dravros said. “You’re late. We’ve been waiting here for ten minutes.”
With a swift movement Dravros extended one of his hands, fingers tipped with sharp claws, and pointed toward two figures in the distance.
On the far side of the cavern, a woman sat atop a large boulder, her posture relaxed yet regal. Her large, leathery wings, pale as alabaster, stretched out behind her, giving her a presence as vast as the cavern itself. Her sharp features were softened only by the grace of her movement, though her eyes gleamed with an unsettling mix of wisdom and cold. One wouldn’t know if they should be fascinated or scared by her.
Next to her, a massive figure stood, easily over ten feet tall. A titan-like beast, with skin as white as marble, and the musculature of a creature carved from stone. His arms were thick with bulging muscles, and he held a massive axe in his hand, its blade shining—sharp.
Xantheus surveyed the duo, then shifted his gaze back to Dravros.
“Two people are missing,” he said.
Dravros’s lips curled slightly, the fangs glinting in the dim light. “They won’t be coming. You know how they are,” he said with a flick of his hand.
Xantheus nodded, his steps carrying him toward the center of the cavern. “I get it. Careless. Can't leave their places. Useless. At least one of them, according to the reports I’ve received.” He paused, eyes narrowing, as he looked at Dravros. “But I’m surprised you’re here. I heard you lost one of your adopted children recently.”
Dravros’s face fell. “Anyone not strong enough will ultimately die,” he said, his voice a low growl. “Only one being is eternal, and we all serve him.”
Xantheus’s gaze sharpened, and he replied coldly, “Good way to hide behind your faith in your failure.”
“It wasn’t mine,” Dravros snapped, his fangs showing as he spat the words, “It was Regina’s.”
Before Xantheus could respond, the woman sitting on the boulder spoke up, cutting through the tension in the air with her sharp voice.
“If you all are going to fight, then why are we here?” Her eyes narrowed as she glared at the group. “You’re disturbing the great one with your nonsense talks.”
Dravros raised an eyebrow. “It’s not my fault this man”—he pointed a clawed finger at Xantheus—“is always in the mood for trouble, Selenia.”
The titan-like beast merely grunted at the conversation, a low, guttural sound that carried a hint of annoyance, but said nothing.
“It doesn't matter,” Selenia said. “Now that no one else is needed, we should start what we came here to discuss.”
Both Xantheus and Dravros nodded and the group finally walked towards the dragon, surrounding its colossal claw. Selenia sighed, her wings rustling softly as she spoke again, her voice filled with quiet despair. “I feel like the future we all envisioned is just getting farther and farther away from us.”
There was a brief silence as they all considered her words. The air in the cavern felt heavy with unspoken doubts, and the dark power that lingered seemed to pulse in time with the beating of their hearts.
“We need to do better,” Selenia continued, her gaze fixed on the dragon’s claw, “to spread our lord’s influence everywhere.”
Xantheus nodded slowly. “I believe we are doing good enough. Vanderfall is already falling, and no one will be able to do anything about the plague. Their army is already destroyed and no other country would dare touch it until it starts engulfing them too.” He paused, his thoughts lingering on the political turmoil outside. “Unfortunately, we can’t push it to Lancephil much. Just at the edge of it. Regina wants her idiot son to be a hero. I still don’t understand why she can’t just take the kingdom after killing her husband.”
Dravros’s lips curled into a thin smile. “The civil war isn’t good for anyone. We need a puppet there, someone who can take every criticism for us. Her son is good enough for that and she needs the public to get on his side before she could try anything. Nobles might in charge, but commoners are numerous.”
Xantheus frowned but said nothing. The discussion had veered into dangerous territory, but Dravros was right—Regina’s son was a means to an end, a pawn in a much larger game.
But even Dravros’s cold pragmatism couldn't hide the growing uncertainty among them all. They could feel it, as if the very earth beneath their feet was trembling in anticipation of something—something they couldn’t control, no matter how much power they had amassed.
Xantheus stood still for a moment, letting the tension in the air settle, before speaking, “We don’t have to do everything ourselves, and in the end, it’s Regina’s matter. But it’s Maleficia’s matter as well. The throne should have been ours by now.”
Before Dravros could respond, Selenia, her wings slightly fluttering as she shifted, spoke up. “I agree with Xantheus,” she said, her gaze meeting Xantheus. “But I am also willing to give Regina more time. Either way, the plague can be left alone now. With Vanderfall gone, we can focus on other countries.”
Her eyes turned to the titan-like beast standing nearby. “I’m sure Bracker has done well subjugating the monster tribes back in the Zarran plains.”
Bracker, the massive monster, finally opened his mouth, his voice deep and gravelly, like boulders grinding against one another. “Yes, they’ve decided to follow the lord,” he said, “and soon, we can launch our crusade on the whole world.”
Xantheus raised a hand, signaling for calm. “You are being impatient,” he said. “Before anything, we need to deal with our biggest problem. Don’t forget what the prophecy has said. Until we get rid of the Elder Tree, nothing is going to work.”
The Elder Tree—an ancient force whose roots ran deep into the fabric of the world itself. They all knew the prophecy well. Until it was dealt with, their plans would falter. And that was why everyone was silent for a good second; they were all thinking the same.
Finally, Dravros spoke. “The tree will fall without us interfering.”
Selenia shook her head slightly, her eyes narrowing with impatience. “Too much time waiting for our lord. I can feel him. The dead mana bubbling inside him. He wants to open his eyes, show the world his strength, and capture it to rule it. But it’s us who need to prepare the world for his arrival.”
Xantheus exhaled slowly. “So, you called the meeting to make us go after Sylvastra and kill the Elder Tree?”
Selenia’s eyes glinted with determination. “It’s not really just a tree we can chop down, you know,” she said, a slight smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “But it’s taking too much time. By now, we should have had Lancephil and started our crusade against the other kingdoms. It’s not just this continent. There’s so much more on the other side of the world. Since things are faltering, we need to take the matter into our own hands. I’m sure we can find a way to Sylvastra, even with the fog around it.”
Xantheus’s eyes darkened as he processed her words. “I can do something about it,” he said. “But it’s going to take time.”
Dravros’s lips curled slightly. “What doesn’t take time?” he muttered, then paused. “If we want to do it, it’s going to take a lot of effort. We’ll have to take more of the servings from our lord.”
Selenia’s expression softened. “I doubt the lord is ever going to mind. He’s here to give everything to his followers, to make us feel loved like a father.”
Bracker spoke up. “Or mother,” he added, a strange understanding in his tone. “The lord ain’t bound by gender.”
Xantheus regarded them all, sweeping over the group, before he nodded slowly. They were right. The lord did not care for such trivialities as gender, and their faith in him was unquestionable. They all served him, and he would provide. But the task ahead was not an easy one, and time was no ally.
“We move forward,” Xantheus said, his words laced with finality. “Prepare yourselves. We have a great deal of work to do, and our future is hanging in the balance.”
Everyone nodded in agreement, their focus fixed on the colossal form of the dragon, Malefic. The beast sprawled in the center of the cavernous room, its black scales gleaming ominously. Their eyes traveled over its massive body, from the deadly claws that curved like the sharpest blades, up to the intimidating face and down to its closed wings. But as their eyes moved across its form, they landed on something unsettling—just beside its heart, a small hole in its chest.
The hole was a grotesque sight. Parasites, writhing like living shadows, squirmed inside the opening, each one appearing as though it were a separate entity, battling for space within the dragon’s body. It looked as though something else—something alive—was stirring beneath the black, mana-infused shell of the beast.
A grim silence followed, each member of the group staring at the sight, before Xantheus stepped forward. His cloak flowed behind him as he approached the dragon’s chest, his hands outstretched. With deftness, he reached into the opening, his fingers brushing against the blackened flesh before grasping one of the parasites firmly in his hand.
A chilling grin spread across his face as he held the wriggling creature, its form shifting and thrashing in his grip. The others watched.
"With our lord’s blessing," he said as he stared at the parasite, "killing the tree won’t be hard."
***
Khalid kneeled, his body tense as sweat trickled down his back, the heat of the desert sun making his skin feel like it was being scorched. His eyes remained fixed on the sand beneath him, the grains swirling in the wind that whipped at his face. He stifled a cough, careful not to break his composure. His tribe had been proud once, fierce in the desert, but now, they knelt here, alongside the others, hoping to blend in, to remain unnoticed.
Every movement was calculated, every breath controlled, so as not to attract any unwanted attention. He stayed low, trying to make himself as small as possible.
Footsteps echoed in the distance, growing closer with each passing second. The vibrations in the ground made his heart race, but he stayed still, watching the sand swirl around his knees. A large foot, the color of the desert sand, passed by just inches from him, and he could feel a shiver run down his spine. His breath caught in his throat, but he did not allow himself to falter. He kept his eyes fixed on the ground, though a wave of dread washed over him.
More footsteps followed—massive, thudding steps, accompanied by the noise of others walking in unison.
The sound grew louder, closer, until it was impossible to ignore. Then, a gruff voice barked, booming across the sand, "Rise up, face me."
Khalid hesitated for just a moment, but then slowly raised his head. He kept his gaze low, just enough to see the hulking forms in front of him. His heart skipped a beat at the sight, even though he had seen it countless times before.
Standing before him were beings that could not truly be called human, monstrous and authoritative. Creatures larger than seven feet, their bodies filled with tattoos and piercings, their bare skin the color of sand. He couldn’t bring himself to focus to read the tattoos–but they were there. They wore little—just cloth wrapped around their legs—and skull caps adorned their heads, giving them a barbaric, untamable look. These were the Duneborn Orcs, more beast than man.
The Duneborns’ eyes gleamed with cruel amusement as they looked at the kneeling humans.
Some laughed, their guttural voices harsh and incomprehensible, cracking jokes in their own tongue that sounded like growls and snarls. Behind the orcs, the other humans stood.
They did not kneel like the others; they stood tall, proud of their betrayal, and sneered at the humans who had been forced into submission. The sight of them made Khalid’s blood boil with anger, but he held it in check. He could not afford to let it show, not here, not now.
In the center of it all, one of the orcs stepped forward, a large figure whose presence commanded the entire desert. His skin was a deeper shade of sand, his muscles rippling with power. His face was a grotesque mask of scars, and his eyes burned with an unsettling intensity. This was Zethar. His voice, when he spoke, rumbled across the sand like thunder, sending a jolt of fear through Khalid’s chest.
"Humans," he began, his voice booming across the sands as he spoke in their tongue. "I am pleased to see that you have gathered here at our first summons, prostrating yourselves before us, the mighty Duneborns. For far too long, your tribes have been under our rule, yet we have begun to notice a troubling trend. You have started to treat us—your new masters, your overlords—as though we are mere pushovers.
Last month’s tribute—your food, your pelts, all your precious goods—barely sustained us. We were forced to hunt for prey ourselves just to survive. And now, the Overlord of the Dunes, Khorvash, and Belkhor, the Eternal One, are angry with you. We can not starve our Overlord. You stand here today to explain yourselves.”
A murmur rippled through the crowd of kneeling humans, their bodies stiff with fear. Khalid looked at the fellow tribe leaders around him, but no one spoke. They all stood frozen, unwilling to be the first to anger the orc.
Zethar’s voice dropped as he growled. "If you fail to explain yourselves, we will return to hunting. And this time, you will be our prey."
Khalid’s heart raced as he heard the growl in his words, the threat enough to make him shake. lHe could feel the fear in the air, but none of the other tribe leaders dared to make a sound. Then, just as the silence stretched on, one brave soul finally spoke.
It was Jahir, the newly elected leader of the Havari Tribe. The man was young, his green eyes hardened, his hands clenched at his sides. He met Zethar's fiery gaze without hesitation. "The reason behind it, mighty Duneborn, is that your taxes have been far too much. We humans rely on milk and meat to survive. The amount we eat is far less than what your kind consumes. Every year, we give you the bulk of our cattle, and our lands have become barren from your demands."
Jahir took a deep breath, knowing that his words were a thin line between life and death for his people. "Many of our tribes have already seen their people die of starvation, and many more are close to death. We can’t survive with what you ask us to give. If we give everything, there will be nothing left for us, and soon, the tribes will cease to exist. How are we supposed to pay taxes when we are starving? We need to hunt just to feed ourselves."
Zethar’s eyes flashed with anger, his lips curling into a cruel sneer. "Is that our problem?" he spat.
Jahir stood his ground, his body stiff, but showing no defeat. "If you claim to be a minion of the overlord of the desert, then you need to understand the realities of our survival. You can’t expect us to continue paying the taxes you demand when we are dying from hunger."
Before he could finish, Zethar cut him off with a bone-chilling laugh. "We believe in one thing, human—taking taxes. Taxes that you pay so we don’t kill you." His eyes glinted with malice as he stepped forward, towering over the human leader. "Our Overlord, mighty Khorvash, doesn't care if your people die. You humans breed so quickly; if your tribes die, we will simply breed more of you like cattle and eat you when we grow hungry."
The words struck like a heavy blow, and Khalid could see the other leaders around him trembling, some of them glancing nervously at the sand beneath their knees. Jahir tried to hold his ground, but the depth of the orc’s words and the crushing power of the situation bore down on him.
Zethar sneered again, looking around at the kneeling humans. "Your people are nothing but livestock to us. Do not forget your place, human. Pay your tribute, or there will be nothing left to save you."
The crowd remained silent, but the fear in the air was palpable. Khalid felt his heart thundering in his chest, and though he wanted to speak, to say something more, he knew the risk was too great. The orcs were not interested in negotiations; they only understood power, and in this moment, they held all of it.
"What we want is simple," he sneered. "The same things we’ve asked for before. If you can’t give it, you will lose your life."
The words were sharp, and as they hung in the air, Jahir opened his mouth to protest. "That’s—"
But before he could finish his sentence, the orc moved. Khalid’s eyes widened in shock as the orc launched himself through the air toward the man who had just spoken. In an instant, Jahir pulled a dagger from his side and tried to dart out of the way. But it was hopeless. The orc was too fast, too strong.
A bracelet on the orc’s ankle flared with energy, and wind surged around him, propelling him forward. The man barely had time to react as the orc’s massive leg slammed into his chest, knocking him to the ground. There was no time to fight back. A single punch from the orc sent a spray of blood and flesh into the air, and the tribe leader’s body crumpled under the brutal assault.
Khalid froze, his breath caught in his throat as the orc continued to beat the man, pulverizing his body with each strike. The other humans scrambled out of the way, their faces pale with horror, as the sound of the beating echoed across the sand. The chilly sound of bone cracking and blood spurting filled the air.
The orc didn’t stop until the man’s body was a mangled mess, half of it unrecognizable.
With blood still dripping from his fist, Zethar raised his hand high, his rage-filled eyes sweeping over the terrified tribe leaders kneeling before him. "Does anyone else have any problems?" he asked.
No one dared to speak. No one moved. The silence was deafening, broken only by the ragged breathing of the men and women who had witnessed the brutal execution.
Khalid’s heart hammered in his chest as he looked at the lifeless body of the man who had been killed for daring to speak up. Jahir had barely been known to him, but in that moment, he realized the man had been his age. Maybe even younger. The same age as his brother, Ansel.
A pit formed in his stomach as pure terror filled him. He wasn’t a Mage. He wasn’t a Sand Knight. He was just a man, weak and powerless, kneeling before a monster. A part of him wanted to scream, to rise up and fight back, but he knew it would be useless. The orcs were too powerful. They had all the control.
As Zethar moved towards the platform, continuing to shout more threats about food and tribute, Khalid’s head dropped. His eyes lingered on the bloodied corpse of the man who had tried to stand for the tribes. He felt his heart ache and bile rising in his throat. For a moment, he thought about his own brother, Ansel—how he had fled the desert when he had the chance.
Khalid gave a silent prayer, his voice barely a whisper in the wind. Ansel, I hope wherever you are, you’re safe. The Ashari desert tribes... they’ll die off soon, but I hope you keep living. Happily.
Tears welled up in his eyes, but he kept them from spilling, knowing there was no one here to share his sorrow. The tribes were lost. There was no hope left for them. Only fear, and the crushing weight of the orcs’ rule.
***
Volume 3 is over!
2025-03-09 17:39:43 +0000 UTC
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Epilogue 1
The corridors of the royal palace stretched before King Sullivan. He absentmindedly stared at the golden glow that was illuminated by the torches that lined the walls while walking.
His attendants walked briskly at his side. Behind him, ever watchful, strode his Knight Roderic.
Today, Sullivan’s destination was neither his throne room nor his private chambers. Not even his beloved garden, the one place where he could steal moments of peace, away from judgemental eyes and untouched by politics and the burdens of rule.
No, his steps carried him toward the council chambers—a place he had deliberately avoided for years.
He had lost track of time again. The scent of blooming roses, the rustle of leaves, the fleeting illusion that he was simply a man rather than a king had lulled him into lingering longer than he should have in the garden. But reality had called him back, as it always did. Though, he was still late today.
The matters being discussed were important enough for him to break his three-year absence from these meetings. It had been because he had gotten fed up with the same topics—power struggles, territorial concerns, and the ever-looming question of stability. But today, something else was there.
And as he reached the grand doors of the chamber, an attendant moved swiftly, pulling them open with a deep bow.
Sullivan halted and turned to his Knight. "Walk with me inside."
Roderic gave a slight nod before hesitating. "Your Majesty, the nobles may find my presence… unsettling."
Sullivan smirked, the corner of his lips curling with amusement. "Oh, I have no doubt they will. But you are here for my protection. Those old nobles have spent years waiting for me to falter, eager to carve out more pieces of the kingdom for themselves. Who’s to say one of them hasn’t brought a dagger for me today?"
Roderic didn’t question it further. He simply nodded and fell into step beside his king as they crossed the threshold.
The moment they entered, the chamber fell into stunned silence. Parchments were lowered, whispered conversations ceased, and every noble and minister in the room hurriedly scrambled to their feet. They were shocked and uneasy before they dipped into deep bows.
King Sullivan chuckled, the sound rich with amusement. "Judging by your faces, I suppose you all thought I wouldn’t attend this meeting either."
The nobles and ministers exchanged glances, clearly unsure of how to respond. Finally, one of them stepped forward—a man of middle age, draped in fine robes. Count Pious, a seasoned politician and the Minister of Trade, cleared his throat before speaking.
"We were merely preparing for the discussion before your arrival, Your Majesty. After all, we had been informed about it."
“Sure, you were.” Sullivan gave a slow nod, letting the matter drop. He moved to his seat at the head of the long oak table and settled in. "The matter at hand was important enough for me to be here today."
With that, the nobles finally allowed themselves to relax, if only slightly. They followed the king, taking their seats, though the tension in their shoulders remained. Roderic remained standing beside the king, hands resting lightly on the pommel of his sword.
Sullivan exhaled, gaze sweeping over the assembled men. "Why don’t we start the discussion, then?"
Lord Belmont who sat a few paces away, and was handling the Ministry of Internal affairs gave a slight nod and picked up a parchment. "Yes, Your Majesty. We were just about to discuss the plague that has overtaken seventy percent of Vardenfall's territory and how we are at risk of—"
Sullivan raised a hand, silencing him with a single motion. "Let’s discuss that later." His tone was firm, brooking no argument. "I’m here for something else. The fief war."
At his words, the chamber seemed to grow colder. Expressions shifted, postures stiffened.
Sullivan leaned back slightly, his gaze sharp as he surveyed them. "I’m certain all of you know the results."
No one spoke, but their expressions spoke volumes. Their unease was palpable, but more than that—none of them had truly processed what had happened.
"Until now, you hadn't been able to accept it, have you?" Sullivan added, his words cutting through the air like a blade.
Count Pious, the first to speak earlier, cleared his throat. "Your Majesty, we had intended to discuss the matter at the end of the meeting due to its… complexity."
Sullivan raised an eyebrow, his smirk returning. "If it’s so complex, then we should address it first and get it over with." He gestured with a flick of his fingers. "Why don’t you explain to everyone exactly what happened?"
Count Pious hesitated, but after a brief moment, he nodded, steeling himself.
"As you know, Your Majesty," he began, "Duke Lucian Kellius accused his brother, Count Arzan Kellius, of using dark forces to bolster his power. It happened after the whole village of Baron Idrin was massacred accusedly by Count Arzan due to a land conflict they were having, and in retaliation, Duke Lucian called for a fief war, claiming vengeance for Baron Idrin. Majority of the noble houses in the Sylvan enclave came to his support."
The nobles exchanged glances, some nodding along, others looking grim.
"What followed was…" Pious hesitated, pressing his lips together before continuing, "unexpected. From the reports gathered, Count Arzan won a series of victories, systematically dismantling his opponents. One after another, noble houses in the Sylvan Enclave fell before him and he captured them. And ultimately… he emerged as the undisputed victor of the fief war."
A heavy silence followed.
King Sullivan watched the noble's faces shift from discomfort to reluctant acknowledgment. They were still grappling with what this meant.
"And," he mused, "none of you expected that outcome, did you?"
Silence remained, but Sullivan already knew the answer.
Because neither had he.
Count Pious faltered for the briefest of moments, his composure slipping just enough for the other nobles to notice. He hesitated but ultimately continued, voice steady.
"Even if Count Arzan won the war, it has been confirmed that Duke Lucian Kellius is dead. We have already received word of a funeral being held in his name, and as it stands, all of Duke Lucian’s former territory is now under Count Arzan’s control."
He paused. "Your Majesty, we have not seen a fief war this bloody in decades. And since one of the key parties involved is now deceased, we cannot hold a royal arbitration. We require your judgment on the appropriate punishment for Count Arzan."
Sullivan tilted his head. "Punishment? Why?"
At once, all eyes turned toward Count Pious, waiting for his answer. The tension in the room thickened, but the count did not waver beneath the scrutiny.
"As you know, Your Majesty," Pious pressed on, "Duke Lucian was killed by his own brother. Even in a fief war, noble conduct dictates that one should capture their opponent, not execute them outright. We are all part of the same kingdom. That makes Count Arzan both a kin slayer and a criminal.”
A murmur of agreement swept through a handful of nobles, emboldened by Pious’ words. More voices joined in, but before the discussion could spiral, Sullivan raised a single hand.
The chamber fell into silence.
His gaze lingered on Count Pious before he finally spoke. "When you explained the details of the fief war earlier, you mentioned that Count Arzan captured the nobles who stood against him. There are no reports of him executing them, correct?"
Pious hesitated. "No, Your Majesty."
Sullivan leaned forward slightly. "Then tell me, how can we be so certain that Arzan killed his brother? If he had the restraint to capture the others, why would he kill only Lucian? Given everything he has accomplished, he is clearly well-versed in the law and understands the expectations of nobility. I find it highly suspicious that you are so eager to brand him a criminal without a proper investigation."
That made some nobles shift in their seats uncomfortably.
Lord Gaius, a noble from the eastern territories, finally spoke up. "But couldn't it be because of rivalry? By all accounts, Duke Lucian and Count Arzan were not close. None of the Kellius brothers seemed to get along, and Duke Lucian was the strongest voice opposing Count Arzan. It stands to reason that he would have wanted him dead."
Sullivan exhaled, fingers tapping lightly against the table. "That could be the case," he admitted. "But I am inclined to give Count Arzan the benefit of the doubt."
Count Pious frowned. "Why is that, Your Majesty?"
Sullivan smiled, though it didn’t reach his eyes. "Because Count Arzan has been one of the most promising individuals to emerge in the last year. Heat stones, the blocking of a beast wave, mana cannons—there are even whispers that his Knights have the capabilities of Mages. He has proven time and time again that he is an asset to this kingdom, not a liability."
The chamber was silent, the nobles absorbing his words.
"More importantly," Sullivan continued, his voice dropping slightly, "this fief war is far more complex than it appears at first glance."
He let that statement linger before turning his piercing gaze back to Pious.
"I am certain you have received reports of strange creatures known as blood drinkers appearing during the fief war. They were fighting against Arzan’s forces, were they not?" He leaned back, tone almost amused. "At least, that is what my reports tell me. So tell me, Count Pious—why did you conveniently leave out that little detail in your earlier statement?"
The count paled.
He opened his mouth, then closed it. His lips pressed together as if struggling to find the right words. He did this once. Twice. The silence stretched uncomfortably, and King Sullivan, watching him closely, internally smirked.
Of course, he thought. You don’t want to say it outright, do you?
The count was part of the first prince’s alliance. Admitting that Duke Lucian—one of their own—had possibly collaborated with dark creatures would taint their faction’s image beyond repair. It was a delicate situation. Too delicate.
Finally, Pious spoke once the silence stretched too far. "Because, Your Majesty, there is a higher chance that these so-called sightings are merely rumors. After all, how do we even know that these creatures were truly present? Would it not be reckless to base accusations on unverified claims? We should investigate further before branding anyone."
Sullivan’s smile was apparent, knowing he got him right where he wanted to. "Exactly. Just as we need to investigate the existence of these blood drinkers, we must also look deeper into the entire fief war—gather testimonies, weigh the facts—before deciding on any course of action."
He let his gaze rake around the room. "Moreover, I’m sure all of you are well aware of the kingdom’s laws regarding fief wars, particularly when one of the involved lords is slain."
A few nobles nodded, though some seemed hesitant.
Fief wars had been common in the kingdom’s history, and laws were established to handle their outcomes. The most frequently used method has always been royal arbitration. The king would summon both lords, hear their arguments, and decide the resolution—often before bloodshed escalated too far. It was the fastest and most effective way to settle disputes.
But that option is no longer available. Because Duke Lucian was dead.
Without both parties present, royal arbitration is impossible. That left them with two choices. The first—punish Count Arzan immediately and brand him a criminal from the start. Or to give him a chance to speak for himself in the Assembly of Judgment.
King Sullivan closed his eyes for a while, thinking.
“So I believe we will be going for the Assembly of Judgment?”
The chamber stilled. A few sharp intakes of breath echoed through the hall. The murmurs from before turned to hushed, urgent whispers.
Finally, Minister Percival, in charge of public order raised his quiery. "Your Majesty, the Assembly of Judgment has not been called for centuries. Are you certain—?"
Another noble quickly added, "It would take too long. Gathering every noble of the kingdom to weigh in on a single count? Surely, Your Majesty, that is excessive."
Sullivan’s expression did not change. "Time is irrelevant in matters of justice. We will allow Count Arzan the opportunity to defend himself, present his case, and provide testimonies. In turn, every noble of the kingdom will decide his fate."
Count Pious frowned. "But Your Majesty, the resources—calling every noble to the capital for one man—"
Sullivan cut him off with a wave of his hand. "It does not matter. Not until we uncover the full truth and reach a solution."
He clutched his hands in front of him and looked around. They all looked like they could be raising a thousand questions—but he just asked one thing: "Does anyone object?"
Silence.
None dared to speak.
"Then send the royal heralds. Make it quick. The matter will stay at hold until the Assembly.” And then he stood up to leave.
Before he could take a step, Count Pious’s voice cut through the air. “But your majesty, what about the other matters? The plague? The resources needed to deal with it—”
Sullivan turned slowly, his eyes narrowing, his voice a low drawl. “You are all capable enough to begin the meeting without me,” he said, “So you are more than capable of dealing with a plague on your own. If not,” he added, a flicker of a smile barely curving his lips, “send one of my sons. They’re just itching to get more merits, after all.”
Suddenly, everything fell into an extremely awkward silence, the weight of his words lingering longer than necessary. He could feel their eyes on him, could hear the faint rustling of robes and shifting weight as the nobles shifted uncomfortably. But he didn’t wait for them to respond.
Without a glance back, he turned and made his way toward the door, the soft tap of his boots echoing in the quiet hall. His Knight fell into step behind him, a quiet presence in the midst of the bustling attendants that trailed behind, their footsteps a background hum to his thoughts. As they walked, the cool air of the corridor brushed against his face, but it did little to ease the heat building in his chest.
His mind raced, fatigue pulling at him with each step, the meeting was too much. The longer he had sat there, the more suffocating it felt—like he was drowning in the sea of their expectations, their demands, their false respect. They didn’t care about the kingdom. They only cared about their own agendas.
Sullivan’s brows furrowed as his steps slowed, a fleeting sense of helplessness creeping in. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think straight after all that pressure. He could hear the murmur of voices behind him, the attendants’ whispers, but they were all just noise—white noise that only added to the growing hum in his mind.
Gods, I need a moment away from this. From them.
But there was no moment. Not for him. Not anymore.
He clenched his jaw, moving faster now, his eyes fixed ahead, trying to push away the overwhelming exhaustion creeping into his bones. The corridor stretched out before him, yet it felt like it was closing in, like the walls were pressing down with the weight of the kingdom itself.
As he neared the end of the hallway, he couldn’t shake the feeling that it wasn’t just the room that was suffocating him. It was the crown, the throne, the weight of everything pressing down on his chest. But he had no choice but to carry it.
“Your Majesty?” Roderic’s voice broke through his thoughts. Sullivan didn’t answer immediately, merely continuing forward, lost in the rhythm of his own footsteps.
And his thoughts ran back to what he left behind. The nobles, those faces so familiar, no longer felt like his allies. They were not the ministers or subjects he had worked with for years. Instead, they were distant figures, staring at him with a quiet resentment, as though enduring his presence rather than respecting his authority.
When you are at the end, he mused bitterly, people just want you gone. They want the throne without the burden of the crown.
His thoughts darkened, his shoulders heavy with the weight of a kingdom that no longer felt like his own. And none of my sons are capable enough. They aren’t. The thought gnawed at him, the truth sinking deeper as he walked, but there was nothing to be done.
Just as the thought threatened to consume him, Sullivan caught sight of a figure emerging from the corner of the corridor. His pace faltered, his steps slowed as the silhouette of a woman appeared. His breath hitched.
Regina.
Her pale skin seemed to shimmer in the dim light, her white hair flowing around her. Her piercing blue eyes locked onto his, unblinking. Though her appearance had withered with age, there was a sharpness to her presence that made it impossible to ignore. The aura she exuded pulled every gaze in the hallway toward her.
She walked slowly, her long woolen coat trailing behind her, the dark fabric sweeping against the stone floor. A small entourage of maids followed in her wake.
As Regina drew closer, Sullivan felt a sudden chill that had nothing to do with the draft of the corridor. Their eyes locked, and time seemed to freeze between them. He could feel the tension in his muscles as he fought to remain impassive.
"Have you lost your way?" Sullivan said as irritation twisted his features. "You aren't allowed to come to this part of the castle."
Regina’s lips curled into a cold smile. He could read amusement all over her features. "Oh dear," she said "You are barring your wife from entering a castle that's ours?"
Sullivan’s jaw tightened. The last thing he wanted was a confrontation, but there was no mistaking the challenge in her gaze.
"It's not yours. And you ceased being my wife in anything but name long ago." His gaze was cold, betraying no hint of the hurt that had once been buried beneath his resentment.
Regina narrowed her eyes for a brief moment— and then she slowly shook her head. "Why so much hate?" she asked, her voice soft but laced with a condescension that made Sullivan’s blood boil.
He didn’t hesitate, the words tumbling out. "You killed my wives. My sister lost her life. My brother hung himself."
"I don’t think anything like that was my fault. One of your wives fell down the stairs and another drowned due to a beast suddenly appearing in the castle lake. Your sister lost her life because she married the wrong man, a psychopath who tortured her to death. Your brother was too incompetent and lost his whole territory in a beast wave. He chose to end his life. I wasn’t at fault."
Sullivan’s chest tightened with fury, his grip on his emotions barely contained. "Keep saying that to yourself," he muttered under his breath, turning away. But before he could walk off, something in Regina’s presence anchored him. He paused.
"I know you were behind the fief war."
Regina’s eyes flashed, but she bit back whatever words had come to her lips. Sullivan didn’t give her the chance to respond. "I sent my men to stop it. They were killed before they even reached the Sylvan Enclave. But you lost. Your pawn lost his life. And no matter how much your nobles try to pressure me into punishing Arzan, I will make sure he gets to face a fair trial. And I have a feeling… he might be able to succeed in it too."
Her composure faltered, a slight twitch at the corner of her lips betraying a moment of unease. Her icy demeanor cracked for the briefest second before she quickly smoothed it over, a frustrated sigh escaping her. "You are insufferable."
She took a step back, as though ready to walk away, but Sullivan’s voice stopped her. "I know you’re worried." He leaned forward, his eyes narrowing as he leveled his gaze on her. "The man might get enough reputation and a good name to stand against you. You hated what I gifted Valkyrie, but now, looking at you, I feel like that was the best thing I did as king."
Regina turned sharply. "If you’re planning something with that Arzan," she said, "Know that he needs to be alive for any of your plans."
With a final, lingering glance, she turned on her heel and walked away, her entourage following in her wake. Sullivan stood motionless.
As she disappeared from view, a wave of emotions rushed through him—regret, anger, frustration—but he pushed them aside, focusing on the task at hand. He turned to Roderic, who had remained quietly observing the exchange.
"Send a personal letter to Arzan. I might not be a good king anymore, but I won’t let my kingdom fall to her."
2025-03-07 17:35:52 +0000 UTC
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Chapter 81
After Tang Yuqiu ordered her maid to get lodging for his disciples, Chen Ren moved with her through the hallway alone. He could see that her steps were hurried and she kept looking back at him to ensure that he was following her.
"What's wrong?" Chen Ren asked, but Yuqiu only shook her head.
"I'll explain once we're inside the room," she replied tensely. He nodded, silently following her.
Once they entered her room and the door closed behind them, Chen Ren took a seat across from her, his eyes scanning the room, then moved back to her. It hadn't been long since they'd parted ways, but the change in Yuqiu was palpable.
The familiar, soft elegance was still there, but the atmosphere around her had shifted. She wasn’t the same person he had left behind. The once carefree yet determined woman had clearly grown into someone who carried more responsibilities on her shoulders.
She had been running the perfume business alone, managing the details Chen Ren had left her. It was clear it had taken a toll, both physically and mentally.
Tang Yuqiu spoke first, breaking the silence that hung between them. “It seems like things are going well for you,” she said, her eyes shining. “There are quite a few new faces. Cultivators?”
Chen Ren gave a small smile. “Two among them, and more back in the sect. I got lucky with them.” He paused for a moment. “Though, there are far more mortals. I’m hoping they’re setting up the alcohol production right now.”
“Alcohol?” Yuqiu raised an eyebrow. “You got into that now?”
“Yes," he answered with a half-smile. "It’s a different type than the ones out in the market. Stronger. I sold everything I had or I would have brought some for you.”
Yuqiu waved her hand dismissively. “It’s okay. I don’t drink much, and you know my father—it's better if he doesn’t drink.”
After that, a brief silence fell over them. Chen Ren could feel that small talk was over and the topic she wanted to talk about was going to come now. He waited patiently, eyes steady on her face.
She sighed, noticing the urge in his eyes and leaned back in her seat. “Anyway, the problem I talked about… It started once I looked into your expansion plan and tried to build up this mall you mentioned.”
Chen Ren’s brow furrowed slightly as he leaned forward, sensing the concern in her voice. “I didn’t think you would find problems in Cloud Mist City,” he said, his tone betraying his confusion.
Before leaving Cloud Mist City, Chen Ren had given Yuqiu the expansion plan for Heavenly Fragrances since he knew he was going to be busy with his sect. It was to ensure his income would keep increasing while also boosting his cultivation at the same time.
Building the sect had always been a priority for Chen Ren, but this didn't mean he was going to leave his current businesses behind. So, he had given her the idea of a mall to house multiple shops in one location, it wasn’t as grand as the ones back on Earth. They had planned to start small, with only three to four businesses in the mall, a manageable beginning before they expanded further.
“Actually, the problem didn’t come from Cloud Mist City,” Tang Yuqiu said, shaking her head slightly and bringing him back from his thoughts. “It went smoothly here. I was able to increase the floors in Heavenly Fragrances and created a structure like you told me. It’s small right now, and we aren’t renting out the space to other businesses yet. I want to see how it works before increasing its size. Thankfully, there’s enough space around it.”
She paused, gathering her thoughts. “But the problem came when I inquired about expanding to other cities, and let me tell you—it wasn’t going to be easy. We’ve already received threats.”
Chen Ren’s eyes widened, his surprise visible. “What kind of threats?” He leaned forward, the protective instinct rising within him. “I’m surprised anyone would dare give threats to the Tang Clan.”
Yuqiu looked at him as if he was not understanding the situation. “They can’t do that in Cloud Mist City, but the world is wide, and there are places even my father wasn’t able to expand into. One of those places is Jingxi, and I’ve chosen it as the main place where we could set up our next mall.”
“As you know, our products are mainly catered to women right now, and that city is perfect for it. It’s a major trade route for merchants, with a solid middle class population that can afford our products without hesitation. There are sects nearby, but nothing major enough to worry about. It seemed like the perfect place.”
Chen Ren was about to speak when she raised her hand, indicating that there was more to the story.
“But the major problem in the city isn’t the sects—it’s the clans and trade associations,” she continued. “They are powerful enough to be a real problem. And they’ve already gotten wind of our intentions. And they love to show off their power.” she rolled her eyes as she spoke. “They’re already trying to prevent us from acquiring property there. They seem to have figured out just how big our products have gotten in Cloud Mist City. I was even offered a supply contract, but the terms were so bad, I couldn’t even consider it.”
Chen Ren slowly absorbed the weight of Yuqiu’s words, and he couldn’t help but feel a sense of inevitability. He had expected something like this—established clans rarely took kindly to upstarts trying to break into their markets, and the perfume business was no exception. Anyone would act accordingly if they felt threatened, at least in this world.
He nodded, letting the silence linger for a moment as he processed the situation. His thoughts spilled to different possibilities. But none would be set on stone until he knew the exact depth of the situation. “So, are we unable to acquire property there?” he asked.
Yuqiu shook her head. “It’s not that. I did get one building, but... looking at the place, considering all the pressure, we won’t be able to set up a full perfume factory there. If we do, it would mean transporting raw materials from far away, and that’s not feasible since it's harder to find the herbs we need in the city.”
“We can manage transportation, but not for everything.” He paused for a beat, then shifted the conversation, wanting to focus on the more positive developments. “And how’s the cloth project going?”
At the mention of it, Yuqiu’s face lit up, the worry temporarily vanishing from her eyes. A soft smile tugged at her lips as she rose to her feet. “I’ve been meaning to ask you about that! The designs were tucked so far back in those parchments you gave me so I missed asking you about them when you were leaving, but... how did you even come up with something like that?”
Chen Ren watched as she moved toward a nearby chest, retrieving a box. She carefully pulled out a selection of women’s dresses. She handed them over to him, and he ran his fingers over the material, the texture telling him that Yuqiu hadn’t skimped on anything to get them made.
They were… exquisite. Chen Ren ran his fingers over the smooth fabric once again, appreciating the attention to detail. Was she making these to sell, or had she created them for herself?
The dresses were undeniably beautiful, but there was something subtly different about them. Unlike the tightly fitted garments that most women wore—those that clung to the body, leaving little room for comfort—the dresses Yuqiu had created were much more fluid and free. Where most dresses focused on accentuating curves and restricting movement, these seemed to offer a new sense of freedom, as though the wearer could move without feeling constricted. The cuts were soft, flowing, designed to drape elegantly around the body rather than cling tightly.
Yuqiu had taken care to ensure the design was modest without being plain. The folds gathered at strategic points—around the waist, over the hips—creating a sense of structure, but also allowing for comfort. The way the dresses were designed to hang just off the shoulders or around the neck made them feel more… comfortable. And the pattern of the dress? He picked a dress from the pile and looked over it, seeing the bold lines and flower designs that accentuated the beige colour.
Chen Ren could imagine how dresses like these would complement a woman's body, not by drawing attention to a single feature but by making the whole form appear graceful and dignified. He could already picture a woman walking in one of these dresses, every movement highlighting the elegant folds of the fabric, making her feel as though she were wearing something truly unique, something that made a statement without saying a word.
He turned to her with a small smile, gently placing the dress back on the table and answering her earlier question. “I asked Xiulan and the others for input, and then I realized how restrictive and unthinking most women’s clothing is. I wanted to create something comfortable, something that would be both practical and fashionable.” He tilted his head slightly, eyeing her. “Did you like it?”
Tang Yuqiu’s smile broadened. “I love them. I wore one of these to a gathering two weeks ago, and I could feel everyone’s eyes on me. I think they’ll be a huge hit. They might even be the next big thing.”
Chen Ren felt a spark of hope ignite within him. Let’s hope so, he thought.
He had created the designs thinking about how clothing has evolved over time, blending chinese fashion sense with modern-day designs, hoping to craft something that would appeal to the masses. He had spent time during the tournament, waiting for his turn in the fighting arena, brainstorming the designs. He’d never expected that something born from idle thoughts would end up becoming a potential game-changer. And he realized these designs would complement the perfume line perfectly.
Unlike perfume, which required a complex network of raw materials and precise measurements, clothing could be mass-produced by simply gathering women who were looking for work and teaching them how to weave. It was a simpler process once they get the supply for the material. Chen Ren thought about how easy it was to set up a small-scale factory for the clothes, and a small, almost absurd idea crossed his mind.
Should I start building a sewing machine? Because after all, this world didn’t have any automation. Which meant that everything was crafted.
The thought lingered for a moment, but before he could dive deeper into it, Yuqiu’s voice brought him back to the present. "I’ve been working on getting a group of weavers together to start building more of these dresses," she said. "We should have a good amount ready soon."
Chen Ren nodded, his mind already thinking ahead. "That’s good. I might be able to get one more product for the mall opening in Jingxi. but I’m still trying to come up with it." He paused, rubbing his chin. "How long do you think it will take?"
Yuqiu smiled, a hint of satisfaction in her eyes. "We’re still constructing in Jingxi, so it’ll be about a month. But you can check out the progress at the Heavenly Fragrances shop right now. It’s coming together well."
Chen Ren’s eyes brightened at that. "I’ll take a look," he said, his mind already working on the possibilities. Then, as if something else had occurred to her, Yuqiu hesitated for a moment before asking, "How many days will you be in the city?"
"Two days," he answered. "I mostly came to see your progress and the accounts. And also to meet with Qing He. I had wanted to consult her on some things."
Yuqiu nodded. "That’s alright. I think I have the account books here. Let me bring them to you. But I have to say... our sales have been really good. I think you’re going to like what you see."
Chen Ren smiled, feeling a surge of relief. "I’m looking forward to it."
***
As Yuqiu had said, the money coming in from the perfumes and even the food stalls had increased significantly. For the perfumes, Yuqiu had been handling everything with her usual efficiency, and it was clear that her efforts had paid off. More and more women were returning to purchase more of the fragrances once their previous bottles ran out, a trend that only seemed to grow with time. But it wasn’t just about the steady sales; Yuqiu had also started researching ways to expand their perfume line, working tirelessly to develop new scents and recruit more people to help with production. Chen Ren couldn’t have asked for a better outcome. Everything seemed to be progressing faster than he had even hoped.
He’d felt the surge of qi entering him over the last month, and he couldn’t help but think it was no coincidence. The success of the perfume line, combined with his growing cultivation, made him certain that the next time he broke through, he might just cross a few stars in his advancement.
As for the noodle stall, well, it had grown into something even more profitable. They had expanded the offerings to include crispy chips alongside the noodles, and even with some copycats emerging, their stall remained just as popular, generating steady profits. Unfortunately, summer had come to an end, which meant that sales of the ice cream had dropped off more than he would’ve liked. But Chen Ren wasn’t worried. He already had plans for the next summer, and he was confident that he could turn things around when the season came back.
After checking the accounts and taking a tour of his businesses, Chen Ren decided it was time to leave Yuqiu to handle the rest of her work. He made his way to the tea shop to meet Qing He—the old woman who had become, in many ways, his second master after Yalan.
He brought Feiyu along, knowing that the conversation would be important for him, and the two of them entered the tea house. The scent of tea leaves filled his nostrils and there, seated where she usually was Qing He, sipping tea. Her face was neutral, as she slowly placed the cup in front of her.
As soon as Chen Ren entered the tea house, Qing He's eyes snapped up, locking onto him with an intensity that almost felt like a physical force. But there was no warm welcome in her gaze. Instead, a scowl quickly replaced the usual calmness that Chen Ren had grown used to.
"I was thinking the wind is a bit different now," she said, her voice edged with sarcasm. "But I can see that you’re back in the city after a failed attempt at starting the sect."
Chen Ren walked towards her without responding immediately and pulled a stool out, sitting down casually. "Failed?" he echoed with a raised eyebrow. "I already have some new disciples, and things are going better than expected."
He gestured toward Feiyu, who stood by his side, ready to back him up. Qing He’s gaze shifted to the young man standing there. She gave him a quick once-over, her sharp eyes evaluating him in a way that seemed to peel away layers, and then she spoke. "You look like a good cultivator. Not that talented, but not bad. Why are you following this fool?" Her words were blunt, and she didn’t even attempt to mask the judgment.
Feiyu didn’t hesitate. Standing tall, he looked directly at Qing He. "I will follow Sect Leader Chen all my life," he said with sincerity. "He has given me a new lease on life, and there’s nothing that would change my decision."
Qing He raised an eyebrow at the conviction in Feiyu’s voice, her scowl fading into a hint of surprise. Her gaze flicked back to Chen Ren, who had a faint, amused smile on his face.
"You’ve learned some manipulation techniques, kid," she remarked dryly.
Chen Ren chuckled, the sound light but with an edge of confidence. "Why don’t you believe he’s being genuine?" he asked, leaning back slightly. "I have a lot that could help him out."
Qing He’s lips twisted into a brief, almost imperceptible smirk, but it was gone just as quickly. "I hope so," she said, her eyes narrowing slightly. "Or I would feel bad seeing that man get the wrong end of the stick. So why are you here, really?" she asked, clearly knowing Chen Ren’s ways by now, then seemed to hesitate and stand up from her seat. "Actually, I was hoping you would stop by. I have something to show you that might help you out," she added.
Chen Ren’s interest was piqued. "What is it?" he asked, already trying to read the situation.
Qing He glanced at the few customers still present in the tea house, then back at him with a hint of mischief in her eyes. "You’re lucky. It’s not the peak hour," she said. "Walk with me."
She stood and motioned for him and Feiyu to follow her. Chen Ren exchanged a quick glance with Feiyu before they both rose and trailed after her, heading towards the staircase. They walked up the stairs in silence. Chen Ren couldn’t help but wonder what kind of revelation she was about to reveal, but he knew better than to press her for answers too soon.
When they reached the room that Chen Ren had often frequented, the space that had once been filled with books and scrolls, he noticed something strange. The floor, usually organized, was now scattered with books. Some were open, others simply discarded, but in the center of the chaos, there was one book that immediately caught his attention.
It had a cover that depicted the Four Heavenly Beasts, with a golden dragon at its center. His heart skipped a beat at the sight of it. He had never seen this particular book before, and something about it made his heart skip a beat.
Qing He, noticing his reaction, gave him a small smile. "After you left," she began, "I decided I needed to do some reading of my own. I wanted to find out more about that dragon inside of you." She bent down, her eyes now focused on the book. "What I found... I don’t know if you’re going to like it or not."
2025-03-07 17:33:05 +0000 UTC
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Chapter 80
Soot fell on Chen Ren’s face. He reached up to wipe it away, pausing as he leaned against their still carriage. Above, the sky was vast and cloudless, a pale blue that felt too serene for what had just transpired.
They were finally out of the Zhu Clan’s domain.
The road ahead twisted through the mountain pass, leading away from Ashen City and toward Cloud Mist City. From there, they would make their way back to Meadow Village.
As he stood there, the carriage window creaked open. Anji’s head poked out. She paused for a moment, as if checking Chen Ren’s mood. But since he didn’t say anything right away, she opened her mouth. “It’s unfortunate what happened with Feiyu,” she murmured. “I wouldn’t wish something like that on anyone.”
Chen Ren exhaled, a wry, sad smile tugging at his lips. “He chose it for himself. He knew the consequences. There’s nothing we can do about it. I believe he had it long coming.” His voice was steady, but his fingers curled against the rough wood of the carriage. “In life, there are choices we make. Right or wrong, they’re often final.”
Anji was silent for a long moment before speaking again, her voice softer. “I understand choices. But we can still regret them, right?”
Chen Ren nodded. “Yeah. There are plenty like that.” His gaze drifted toward the distant peaks. “I have my own regrets.”
Anji tilted her head. “Like what?”
Chen Ren scratched his head, a bitter chuckle escaping his lips. “For one? The tournament at Cloud Mist City. I should have been more careful. I was lucky, saved by circumstances. But if not for the golden dragon…” His fingers twitched. “I’d be dead right now.”
Suddenly, everything fell silent. The mountain wind swept past them, rustling the trees.
Anji studied him for a moment before nodding. “About that golden dragon, I had questions. Are you comfortable talking about it?”
Chen Ren opened his mouth to respond—but then, he felt it. Footsteps.
His head snapped to the side.
A figure approached from the path leading out of Ashen City.
Feiyu.
His eyes were red, as if he hadn’t slept, but his face was resolute. A worn pack was slung over his shoulders, the fabric stretched thin and patched in places. He moved with the stiff, uncertain gait of someone stepping into a world that had never before been his to walk.
As he neared the carriage, his eyes found Chen Ren.
A small smile glazed across his lips. Then, without hesitation, he strode forward and bowed deeply.
“Thank you for everything.” His voice was raw, hoarse with emotion. “I never thought a day would come when I would be without a slave mark.”
He pulled back his sleeve.
The skin of his forearm was burnt, the flesh marred by angry red scars where the brand had once been. His hand shook when he showed it from his pointy finger.
Freedom had come at a price.
Chen Ren kept staring at it for a solid minute. The faint lines of the slave mark were still visible, but the symbol had been usurped—its power erased. Feiyu was a free man now.
“Fortunately, the patriarch listened to me and made the right decision,” Chen Ren said. Then, after a pause, “Did you get her letter?”
Feiyu nodded, gripping the strap of his pack tighter. “Yes, I did.” He cleared his throat. “She said she understood my decision… and that she’ll wait for me to come back for her as a strong cultivator. Her father’s already planning to get some proposals for her, but she’s going to push it off for as long as she can.”
“That’s good. If you said the oath the way I told you, you’ll be fine.”
“I did. And they didn’t seem to suspect anything.”
Chen Ren smirked slightly. “People like to think qi oaths are unbreakable, not realizing they’re just contract deals with stricter rules.”
He had found that qi oaths were one of the most interesting things in this world. Since using the qi oath on Tang Yuqiu back then, Chen Ren had been curious about its mechanics. He had spent time experimenting with them, testing whether they were truly foolproof or if there were ways to manipulate their wording for loopholes.
As expected, the wording played a crucial role. Back in the city, he had tested it on Lihua by making her take a qi oath not to eat his noodles for a week. Yet because the restriction only applied to his noodles, she had no issue eating those made by Xiulan or anyone else. That small distinction proved that a carefully crafted oath could be circumvented.
He had used the same trick with Feiyu, structuring the oath so that he would stay away from the Zhu Clan’s Lingyan—but the oath would only apply while she remained part of the Zhu Clan. According to their plan, the girl would join the Divine Coin Sect in a year or two, once his relationship with the Zhu Clan improved. When that happened, she would abandon the Zhu family name, effectively nullifying the restriction.
It wasn’t an uncommon practice for sects to sever their disciples from mortal ties, and while convincing the Zhu Clan would take time, Chen Ren was confident in his ability to handle it.
Thinking of the trick, Chen Ren was glad that qi oaths weren’t taken lightly in this world. Their absolute nature made them a rare tool, used only in special circumstances. That was precisely why the art of exploiting them wasn’t widely spread. If qi oaths had been used for everyday contracts, someone in the Zhu Clan might have caught on to his loophole.
But in this case, they would never suspect that their own daughter might one day be willing to give up her family name.
And of course, all of this had been planned with her. Lingyan knew what was going to happen. Now, all he could do was trust that she would play her role right.
Brushing aside his thoughts, Chen Ren turned his attention back to Feiyu. “So, are you ready to join the sect? I have a lot of work for you, and I’m pretty sure you’re going to love it.”
Feiyu nodded, but there was a flicker of hesitation in his eyes.
Chen Ren caught it immediately. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s nothing.” Feiyu shook his head before exhaling. “It’s just… you’ve done me a great favor. And before you decide whether to keep me in the sect or not, I want you to know everything about me.”
Chen Ren paused, thinking about his words for a second. “What do you want to tell me?”
Feiyu hesitated, then squared his shoulders. “About my history. Why is my bloodline that of a slave.”
Ah, that.
Chen Ren studied him, wondering if whatever Feiyu was about to reveal would truly change his decision. He already knew that Feiyu’s grandfather had been accused of murder, but what had really happened? Had he been framed? He had no idea about the specifics and even if he had tried to ask Zhu Yuan, the fatty didn't have the information for him.
Now that Feiyu was ready to reveal it, he wasn't going to say no. Getting to know his past might just give him more knowledge on how to handle him.
“Go ahead,” he said.
Feiyu glanced at the others in the carriage, hesitating for a bit, but in the end, he didn't seem to care about them as he spoke. “I’m sure you already know my grandfather was accused of murder.”
Chen Ren nodded. “I do.”
“That’s true. But it wasn’t as simple as it sounds.”
“What do you mean?” Chen Ren asked almost immediately.
A look of conflict crossed Feiyu’s face. He clenched his fists but didn’t back away from his words. “My grandfather didn’t just kill one person. He killed three members of the Zhu Clan.”
Chen Ren stiffened slightly.
“Three teenagers. Mortals.” Feiyu said further. “My grandfather used to have a shop in Ashen City. One of the bigger forges there. But those three… those three kids would use the Zhu Clan’s authority to get wares for free, insulting him as a lowly smith. For a while, my grandfather couldn’t do anything. No matter how many times he tried to directly talk to the Zhu clan patriarch, he did nothing and even the local guards weren't willing to do anything against members of a clan.”
Feiyu clenched his fists, the story coming out in pieces. “So one day, after those three took swords and bows from him to go hunt rabbits, my grandfather… he snapped. I don’t know what exactly happened that day. I’ve heard different versions of it, but the story I heard said something broke in him. He got too angry, too rageful. Maybe it was because the forge had stopped working as well, or maybe he was going through something mentally. But in the end, he killed them. Mercilessly.”
A chill ran through the air, and Chen Ren felt the weight of Feiyu’s words settle around them.
“Immediately, he was seized by guards. They put him on trial, but even then, he injured some of the guards. From that moment on, my bloodline was branded as demonic, tainted.” He paused.
Chen Ren noticed that Feiyu avoided his gaze. Probably ashamed of his grandfather's actions, but still continued the tale.
“I still don’t know why he did it. I understand they were thieves, but they were teens. They were just drunk on the power of their clan. My grandfather never spoke about it. After that day, he never even said a word, just worked as a slave for the rest of his life. My father… he was the same. Beaten down by the sins of his father, and he passed away early because of it.”
Feiyu’s voice faltered before steadying again. “But thanks to you, I’m free. I’m no longer a slave. I can finally leave the life I wish to live. But it doesn’t change the fact of what my grandfather did.”
His eyes dropped for a moment, but then he lifted them to meet Chen Ren’s. “I never knew him. But I feel like I carry the blood of a man with no self-control, a short-tempered, mortal demon. I’m not proud of his actions or to carry his blood.”
Chen Ren listened intently, his expression unreadable as Feiyu's family's history ended. And he had to say that it was something that did give him stuff to think about. If he was honest with himself, the Zhu Clan hadn’t struck him as righteous, at least not in the way they carried themselves.
There had always been something about them that seemed more driven by power and name than any true sense of justice. A part of him had suspected that Feiyu’s grandfather had been framed for the murder, that there were forces behind the scenes using the incident to their advantage. But the reality was different.
Though, in the end, Feiyu’s family had suffered not just from the crimes of their ancestor, but from a system that used them as pawns.
And yet, despite the gruesome past, it didn’t change anything in Chen Ren’s decision. Did this story make him hesitate to take Feiyu into his sect? No, not at all. If anything, it strengthened his desire. Feiyu had come to him, ready to lay bare his truth, despite the shame and the weight of it all and knowing there could be consequences to his confession. That kind of honesty was rare, and Chen Ren valued it deeply.
Judging a person based on ancestry, religion, or who they served had never sat right with him, and it never would. He wasn’t the kind to carry the sins of another. So, he reached out, patting Feiyu’s shoulder.
“I don’t think you should have gone through all those years of slavery because of your grandfather. Even your father shouldn't have. You just suffered for the crime of others, and I’m not going to hold that against you. You’re an honest man and a capable blacksmith. I don’t expect anything more from you.”
There was a pause, the air feeling lighter now as Feiyu’s shoulders relaxed, the tension in his posture slowly easing.
“Welcome to the sect.” Chen Ren said.
Feiyu’s eyes widened, numerous flickering in them as he took a deep breath, bowing deeply in gratitude. “Thank you, Daoist Chen.”
Chen Ren’s lips twitched, and he quickly corrected him. “Sect Leader Chen.”
Feiyu blinked, caught off guard.
“Our sect is new,” Chen Ren continued, his voice calm yet with a quiet authority that seemed to come naturally now, “and I’m its sect leader. I don’t reveal it to others, though. I just act as a representative of it. But trust me, you’ll get plenty of time to learn about Divine Coin Sect on the road.”
Feiyu processed the words, a mix of astonishment and acceptance crossing his face. After a moment of silence, he asked, “And where are we going, Sect Leader Chen?”
Chen Ren smiled faintly, his eyes turning distant for a moment. “Cloud Mist City. The place where it all started.”
***
The road to Cloud Mist City was smooth, with the group traveling comfortably and having a good time. Along the way, they were joined by other carriages headed in the same direction, their convoy expanding as they traveled.
The journey from Ashen City took two days, following the winding mountain path that led to a wider road, easier and faster to travel. And throughout the trip, Chen Ren kept himself busy, engaging in constant discussions with Feiyu about forging techniques, even throwing in a few pointers about firearms and the uses of guns.
He also spent time with Zi Han and Anji, discussing their plans for Cloud Mist City, how he would check in on his former businesses there, and what actions they’d need to take moving forward.
To his surprise, Hong Yi, who had been quietly drawing new designs for his puppets on parchment the entire journey, seemed interested in trying out the noodles Chen Ren had briefly mentioned about. He hadn’t pegged him as a foodie, but he supposed everyone had their hidden interests.
As the days passed and the distant city grew nearer, the group’s pace remained steady, and soon enough, Cloud Mist City came into view. It wasn’t as bustling as it had been during the tournament, but there were still plenty of carriages waiting to go out. Like any other cultivator, Chen Ren was given easy preference once Zi Han showed the sect crest, allowing them to pass through without much delay.
“We are almost there,” Chen Ren said.
He wasn’t eager to go into the city himself—he needed to let his disciples handle the smaller tasks, and he had a strong suspicion the city hadn’t fully recovered from the Dragonheart fever yet.
So, while the others discussed the task he had given them, Chen Ren observed the familiar streets, noticing the ebb and flow of people. He even caught sight of a few women carrying perfumes from the Heavenly Fragrances store. That was a good sign—those perfumes were still selling well, just like before.
However, as they reached Market Street, something caught his eye that made him freeze.
Just at the entrance of the street, two noodle stalls were set up, and though there were a few people loitering around them, they were unfamiliar to him. The stalls didn’t carry the sect crest, which meant they were knock-offs—copycats who’d decided to jump on the noodle craze he’d started. Chen Ren narrowed his eyes, watching them carefully, until Hong Yi, who had been quiet until now, finally broke the silence.
“Are these the noodle stalls you own?” he asked.
Chen Ren shook his head, his lips curling into a small smile. “No, they’re copycats. Probably people who saw the success and decided there was good money to be made. It’s not hard to replicate the setup—they’re simple to make.”
He paused, continuing to observe the stalls with mild amusement. “Honestly, I expected them to pop up a while ago, but it seems people didn’t want to offend a cultivator. They waited until I was out of the city. To be honest, though, I couldn’t care less.”
The copycats were just that—imitators with no creativity, trying to capitalize on something that had already gained a reputation. Chen Ren wasn’t concerned. If they wanted to make a few coins off noodles, let them. He had bigger plans than petty competition with these amateurs.
As they moved on, Chen Ren remained thoughtful, but his focus shifted as they neared the Tang Clan estate. There was still much to do, but for now, he couldn’t help but wonder just how far his little noodle venture would spread.
It had been a good starting business, and he was proud of it, but it wasn’t making as much money—or qi—as he’d hoped. Not yet, anyway. There were still bigger plans ahead, particularly for once his mortal sect members could stand on their own and help expand it. But for now, his mind had other things to focus on.
Lost in thought, he barely noticed when they crossed the street toward the Tang Clan estate. The carriage came to a stop, and he quickly exited, stepping onto the familiar grounds. The guards at the gate saw him and immediately bowed respectfully.
Without missing a beat, he asked, “Is Young Miss Tang Yuqiu home?”
They nodded, and as he made his way through the estate, his entourage followed, eyes scanning the surroundings with quiet curiosity. The courtyard was peaceful as always, but the soft shuffle of footsteps echoed as suddenly Tang Yuqiu appeared at the door. She was accompanied by her maid and another servant, clearly informed of his arrival.
As soon as she saw him, a smile tugged at her lips, but it quickly faded, replaced by a more serious expression. “Chen Ren,” she greeted, her voice carrying a hint of something urgent. “It’s good to see you again. You’ve come at the right time. We’re facing a big problem.”
2025-03-05 17:25:31 +0000 UTC
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Chapter 189
Funerals were something Kai was well-versed in.
In his past life, death had always been there—and it had been everywhere, it was an inevitability that shaped his existence. By the end of his past life, no one had remained alive. He had to stand by countless graves, offering silent farewells, watching as the final rites were performed with quiet efficiency. There had been no grandeur, no elaborate ceremonies—just the simple acknowledgment of a life extinguished, and a life not so-well lived.
But in this life, things were different. Here, noble funerals were spectacles, especially those of Dukes.
Lucian may have been the loser of a fief war, but Kai couldn’t cast aside tradition. Noble customs existed for a reason. And so, despite everything, he ensured that Lucian received the burial befitting his status—a final act of honor. A parade was arranged, as was customary, winding through the city with the casket on display, allowing the common folk to witness the end of an era and offer their final respects.
The day after the war ended, Kai oversaw the preparations. The procession moved through the streets, the pressure of history pressing down on him as the people watched in silence. When it was over, Lucian was laid to rest within the estate’s burial grounds, among the graves of his ancestors.
Francis and a few of his apprentices were called to Veyrin to assist, and with that, Kai took the opportunity to meet the people who now fell under his rule.
The laws of a fief war were set on stone—the victor claimed everything. The land, the wealth, the people. Everything.
Normally, official recognition from the king would be required before the transition was complete, but Kai had no intention of waiting. His new subjects deserved clarity, deserved to hear from their ruler. Because from what he’d heard so far, they deserved a proper ruler.
And so, he stood before them, ready to address a populace that had, only days ago, belonged to his enemy.
And Kai had to admit—the people of Veyrin clung to his every word.
He had heard from the butler that they weren’t treated well, but seeing them now, he knew it was worse than he had imagined. They looked even more haggard than the people of Veralt had when he first took over Arzan’s body. Lucian had run the territory dry, squandering wealth on his own excesses while treating the common folk as little more than slaves. The fields lay barren, the farms yielding meager harvests. Merchants had grown wary, their visits dwindling.
From the records Kai had found in Lucian’s office, it was clear the Duke had been relying on aid from the first prince to stabilize his crumbling rule. But that help would never come. And now, the responsibility fell to Kai.
Standing before the gathered populace, he spoke of Veralt’s and Verdis’s growth, of the same reforms he planned to implement here. He promised them an end to pointless wars and needless deaths. He vowed to create education programs, to rebuild their economy, to breathe life back into trade and commerce. And he promised to treat every individual the same. It didn’t matter if they were from Veralt, Veridis of Veyrin—he would treat them the same. That earned a loud cheer from a lot of men despite the small section of people who knew better than to accept every word of a noble. Kai simply nodded at that and continued his speech.
And by the end of it, there was one more thing he needed to address—the rumors of him working with dark creatures.
Thankfully, Lucian’s own carelessness made that easier than expected. The former Duke hadn’t even bothered to keep the drinkers a true secret. Rather than hiding them entirely, he had relied on controlling the flow of information. But too many had seen them, too many knew the truth. And so, Kai brought forth witnesses—people who had seen firsthand that it had all been Lucian’s doing from the start.
Whether the people truly believed him or not didn’t matter. The rumors would spread regardless. The world would soon know of the drinkers, and it was only a matter of time before more questions arose.
Kai just had to make sure he was prepared when they did.
Moreover, he was confident that, under his rule, the people would come to see him as their rightful lord. He might not have believed it before, but after the fief war and a great deal of reflection, he had started to accept his role—not just as a warrior, but as a ruler. He had power beyond his spells. The power to make a difference.
And he intended to use it well.
But if he truly wanted to shape the future—not just of this territory, but beyond it—he had to make some important decisions. One of which was revealing the truth about what they were really fighting against. Not just nobles, not just monsters. Fate itself.
Which was why, the morning after Lucian’s funeral, Kai called upon the three people who had stood by him the most since he had become Arzan.
They gathered at the graveyard on the farthest edge of the estate, where the land opened into a quiet glade. Francis arrived with Claire in tow—Kai had summoned her from Veralt with him. The air was heavy with the scent of damp earth and buried memories.
Killian was the first to break the silence.
"What are we doing here, Lord Arzan?"
Kai stood among the graves, his eyes trailing across the weathered stone markers before him. His eyes lingered on Lucian’s newly placed tomb, then moved to the grave of Lucian’s father... and finally, to the one that stood farther back.
Valkyrie.
Arzan’s mother.
The tomb was placed so far behind and Kai’s gaze lingered a little longer as he finally turned back to them. "I called you here because I need to talk to you about something very, very important." He inhaled deeply and cleared his throat. "It’s a conversation that might change the way you see me. It might even make you not want to serve me anymore. And you’ll have questions. Lots of them. But I want to have this talk."
Killian stiffened, tension creeping into his stance. Beside him, Francis and Claire exchanged a glance before shaking their heads.
"There's no way we would do that, Lord Arzan," Francis said firmly, Claire nodding in agreement.
Kai let the name settle over him. Arzan. A name that once felt foreign, now it was a part of him that he couldn't just shake off.
He exhaled slowly before asking, "Let me ask you something."
“Anything, Lord Arzan.” Francis urged him.
"What do you think of the future?"
Francis was the first to respond. "The future of our territory is bright, Lord Arzan. With the work we're doing—"
"Not of the territory," Kai interrupted. "The future. The future of the world. What do you think will happen?"
The question hung in the air, heavier than the morning mist curling around the gravestones.
No one answered immediately.
Claire was the first to break the silence. "It's impossible to predict something like that, Lord Arzan."
Francis nodded. "Even merchants can only predict the current market trends, maybe the next year at most. But the future of the world? No one knows how it will go. It's too uncertain."
Killian shifted beside them, arms crossed. "I have to agree. We can plan, we can prepare, but the world moves on its own accord. No one can say for sure where it’s headed."
Kai exhaled slowly. "You’re all right."
But then he paused, knowing that his next words would change a lot of things; including what they would perceive him after knowing it.
"But what if I told you the future is going to be dark? That society will fall. Civilization will collapse. There will be golden eras of magic, sure. They will be talked about for years to come. But there will be a time that they will be tainted with war—wars that will push the world back, piece by piece, until nothing remains but ruin. Until creatures of dead mana rise from the wreckage."
The wind stirred through the graveyard, rustling the leaves in the glade.
"It’s already predicted. It's the prophecy of Cycle of Life and Death. The life cycle is closing over. We are heading toward the death part of it." His eyes swept over them. "And I know you’re wondering why I speak of this with such certainty."
Francis nodded hesitantly. "Yes, Lord Arzan… after all, it’s just a prophecy. It could be wrong."
"It's not wrong, Francis," Kai said. "I know because… I've lived through it. I've seen the end of the world."
Silence fell over the graveyard.
Not the quiet of understanding, but the silence of disbelief, of something too vast and terrible to comprehend.
Kai felt their stares, the unspoken questions lingering in the air. The discomfort of their silence pressed against him, but he had known—decided—that this moment was necessary.
He waited. Even when he felt like his skin prickled due to how silent they were being—he waited. Their eyes—they were on him. And Kai could tell, so many questions were running in their minds.
Finally, Killian spoke. "Sorry, what do you mean, Lord Arzan?"
Kai let out a slow breath. "I'm not actually Arzan." He hesitated, then gave a small, wry smile. "I’m sorry, but that’s the truth." He met their gazes head-on. "My real name is Kai. I was a Magus of the Sorcerer’s Tower. A tower that… hasn’t even been built in this era. I come from a different timeline, thousands of years in the future. One in which everything has already ended."
He could see their shifting expressions—the tension in Killian’s shoulders, Claire’s furrowed brows, the way Francis instinctively took half a step back before catching himself.
"Humanity is on the verge of extinction in that future. Dead mana is everywhere. Dark creatures rule the land—exactly as the prophecy foretold."
Kai exhaled, the weight of memories pressing down on him. "I was the last Magus left. The last one fighting for a dying world. And when I realized there was no winning, no saving it… I attempted a soul ritual. A desperate gamble to send my soul back in time and change the course of fate."
His voice dropped lower. "But I was attacked mid-ritual. A tainted minotaur got to me before I could complete it." His fingers curled slightly at the memory. "The ritual… didn’t work as intended. And when I woke up, I wasn’t myself anymore." His gaze flickered toward the gravestones before settling back on them.
"I was Arzan."
Kai let the silence settle before speaking again.
"That’s the gist of it."
His voice was calm, measured, but the truth behind his words threatened to shake the very foundation of everything they believed.
"I know you all wondered how Arzan changed. Where the knowledge came from. How everything shifted so suddenly. It’s because… he wasn’t me. He’s dead."
He let the words sink in.
"Everything I’ve built, everything I’ve done—it wasn’t because of some inheritance. I never received one. I never had someone passing down ancient secrets. The only reason I have this knowledge is because of what I learned in my own time. In a future that no longer exists."
He waited then, knowing the flood of questions would come. They had to. No one would simply accept this without challenge.
And he was right.
Francis was the first to speak. His voice trembled slightly. "Then… Did you kill Arzan?"
Kai turned to look at him. The old man seemed different—like the revelation had aged him in mere moments.
Kai shook his head. "No. He was already dead before I took over his body."
He saw the slight flinch from the others, but he continued.
"Actra’s scheme led him to his death. He thought he was performing a ritual to become a Mage, but it was a lie. It killed him. By the time I arrived, only fragments of his soul remained."
Francis exhaled slowly, as if he had been holding his breath. "I see…" The tension in his posture eased slightly, but the questions weren’t over.
Killian was next. His brows furrowed, his voice sharp. "But… how is any of this possible?"
Kai gave a wry smile, though there was no humor in it. "I never thought it was. By all logic, I should have been erased. My soul should have burned up, and I should have never opened my eyes again." His gaze turned distant. "But magic—sometimes, it bends the rules. Sometimes, it transcends every boundary that should exist. This was one of those times. Somehow, I made it here. And since then, I’ve been doing everything I can as a lord. As someone with the responsibility to make sure this world never follows the path I saw."
Another pause. The silence between them felt heavier now, not just from disbelief, but from something deeper.
It was Claire who finally asked the question none of them had spoken yet.
"But… why are you telling us now?" She hesitated before adding, "Lord Arzan—no, should I call you Kai now?"
That brought a genuine smile to his lips. "You can call me Arzan. I’m used to it by now."
Then, his smile faded.
"And to answer your question, I wanted to tell you before. But I was paranoid. I didn’t know how you’d take it. There was a chance you wouldn’t believe me, that you’d brand me a heretic. That I’d lose everything I’ve built. We… would lose everything. I couldn’t afford it, not when there were so many other important things that had to be fixed.”
His eyes met each of theirs in turn.
"But the battles ahead… the obstacles we’re going to face… they’re going to be harder than anything we’ve faced so far. I can’t fight them alone."
Kai exhaled slowly, his gaze sweeping over the people gathered before him.
"And I realized something…” he paused. "I’m not able to explain my decisions to you properly because I’ve been hiding too much. I realized it when I spoke to Francis about going to Sylvastra. I realized it when I spoke to Lucian before his death. It’s not fair to you. It’s selfish to pull you all into battles you don’t understand.
"That’s why I wanted to come clean. Now, if you want to treat me differently… if you judge me for lying so much… I won’t hold it against you. I would even understand if you no longer wish to serve me."
He met their gazes, one by one. "I know how important honesty is. And even if I act like your lord, I want there to be respect and truth between us. So, in the end… the choice is yours."
Kai turned away, giving them space. He didn’t know what to expect. Betrayal? Doubt? The sting of rejection?
No. He wouldn’t let his thoughts spiral. Not now.
Silence stretched between them, thick with tension. Then—
Killian was the first to step forward. His fists clenched at his sides before he released a sharp breath.
"This is… a lot to take in." His voice was tight with emotion. "I knew something was off. I knew there was more to you, but I never expected something this complex."
He straightened, locking eyes with Kai. "But despite everything, I still serve you as my lord."
Kai turned, his eyes flickering with something unreadable.
Killian gave a firm nod. "What you’ve done for me, for the people, for this land—your identity doesn’t change that."
Francis followed next, nodding slowly. "Killian’s right. I have questions, and I hope you’ll answer them in time. But I won’t hold you accountable for this, Lord Arzan—or Kai, if that’s what you prefer."
He smiled faintly, the wrinkles around his eyes deepening. "You made me feel like my work mattered. You’ve ruled justly. The fact that your soul isn’t Arzan’s doesn’t change that."
Claire took a step forward, her expression soft. "I would never leave your service, Lord Arzan." Her smile was small but unwavering.
A quiet understanding passed between them all.
"And none of us will speak a word of this," Killian added firmly.
A weight Kai hadn’t even realized he was carrying suddenly lifted from his chest. He let out a slow breath, nodding.
"I appreciate you all. And trust me, I’ll answer whatever I can. You deserve that much."
He turned back toward the open ground, his expression shifting.
"But before we talk further, before I explain everything…" He glanced at Francis. "We need to dig another grave."
Francis frowned. "For whom?"
Kai’s gaze darkened, yet there was an odd sense of peace in his voice.
"For Arzan. He deserves to rest."
Silence fell again, but this time, it carried a different weight.
"I will make sure people know his name," Kai continued. "That’s the least I can do for him. But he deserves rest. And once we are done with the questions and the grave digging, we can move toward the next task of getting the territory together. It will take some time since we have so much of it to work through now.”
***
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2025-03-05 17:23:40 +0000 UTC
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Chapter 79
The air felt heavy, pressing down on him like an invinsible force of qi suppression. The room around Chen Ren closed around him, making his lungs tighten—
Of course, it was just an illusion—no one in the room was actively using their cultivation against him. But the sheer tension hanging in the atmosphere made it feel like he was being suffocated.
The people sitting inside looked like they had just witnessed their ancestors being cleaved apart by a vengeful cultivator. Faces were taut, eyes grim, and not a single person spoke.
Beside him, Zhu Yuan—his first companion in the clan—sat in an uncharacteristically stiff posture. The fatty, who would normally be gnawing on something or drinking even in the most serious of situations, had lost all traces of his appetite. His plump fingers were curled into fists on his lap, his gaze darting uneasily around the room before landing on one man in particular.
At the very center of the gathering sat Zhu Gang, patriarch of the Zhu Clan.
The old man’s presence alone was enough to silence a room. His long, snow-white beard contrasted against the deep red of his high-collared robes, embroidered with golden flame patterns that curled like dancing fire along the sleeves. His hair, streaked with silver, was tied into a strict topknot, and though he sat motionless, his aura crackled with restrained power.
He was a peak foundation establishment realm cultivator.
He wasn’t the strongest cultivator Chen Ren had ever met, but in this room, he was an immovable mountain. The half-lidded eyes that peered out beneath thick, furrowed brows seemed to weigh every person present, stripping them down to their very bones.
Half of the tension in the room came solely from him.
The rest was from the subject at hand.
Seated around the patriarch were other elders of the Zhu Clan—old men draped in muted but luxurious robes, their faces lined with years of experience and scheming. Their presence was nothing more than a formality. Zhu Gang was the only one who mattered.
And Chen Ren?
He was the only outsider here.
The oddity in the room.
The one who could easily be kicked out if necessary.
Finally, after a long silence, Zhu Gang moved. He lifted a piece of parchment between his fingers, shaking it slightly before his tiny eyes locked onto Chen Ren.
“This letter…” He huffed. “Are you sure it’s true, Daoist Chen? My daughter could not have possibly involved herself with a… with a slave.”
He said as if he couldn’t believe it himself.
Chen Ren’s eyes flicked to the letter—the one he had handed over himself. One of the latest ones Zhu Lingyan had written for the blacksmith.
And the very thing that had dragged him into this storm.
Zhu Gang’s sharp gaze remained fixed on Chen Ren, his fingers tightening around the letter.
“Yes, it’s true, Patriarch Zhu,” Chen Ren said. “I would never do anything to tarnish the relationship between the Divine Coin Sect and the Zhu Clan.”
He gave Zhu Yuan a glance. The fatty visibly flinched but quickly nodded, wiping sweat from his brow.
“Yes, that’s true, Patriarch,” Zhu Yuan confirmed.
Chen Ren continued, keeping his expression carefully neutral. “I was simply fortunate that one of the sect disciples I brought with me happened to come across it and delivered it to me. I consulted Zhu Yuan the moment I learned of it, knowing how serious the matter could become.”
Zhu Gang exhaled sharply, as if reigning in his emotions. His qi, which had been rippling slightly in agitation, steadied. After a moment, he spoke, his voice colder but more composed.
“You did the right thing, Daoist Chen. On behalf of the Zhu Clan, I thank you.”
Chen Ren nodded. “I understand, Patriarch Zhu. I originally come from a clan as well. I know how these things work.” A beat of silence followed. Then, he carefully added, “May I ask what you intend to do with the slave?”
The moment the words left his lips, the temperature in the room seemed to drop. The patriarch’s already sharp eyes turned frigid, his aura shifting like a storm ready to break.
The pressure of his qi surged, leaking into the room in droves, heavy and suffocating. Zhu Yuan stiffened beside Chen Ren, his knuckles white as he clenched his hands under the table. The elders, too, remained silent, impassive, but none dared to intervene.
Finally, when Zhu Gang spoke, his voice sounded like steel.
“Obviously, his head will fall.”
His words carried absolute finality, no hesitation whatsoever.
“He has tried to manipulate my daughter. For that, I will ensure he suffers a fate worse than death.”
Chen Ren had expected this.
From the moment he revealed the letter, he had known that Zhu Gang would demand blood. He had thought and calculated every reaction the patriarch might have, and so far, the man had acted exactly as he predicted.
But no matter how expected, Chen Ren couldn’t allow Feiyu to die here.
He took a steady breath and spoke before anyone else could.
“But, Patriarch Zhu…” He paused deliberately, letting his words linger. “We have only found a letter from the Young Miss.”
The patriarch’s qi wavered slightly.
“Nowhere in the letter does it say that the slave coerced her in any way.” Chen Ren met the old man’s gaze evenly, as if he weren’t standing against a peak foundation establishment cultivator who could crush him with a flick of his fingers. “Wouldn’t such a punishment be unbefitting of a righteous cultivator such as yourself?”
A heavy silence gripped the room.
For the first time, something flickered in the patriarch’s eyes—whether it was irritation, consideration, or something else, Chen Ren couldn’t yet tell.
But he knew one thing.
He had his attention.
Zhu Gang’s eyes narrowed dangerously.
“Are you suggesting that my daughter was the one who tried to seduce a mere slave?”
Suddenly, he felt the man’s anger reeking through his voice, and immediately, murmurs spread through the room like ripples in a pond. The elders exchanged glances, some frowning, others whispering under their breath.
Beside Chen Ren, Zhu Yuan went pale, his hands trembling slightly as he wiped sweat from his forehead. But Chen Ren remained calm. He had dealt with powerful figures before—prideful, overbearing, quick to judge. This was no different.
“No, I don’t mean that, Patriarch Zhu,” he said evenly. “As I just stated, we don’t have any evidence that the slave had any involvement at all.” He met the patriarch’s glare without flinching. “And a righteous cultivator does not make hasty decisions. A wise man such as yourself would surely know that.”
The tension in the room thickened. Zhu Gang’s expression twisted into clear displeasure, but he didn’t lash out this time. He stared at Chen Ren for several long moments, as if weighing his words.
Internally, Chen Ren smiled.
His plan was working.
By presenting the evidence of an illicit affair directly to the patriarch, he had made himself important—not just some merchant, but a sect-affiliated individual bringing critical information to the clan. And he knew from his research that Zhu Gang prided himself on his upright nature, always preaching about the righteous path.
Cornering a self-proclaimed righteous man with his own beliefs was a strategy that rarely failed.
In the end, Zhu Gang let out a slow breath and gave a curt nod.
“Let’s hear both sides, then.”
With that, he gestured toward one of the elders. “Bring the slave.”
The elder rose immediately, leaving the room. A tense silence followed as they waited, the pressure lingering thick in the air.
Chen Ren simply folded his hands together, waiting patiently.
Before long, footsteps echoed outside the hall, and then—
Feiyu entered.
The blacksmith’s face was pale, his steps hesitant. The moment he stepped into the room, his eyes flickered to the gathered elders, to Zhu Gang sitting at the center, and then to Chen Ren. His expression twisted with barely restrained fear, and without a word—
He fell to his knees.
Before he could even properly bow, a surge of qi filled the room.
Chen Ren’s eyes sharpened as he watched it happen. Zhu Gang’s energy moved with frightening precision, pressing down on Feiyu like an invisible mountain. The blacksmith barely had time to react before his forehead slammed against the floor, hard enough to make a sharp cracking sound echo through the room.
He was forced into a deep kowtow, his body trembling under the sheer weight of the patriarch’s qi.
Chen Ren exhaled through his nose. He had expected something—but to see it in action was another matter entirely.
Now, the real game would begin.
“Feiyu!”
The patriarch’s voice cracked through the room like a whip. “I know your tainted bloodline has been one of criminals, but still, we gave you shelter, work, and even helped in your cultivation! And in return, you dare put your hands on my daughter?”
His qi flared once more, sending a suffocating weight pressing down on Feiyu’s trembling form.
“What do you have to say for yourself?”
Feiyu’s breath came out ragged as he gulped. His face was ashen, his entire body shaking under the patriarch’s gaze.
“P-Patriarch Zhu,” his voice was barely above a whisper. “I had no hand in this. It was the Young Miss who sent me those letters, but I never reciprocated. Please… spare me.”
Silence filled the hall for a brief, suffocating moment.
Then—
“So you mean to tell me it was my daughter who sought out a mere slave like you? That she—she would lower herself to such filth?!”
Zhu Gang’s fury exploded. His chair screeched against the floor as he shot up, his qi surging violently. Without hesitation, he raised a foot to kick Feiyu straight in the chest—
But before he could, several elders moved at once, stepping forward to block his advance. Chen Ren followed suit, shifting slightly to stand in the way.
“Patriarch!” one of the elders urged, holding out a hand. “Please, calm yourself!”
It all happened too quickly. Zhu Gang’s eyes blazed with rage, but even he wasn’t so far gone as to ignore the restraining hands of his own clan members.
Feiyu remained on his knees, his head pressed against the cold stone floor, trembling so hard that it looked like he might collapse at any moment. His lips moved soundlessly, as if searching for words—but none came.
It was all too silent; the unspoken tension warming up the room alongside the patriarch’s qi that was heavy in the air.
Finally, Chen Ren exhaled softly. He had seen enough. “Patriarch Zhu, as I have said, Feiyu has not acted upon any of this. The situation can still be salvaged—without anyone dying.”
Zhu Gang slowly turned his gaze toward him. “Daoist Chen, I do not see how this matter can be resolved without this slave losing his life. And why, exactly, are you speaking in his favor?”
His voice held suspicion now, eyes narrowing at Chen Ren as if seeing him in a new light.
Chen Ren met his gaze evenly.
“I am not taking any sides. Like you and me, Feiyu is a cultivator. That does not change simply because he is a slave.” He let the words sink in before adding, “By his association with the Zhu Clan, he is counted among the righteous path cultivators as well. I merely believe that one should not be condemned without guilt.”
The room fell silent once more.
Zhu Gang’s qi still crackled faintly in the air, but something shifted in his face. The man was thinking about what Chen Ren had just said. It was good. It was an opening of sorts. Chen Ren hung onto that hope.
“Then… all of this was done by my daughter?”
Chen Ren shook his head immediately. “I don’t think the Young Miss even realizes what she’s doing.”
“What?”
“In my time here, I have learned that she is kind. She looks out for others—mortal or cultivator alike. Her heart is pure.”
Zhu Gang scoffed. “So what?”
“I have heard tales that she has gone out of her way to help servants in need, feeling bad for them. If I may speak plainly—Feiyu, the slave, is not treated well by anyone. In the few days I have been here, I have seen him shouted at, ridiculed, and even beaten under the guise of ‘sparring.’ All while the Young Miss Lingyang was in attendance.”
His gaze swept across the gathered cultivators. “I am certain there have been many such instances before my arrival.”
Another long moment of silence passed between them.
Chen Ren allowed the weight of his words to settle before delivering the final push. “Don’t you think that, seeing such treatment, the Young Miss—being as kind as she is—felt bad and tried to make amends in her own way? To compensate for the behavior of the younger generation of your family?”
The elders glanced at each other, the earlier tension in the room shifting into contemplation. A few muttered among themselves, their voices hushed yet audible.
“That… that could be true, Patriarch.” One elder hesitantly spoke.
“Young Miss Lingyang is softhearted,” another murmured. “Perhaps she saw the way Feiyu was treated and acted out of pity.”
Chen Ren watched them carefully before nodding. “Yes. Oftentimes, emotions become tangled. We mistake one feeling for another. Sympathy can be confused with affection, especially at her age.”
The murmuring grew louder. Some elders exchanged knowing looks, others sighed in realization.
Zhu Gang remained still. His jaw was clenched, his fists tightly clenched till his knuckles turned white. The fury in his eyes hadn’t vanished, but Chen Ren could say that the man was hesitant. Therefore, he waited. He looked at Feiyu, whose head still remained bowed. Good. He was playing his part well.
Meanwhile, the patriarch took time to consider his words. If Chen Ren had judged him correctly, then Zhu Gang’s love for his daughter would make him find excuses for her behavior rather than outright punish her. And if that happened, then the entire incident would be reframed as a simple misunderstanding—one where his daughter had only mistaken sympathy for affection.
That meant she would escape punishment. Fortunately.
From what Chen Ren had heard, Lingyan was a talented cultivator. Even if the Zhu Clan attempted to marry her off to save face, she had a few years to resist. Cultivation always took priority, and most cultivators delayed marriage until their progress slowed.
Zhu Gang’s nose twitched.
“Even if Lingyan is not at fault, it does not change the fact that a scandal was about to erupt. Punishment must be dealt. And what if she does not let go of her sympathy? Her infatuation? There is a bright future ahead of her, and yet she would risk destroying the reputation of our clan over a mere slave.” His eyes turned cold as he glared down at Feiyu. “This slave still needs to die.”
Feiyu shuddered. His hands formed into fists by the ground. A few elders nodded in agreement, their expressions solemn.
Just as the tension reached a peak, Chen Ren spoke again.
“I believe killing him would be detrimental in the long term, Patriarch.”
“What did you just say?”
The patriarch’s gaze snapped toward him, along with the elders’. Chen Ren remained calm. He had to. If he let himself feel at least a small ounce of fear, everyone would know.
“I do not mind Feiyu being killed here. He is a slave of the Zhu Clan. You all have the right to do with him as you wish. But consider this—will killing him truly make the Young Miss forget her infatuation?”
That made a few elders frown.
One of them finally spoke. “And why would it not?”
Chen Ren exhaled slightly, as if exasperated. “Think about it. Feiyu never leaves the clan grounds. He is a blacksmith, dedicated to his craft. As a cultivator, his body is sturdy—he won’t simply drop dead.” He swept his gaze over them before delivering the key point. “If he suddenly dies, will she not find it suspicious? I mean, Feiyu is already mistreated. If Lingyan discovers that the clan killed him, what do you think will happen?” He let the question hang in the air before answering it himself.
“Her infatuation will turn to anger. Resentment.”
He looked directly at Zhu Gang. “And that anger will not be directed at Feiyu. It will be at the clan.”
Zhu Gang propped down in his chair, and let his fingers dig into the armrest. Chen Ren could see the hesitation beginning to form in his expression.
“If she begins to resent you,” Chen Ren continued, “she will be harder to control. And if she rebels against the clan, then all of this would have been for nothing.”
Chen Ren turned back to the patriarch. “I’m sorry if I’m way over my boundaries but In my sect, I have seen many younger disciples lose their way like this. I don’t want the Young Miss to go through the same. That is why I’m telling you all this.”
Zhu Gang narrowed his eyes. “Then we won’t let anyone know of his death.”
Chen Ren shook his head. “Secrets always find their way out. She can always make a guess and confront someone. And when that happens, it’ll be difficult to maintain the lie.”
One of the elders scoffed. “Then is there any better way? Tell me so. If not, this man is surely losing his life tonight by the patriarch’s hands.”
Chen Ren frowned, as if deep in thought. He let a few moments pass before exhaling. “I have a way.”
The room’s atmosphere shifted. Every eye turned to him, waiting.
Zhu Gang’s gaze sharpened. “What is it?”
Chen Ren glanced at Feiyu, still kneeling with his head down, before speaking. “Banish him.”
Murmurs erupted in the hall.
Chen Ren continued, ignoring all the raising voices. He couldn’t even tell if they were opposing his idea or raising concerns, but he ignored it. “If you send him away, the Young Miss will be unable to hold onto her infatuation. You can tell her that he was caught stealing and was cast out of the clan.”
An elder frowned. “Why would we sully our own reputation by saying a slave stole from us?”
Chen Ren’s lips curled into a slight smirk. “Why would it sully your reputation? He already has the blood of a criminal in him, doesn’t he? A slave with a tainted lineage—no one would doubt the story.”
The patriarch’s fingers tapped against his chair. The logic was sound.
Chen Ren pressed on. “Even if the Young Miss grieves for a while, she will eventually recover. And if you’re still worried about him ever returning, make him swear a qi oath to stay away from the clan forever.”
The room fell into silence once more.
Chen Ren took a step back. “Of course, the final decision rests with you, Patriarch. I’m just an outsider offering my opinion.”
Zhu Gang’s expression remained unreadable. His fingers stilled. Slowly, he leaned back, exhaling. “We respect your opinion, Doaist Chen. A decision will be made after careful thought.”
With that, he went silent, lost in contemplation.
Chen Ren didn’t let his expression shift, but his heartbeat quickened. Would the patriarch take his advice, or would Feiyu lose his life right here? It was a matter of word; word from the patriarch.
The uncertainty gnawed at him. He kept his breathing steady, waiting. It felt like forever. But he knew at any second, the patriarch would—
Zhu Gang finally opened his mouth.
2025-03-03 17:07:25 +0000 UTC
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Chapter 188
Kai rode through the open fields. The banner of Veralt fluttered from one of the horses, its fabric snapping with every gust, a silent declaration of their advance. His small contingent moved in formation behind him—Killian at his side, Gareth a few paces back, their armor dulled with dried grime from battle. The others, those who had emerged with only minor wounds, followed silently, eyes fixed on the horizon.
They moved until Veyrin’s walls were right ahead. Kai could tell that the sight stirred something in Killian. The Knight who was at his side gripped the reins tightly, his lips parting just enough for a breathless murmur.
“We’re back.”
Kai caught the flicker in his eyes—the chains of familiarity, the unspoken emotions of returning to a place that he had a past. It echoed something within him too. Veyrin was no mere city; it was the place where Arzan Kellius had been cast aside, where he had spent his childhood in and where he had lost the succession to Lucian. But that man was dead, his fate rewritten.
Now, Kai was going to be riding back through those gates—not as a disgraced heir, but as the man who had crushed the old order and won the fief war.
Ahead, the city waited. Inside, Lucian lurked.
Gareth had assured him they would breach the walls without trouble, that Lucian was ripe for the taking. But Kai had lived too many lives to put faith in certainty. The remnants of the fief war had shattered Lucian’s forces, but his allegiance to Regina meant there was still danger—potions, parasites, gifts that could twist flesh and mind beyond their limits.
Kai exhaled, feeling the slow pulse of his Mana heart as it stirred, replenishing the power he had burned in the fight against Shakran. If Lucian had turned himself into another monster, then so be it.
Monsters could be slain.
Kai kept his posture loose, but his senses sharp as the walls of Veyrin loomed closer. Power hummed beneath his fingertips, a spell waiting at the edge of his will. The wind carried the scent of stone and damp wood, but no signs of ambush. Still, he didn’t let his guard slip.
A small, but noticeable movement caught his eye—figures shifting on top of the walls. Then, with a deep groan of wood and iron, the city gates yawned open on their own. Torches cast wavering light on the figures waiting beyond the threshold.
The guards bore Lucian’s crest, yet they stood rigid, their weapons at rest. But it wasn’t them who drew Kai’s attention—it was the old man standing at the forefront, silver hair neatly combed back, robes crisp despite the tension in the air.
Rubert— Lucian’s butler that he had already gotten information on.
Kai reined in his horse and dismounted immediately. The butler’s lined face softened with something almost nostalgic before he bowed, his voice even yet touched with something warm.
“I’m pleased to see you again, young master Arzan.” His eyes moved over Kai, taking in the hardened stance, the quiet authority that hadn't been there before. “You sure have grown a lot.”
Kai met the man’s eyes, the weight of the lack of memories pressing at the edges of his mind—memories that weren’t his. Another fragment of Arzan’s life stood before him, expecting familiarity that wasn’t truly there.
The mask slipped into place.
“It has been a while, Rubert,” Kai said smoothly, nodding. “I’m glad to see you’re doing well.”
The butler’s lips curled into a smile, though his eyes held something keener than mere pleasantries. “Only because I had hope, my lord. Hope that you would take Veyrin to new heights as the victor of the fief war.”
Kai let out a short breath, the corner of his mouth tilting upward. “For me to be the victor, I still need to capture Lucian first.” His gaze swept past Rubert to the city beyond. “Where is he?”
At that, Rubert’s lips thinned. “In his castle. Duke Lucian returned hours ago and locked himself in his chambers.” He briefly glanced at Gareth, then back to Kai. “After confirming that you defeated his forces, I gathered every guard still loyal to Veyrin and not him, and attempted to seize him, but the gates are barred. We couldn’t get inside.”
Kai’s fingers flexed at his side. Of course Lucian was stalling. If the fool had any last tricks to play, he would be using them now.
He lifted his chin, eyes narrowing toward the distant castle.
“Then it’s time we knocked.”
Kai dipped his head in acknowledgment. “You did well.” His focus shifted over to the gathered guards. “Are they all ready to swear allegiance?”
Rubert straightened. “Yes, my lord. Your brother’s rule was despotic. The people had already lost hope in him. When he returned alone, news of your victory spread like wildfire. The city is waiting for you to address them.”
Kai exhaled slowly. “I will—once I deal with my brother.”
He turned, his attention shifting to Killian and the others. “Let’s go.”
Without another word, they moved, boots striking against the stone as they marched through the streets. The banner of Veralt fluttered above them, snapping in the breeze. Eyes followed them—faces lining the streets, peering from behind shutters. He had expected everything that came with him walking through the walls of Veyrin. So he didn’t spare them more than a passing glance. Not yet.
The estate was ahead and they walked right inside to a grand hall. There were flickering candles everywhere, but he didn’t have time to take in every inch of the details. His eyes fixated on the staircase that would lead them upstairs.
Rubert stepped closer. “Duke Lucian took your father’s chambers after seizing the title.” he said in almost a whisper. But Kai only gave a nod. He didn’t know where the chamber was—he simply followed the butler’s lead.
Through the grand halls, up winding staircases, they walked. The scent of wax and old wood clung to the air. By the fifth floor, Rubert finally stopped.
Kai stepped forward, testing the door. Locked. He turned his head slightly.
Killian was already moving. “Let me, Lord Arzan.”
With a swift, brutal stroke, his sword cut through the wood. The heavy door splintered apart, shards flying as it crashed inward.
Kai didn’t step in immediately. His body tensed, waiting for a trap, a last-ditch strike—
Nothing.
They moved inside. The room was dark, the air thick and just as they took the first step inside the room, something touched his leg. Kai stiffened, taking another look at the liquid.
It definitely is blood.
Since he couldn’t see through the whole of the dark room, he ignited a small flame in his fingertips.
Then they saw him.
Lucian sprawled against the wall, his body slumped at an unnatural angle. Blood pooled beneath him, glistening in the dim light. A dagger jutted from his stomach, buried to the hilt.
Yet he wasn’t dead.
His chest rose in shallow, weak breaths. Bloodshot eyes flickered open, locking onto Kai.
For the first time, face to face, they looked at each other.
And despite everything—the war, the betrayal, the bloodshed—Kai realized this was the first time they had ever truly met. Sure, he’d been aware of him, keeping an eye on his every move but meeting Lucian to face was different.
They had been enemies since the moment Kai took over this body. But for Lucian, the hatred ran deeper—he had seen Kai as an enemy from birth.
Lucian’s lips parted. His voice was hoarse, each word drawn out like it took effort to speak.
“So, you came… brother.” A weak, bitter smile tugged at his lips. “I wanted to cut my throat and be done with it, but… I knew you’d come.” He swallowed, his bloodshot eyes flickering past Kai to the others. “Tell your lackeys to leave. Especially the butler. I don’t want to see traitors in my last moments.”
Kai didn’t answer immediately. He weighed the risks. Lucian could try something—but in his state, did it matter? No. His decision was already made.
He turned to Killian. “Give me some space.”
Killian stiffened. “Lord Arzan, it might be a trap—”
“I’ll deal with whatever comes.”
For a moment, their gazes locked. Then, seeing Kai’s eyes, Killian exhaled sharply and gave a nod. With reluctant steps, he and the others withdrew, the door creaking as it shut behind them.
Silence settled.
Kai turned his attention back to Lucian. Even now, even like this, there was defiance in Arzan’s brother’s eyes. Caution tingled at the edges of Kai’s senses, but he dismissed it. If Lucian tried anything, it would be his last mistake. He would make sure of it.
Slowly, he stepped forward, boots sinking into the thick pool of blood. As he knelt, bringing himself to eye level with Lucian, he saw it—more wounds, shallow cuts on both arms.
Had he been torturing himself? Did he hate himself that much? Or was he attacked? Kai didn’t know.
Lucian’s ragged breath broke the silence. “I wanted to see you in my final moments.” His lips curled in a humorless smirk. “To look at the man I hate the most… the one who killed me in the end.”
Kai met his gaze, voice steady. “You killed yourself.”
A dry chuckle. “Only because you crushed my forces. My hopes.” Lucian’s fingers twitched, curling slightly at his sides. “You don’t know what it feels like—to realize you’ve already lost. It’s the worst thing a ruler can experience.” He sucked in a sharp breath, his body trembling. “But I wasn’t going to let you take my life. So I did it myself.”
Kai’s eyes narrowed. “I would have captured you first.”
Lucian let out a weak, wheezing laugh. “Wouldn’t have worked.” His bloodstained teeth flashed in a grin. “I was dead the moment I lost. Regina… that wretched woman wouldn’t let me live after such a failure.” He sighed. “But even without her, I couldn’t live knowing I lost to you… my pathetic, loser brother.”
And then, despite the pain, despite everything, he laughed again.
Kai looked down at Lucian, the weight of the moment settling over him like a cold shroud. It wasn’t too late to save him. The wounds were bad—too much blood spilled—but a healing potion could pull him back from the edge. He reached into his coat, fingers brushing against the vial—
But Lucian’s chuckle stopped him.
“Oh, don’t bother.” He chuckled again. “The knives and blood aren’t the only thing. I already drank a lethal poison.”
Kai’s fingers curled around the vial. His eyes narrowed.
Lucian’s smirk grew faintly. “Do you know of Requilem?” He waited for Kai to answer. But seeing how he didn’t, Lucian continued. “It seeps into your being, slow and unnoticed, and then—” He snapped his fingers weakly. “—instant death. A very special poison. And there’s no cure.”
For the first time, Kai froze.
He knew this poison. He had read about it in one of the many books in the castle library after coming into this world. There were antidotes—at least, in theory—but they took time to make, and Lucian wouldn’t last that long.
He was already dead.
Lucian studied his face and scoffed. “Why don’t you speak? Gloat.” His breaths were shallow, but the fire in his eyes hadn’t dimmed. “You won, you bastard. I’m dying, and you get to take everything.” His voice turned hoarse. “I hope you get killed too. Everyone does in the end. But yeah, you won.”
Kai remained silent.
Lucian let out a ragged laugh. “I should have killed you long ago, you know.” He groaned loudly. “That mana vein blockage poison—Mana Bane—wasn’t enough to keep you from gaining power… or growing a spine.” His lips curled. “Gods, I hated how wimpy you were.”
“So it was you.”
Lucian smiled, and despite the blood, it was smug. “My mother, bless her soul… whichever hell she’s floating in.” His gaze flickered as if recalling something distant. “But truly it was Regina. That woman is paranoid. She wanted to make you a mortal, to erase you as a threat. But then she got more paranoid…” His voice weakened. “And decided it was better to kill you outright.”
The air between them grew heavy.
Kai clenched his jaw. Regina. That woman had tried to cripple him from the start. And now, the last person who could give him direct answers was bleeding out in front of him, laughing in his face.
Lucian let out another weak laugh, his voice barely more than a whisper. “Crazy bitch…”
Kai’s fingers twitched at his sides as his thoughts churned. He had already suspected Regina’s involvement, but hearing it from Lucian himself made his anger burn hotter.
He wasn’t truly Arzan Kellius. But even so, he owed that much to the man whose body he now inhabited—to take revenge on the woman who had pushed him into a life of inferiority, humiliation, and suffering.
His voice was cold when he finally spoke. “I’ll kill her next.”
Lucian spat on the ground. “Please do so.” His breath was ragged, but his eyes still held that infuriating glint. “But I doubt even you can. She’s not alone, and she’s not someone you can easily subdue.” He coughed. “Either way, enough about her. Tell me, how did you change so much?”
Kai remained silent.
Lucian scoffed. “Is it the inheritance? Did your mother really leave you something before her death?” His voice was laced with bitter sarcasm. “Please tell me it was that. At least then, I’ll know you didn’t do it alone.”
Kai exhaled. He wasn’t sure why he even considered answering. Maybe because Lucian was dying. Maybe because, despite everything, he was still Arzan’s brother. Or maybe because this was the last conversation they would ever have.
Somewhere deep down, he needed Lucian to know this last piece of information before he truly went to… hell.
“The truth is,” Kai finally said. “I’m not Arzan.”
Lucian’s eyes widened. If the poison wasn’t working, Kai was sure he’d have given the man a heart attack right then and there. Because his weak heartbeat stopped for a moment before he gasped, clutching his chest.
Kai continued. “My name is Kai. A Magus from a different era. I came back to the past and took over this body, due to a… ritual—a forbidden one, if you will. I know it's hard to believe, but that's the truth. Arzan died to Actra long ago.” His gaze sharpened, meeting Lucian’s stunned one. “So you didn’t lose to him. You lost to me.”
Lucian’s lips parted, as if to speak—but before he could, his body convulsed. A violent cough wracked his frame, blood spilling from his mouth.
Kai immediately stepped forward, but it was already too late. The last bit of light flickered from Lucian’s eyes, his breath hitching—then ceasing entirely.
Kai stared down at him, waiting. But there was nothing. No last words. No final curses. Just silence.
With a sigh, he reached down, fingers pressing against the side of Lucian’s neck. No pulse.
It was over. Just like that, the pathetic bastard of a man, died.
Kai closed his eyes briefly before standing up. He turned, walking toward the door, his footsteps echoing in the bloodstained chamber. When he pushed the door open, he was met with the sight of Killian and the others standing outside, waiting.
He exhaled. “The fief war is over. Lucian is dead.” His voice echoed in the hall. And then, silence followed.
Then Kai’s next words came, cold and decisive.
“Prepare for a funeral.”
***
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2025-03-03 17:05:56 +0000 UTC
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Chapter 78
As soon as Renjie lunged forward, Chen Ren knew the outcome was already decided. It wasn’t because Renjie was a higher-realm cultivator—far from it. From what Chen Ren had gathered, Renjie was at most in the ninth star body forging realm, a level Feiyu should have been able to contend with, even surpass easily, despite his lack of formal martial training.
But when Renjie’s fist shot forward, Feiyu didn’t move.
The punch slammed into his chest with a dull thud, forcing him back a step. His stance wobbled, but he caught himself before falling. Chen Ren narrowed his eyes. He could understand taking a single hit to gauge an opponent—but this wasn’t that.
Renjie smirked and didn’t let up. He twisted, sending a sharp kick toward Feiyu’s ribs. This time, Feiyu reacted. His arm snapped up, blocking the strike just before impact. A faint ripple of qi pulsed over his forearm, reinforcing his body, but the force still made him grimace.
Chen Ren observed silently. Renjie wasn’t terrible, but he wasn’t particularly skilled either. His attacks were riddled with openings, his footwork sloppy. Even an amateur could exploit them. Yet Feiyu never struck back. He absorbed each blow, muscles tensing, face tight with restrained pain, his arms trembling from the repeated impact.
The lackeys watching snickered. One of them clapped.
"Young master, just knock him down already!"
Renjie scoffed, eyes gleaming with arrogance. "You really are a coward. No guts to do anything but block?" He took a step back, planting his feet. "Fine, try blocking this."
“[Iron Bull Punch]!” He roared the technique’s name and charged.
Chen Ren watched carefully. The attack wasn’t particularly fast. There was a clear opening, an obvious moment to sidestep or counter—but Feiyu did neither. He simply raised his arms in a cross-guard.
The moment the punch landed, a shockwave rippled through the air. Feiyu’s feet lifted off the ground as he was sent flying, crashing hard onto the dirt floor with a sickening thud. Dust billowed around him.
The lackeys burst into laughter.
Chen Ren leaned forward slightly, eyes sharpening.
Why? Why wasn’t he fighting back?
Feiyu pushed against the ground, trying to rise, but before he could even lift his chest, Renjie was on him.
With a swift movement, the young master pinned him down, knees digging into his ribs, pressing him into the dirt.
The lackeys howled with laughter.
"Don’t let him crawl away, Young Master!"
"Teach the dog a proper lesson!"
Chen Ren barely spared them a glance. His focus remained on her, Lingyan.
The girl stood frozen at the edge of the circle, fists clenched at her sides. Her lips parted as if to protest, but no words came. She wanted to step in—he could see it in the way her weight shifted forward, in the way her fingers twitched—but she forced herself still.
Chen Ren turned his gaze back to the fight—if it could still be called that.
Dust clung to both men’s robes, streaking their sleeves, darkening the once-pristine fabric. But that was where the similarities ended. Renjie’s face was untouched, still twisted in a cruel grin, while Feiyu’s skin bore the evidence of his silence—bruises blooming across his cheeks, his jaw, his neck. Blood on his lips, and his eyes—they were bloodshot.
Chen Ren exhaled sharply and rose to his feet. "Young Master Renjie, I think that’s enough."
The strikes halted. Renjie’s fist froze mid-air before he lowered it, turning toward Chen Ren with a raised brow.
Recognition flickered in his eyes the next second. "Daoist Chen. I didn’t know you were watching."
Chen Ren met his gaze evenly. "I was here from the start," he said. His voice was even, calm, though his fingers twitched at his sides. "It was a good spar. But he lost. Let him go."
For a moment, Renjie said nothing. Then he smirked.
"Of course," he said smoothly. He stood and dusted off his robes before looking down at Feiyu, still sprawled on the ground.
Just when Chen Ren thought he’d let Feiyu go, the man spat—just shy of Feiyu’s face. The arrogant asshole knew no bounds.
"It was a good session, Feiyu," Renjie drawled and then chuckled. "I hope you learned something. Do better next time."
Laughter erupted around them once more. Chen Ren’s eyes went to the lackeys. They clearly enjoyed the bullying.
Still sprawled in the dirt, Feiyu inhaled sharply, forcing himself upright despite the pain. His voice remained steady, though his ribs trembled beneath the weight of bruises forming.
"Thank you for the pointers, Young Master." He bowed.
Renjie grinned, wiping dust from his sleeves. "Anytime you need them, I’ll be happy to oblige." He said lightly, but the mockery laced within it was unmistakable.
He turned back toward his lackeys, who snickered, whispering amongst themselves about the so-called spar. As he passed the young miss Lingyan, he leaned in, murmuring something just for her ears.
She didn’t respond at first. Then, slowly, she smiled—wry and forced. Her hand came towards her opposite elbow, rubbing slow circles. Her entire form screamed that she was uncomfortable, but it looked as if she had no other choice.
Chen Ren watched as they walked off, their laughter fading into the evening air. Only then did he step forward.
Feiyu groaned, trying to push himself up from the ground, his arms trembling under the effort. Chen Ren extended a hand.
"Let me help you up."
A pause—then rough, calloused fingers gripped his own. Chen Ren pulled him to his feet, steadying him when he staggered.
"That was a tough one to watch," he said, glancing at the bruises forming along the man’s jaw. "Why didn’t you fight back? You were holding yourself back."
Feiyu exhaled through his nose, wincing as he rolled his shoulder. "If I so much as scratch him, I’ll have worse problems than a beating. I might get in trouble just for calling him that, but that bastard knows it well. That’s why he does this—every time he loses a fight to one of his cousins, he comes to me."
Chen Ren nodded, the picture becoming clearer. "Have you ever hit back?"
A bitter chuckle. "Once."
Feiyu’s fingers curled into fists at his sides.
"They made me sleep on the cold floor in winter—no blankets, no warmth. I was barely a cultivator then, and I shivered all night. The next morning, I took lashes for harming a family member." His voice was quiet now, but the weight of it hung heavy between them. "I don’t want to talk about it, Daoist Chen."
Chen Ren studied him for a long moment before nodding. "I get it." Then, with a lighter tone, he added, "For now, let’s get you patched up. I might have some herbs that’ll help."
Feiyu snorted but didn’t refuse. Chen Ren took that as a yes.
***
After the spar, Feiyu was in no shape to work. His bruises ran deep, and though his cultivation would speed up recovery, Chen Ren guessed it would take him at least two days before he could properly return to his forge.
And two days was more than enough time for someone to visit him.
Just as Chen Ren had expected, on the first night after the fight, the young miss Lingyan slipped through the quiet halls, moving towards Feiyu’s quarters.
From the shadows, Yalan tracked her movements, her presence silent and unseen. Lingyan entered the cabin with ease, and from her hidden vantage point, and Yalan listened to every word spoken between them.
And Chen Ren had to say, it was everything he had expected.
First, she apologized—earnestly—for her cousin’s actions, her voice carrying a rare gentleness. Then, she presented a small pouch, filled with concoctions meant to speed up his healing. Feiyu simply smiled, his eyes soft through the entire exchange.
At first glance, it was obvious what kind of relationship they had. Unlike the rest of her family, she spoke his name with ease—without hesitation, without contempt. And throughout their conversation, they held hands.
For the young miss of an affluent clan, this was as clear of a sign as any.
Still, even with this new insight, Chen Ren didn’t act immediately. He waited. Planned. This wasn’t a matter to rush—one wrong move could turn everything into an unsalvageable mess. And he couldn’t afford it—especially because he needed Feiyu in his sect.
Even with the knowledge of their relationship, there wasn't much he could do without Feiyu accidentally losing his head. Doing things himself without involvement was also out of question. Even if Feiyu didn't agree to join his sect, he wasn't a person who would throw a man towards his death.
A scandal with Lingyan was something that would have his head fall in an instant. Not only because she belonged to Zhu Clan, but because she was the current patriarch's youngest daughter and someone with around seventy nine spirit roots, making the clan put a lot of hope on her. This was common information he had found after searching about her.
In a way, Feiyu was playing with fire by having a relationship with the clan's princess and as he had talked to Yalan and others on what they could do here, he felt like other than trying to poach the man in his sect, he was also saving him.
After all, it was clear that the relationship was going to come out one day and when it happened, Feiyu would be buried with his ancestors.
So, before that could happen, Chen Ren played his hand.
Once he had a solid approach in mind, on the evening of the second day of Feiyu’s recovery, he finally stepped into his quarters—intent on having a conversation.
When Feiyu saw him, the man shifted, trying to sit up despite his injuries.
"No need for that," Chen Ren said, raising a hand. "Just lay down. How are you feeling now?"
Feiyu grunted. "Better. I’ll be back at my forge by the evening."
Chen Ren chuckled. "You really love that forge, don’t you?"
A sheepish grin spread across Feiyu’s face. "It’s all I have," he admitted. "Technically, it belongs to the Zhu family, but I’ve worked there since my father taught me how to hammer metal. It’s like my home—the only place I feel safe."
Chen Ren nodded. He could understand that sentiment. He had felt the same about the room he was living in the Tang Clan and was pretty upset about leaving it. Then, after a brief pause, he asked, "Do you ever think about having a forge of your own? One that belongs wholly to you?"
Feiyu blinked at him. Chen Ren knew what exactly went through his mind. And then he sighed. "Of course. Once my slavery period is over, I plan to save whatever money I can and start a forge in a small village. Spend the rest of my years there in peace."
His voice was calm like a river but Chen Ren
could hear the quiet yearning beneath it.
"I probably won’t ever reach the foundation establishment realm," Feiyu continued. "So I’ll have maybe forty, fifty years left after my servitude ends. That should be enough."
Hearing that, Chen Ren nodded before his eyes darkened slightly. The conversation he was going to have played through his mind and for a second, he wondered how Feiyu was going to take it, before he decided to lock
away his worries.
"I don’t think you’ll ever have that forge," he
said in a hushed tone.
Feiyu frowned. Confusion flickered in his bruised eyes. "Why?"
Chen Ren clutched his hands in front of him and looked directly into his eyes. "Do you really think the Zhu clan will just let you go?" He asked not just as a question, but also a statement.
Silence filled the room as Feiyu hesitated to answer. Making use of it, he continued.
"You’re a cultivator. A good blacksmith. And, more than that, you can’t disobey them." Chen Ren’s voice was steady, but his words were hefty. "You have too much value. You’re useful. Do you think they’ll just let you walk away when the time comes?"
Feiyu’s lips parted slightly, but no words came out.
"If I had to make a guess," Chen Ren continued, "near the end of your slavery period, they’ll accuse you of something—maybe theft. Something severe enough to justify extending your servitude. And once they do, that will be it."
His voice grew colder.
"You’ll never be free."
Chen Ren watched as Feiyu’s face fell, the color draining from it. Even though his body was healing, he suddenly looked sick again.
The weight of realization settled on his shoulders, his mind racing through the implications of what Chen Ren had just said.
The fear, the helplessness—Chen Ren could see it all, sinking into him like a stone in deep water.
But just as the man teetered on the edge of despair, Chen Ren spoke again.
"There might be a way for you to have your own forge."
Feiyu’s gaze snapped to him, hope flickering behind his exhaustion. "How?"
Chen Ren smiled slightly. "Come with me. My sect, the Divine Coin Sect, needs a capable blacksmith. I’ll build you a forge, and we can work on the guns together."
The man’s lips parted slightly in surprise.
"You follow the Dao of the Forge, don’t you?"
Chen Ren continued. "I’m certain that working on such an artifact will not only strengthen your craft but also push your cultivation toward a breakthrough. And it’s not just one project. You’ll have the chance to work on different types of weapons—new ones, powerful ones."
Feiyu didn’t respond immediately, but Chen Ren saw it—the unmistakable spark in his eyes. Greed. Not for money, not for power, but for creation. For the chance to work on something that truly mattered. It was admirable.
For a moment, it looked like he might accept.
But then, just as quickly, the light dimmed, and he shook his head. "I appreciate the offer, Daoist Chen, truly. But I’m a slave. There’s no way I’d be able to leave."
Chen Ren’s smile widened slightly, having waited for the exact words. "What if there was a way to break your slave contract?"
Feiyu blinked, then scoffed lightly, as if Chen
Ren had just made a joke. But when he looked at him again—really looked—he saw that the young cultivator wasn’t laughing.
His throat bobbed as he swallowed. "How could that possibly be done?"
Chen Ren’s gaze remained steady as he spoke.
"Anything is possible with a good plan and the conviction to see it through. But it won’t be easy. There's a risk—especially for you."
Feiyu hesitated for only a second before exhaling sharply. "If I can really get out of being a slave, I’m ready to take any risk. And like you said, there’s a good possibility I won’t ever be free if I don’t try. If there’s a way, I’ll take it."
Chen Ren's expression didn’t change as he said, "Even if it involves her?"
“Who?”
“Lingyan.”
Feiyu froze. His body tensed, and his eyes flickered with a storm of emotions—anger, shock, confusion, and something else, something deeper. His throat moved as he swallowed hard before finally asking, "You know?"
Chen Ren nodded. "I saw how she looked at you during the spar. Then, I saw her moving toward your quarters last night. I’m surprised no one else knows."
The man lowered his head, exhaling through his nose. "She’s careless. It hasn’t been found out because no one expects her to feel anything for a slave. She’s the patriarch’s daughter—no one would dare accuse her of something like that."
Chen Ren hummed in understanding. He had already guessed as much. After a moment of silence, he asked, "So, do you love her?"
There was no hesitation. "Yes. I do. But we both know it’s impossible. Sooner or later, she’s going to be betrothed to someone else.
And with my status, I can never even think of something like that."
Chen Ren’s eyes sharpened. "You can if you get rid of the slave mark."
Feiyu’s head snapped up. "How?" His voice was rough, almost desperate. "You said it involves her, but if anything happens to her, I won’t be able to forgive myself."
Chen Ren’s expression softened slightly. "Nothing will happen to her. The patriarch loves her too much to punish her, no matter what." He paused for a moment before continuing, "Either way, my plan involves her.
And if we succeed, not only will you be free, but you’ll actually have a chance to marry her."
Feiyu remained silent, staring at him, torn between hope and fear. Even if he had been willing to risk everything for freedom, involving the person he loved in it was different.
Chen Ren understood that.
In the end, the man took a deep breath and nodded. "I’ll hear you out."
2025-03-01 17:26:06 +0000 UTC
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Varzok soared through the evening sky, the fading sunlight painting the city of Veralt in hues of deep orange and crimson. Below, its people carried on with their lives, blissfully unaware of the predator gliding above them. The guards atop the walls stood at ease, their watchful eyes scanning for threats beyond the city’s borders. They never once thought to look above.
Pathetic.
With a smirk, Varzok kept his cloak closer, his form blending seamlessly with the air as he passed undetected. He descended, landing lightly on top of the slanted roof of an inn. The scent of roasted meats and cheap ale drifted upward, mingling with the murmur of hushed voices. The gathered crowd below spoke in excitement, yet there was a cautious edge to their whispers.
“I heard Castle Dorn fell very easily. Our lord is going to finish the war soon.”
“Yeah, I have heard Duke Lucian is just holding up in a castle, too scared to attack. Victory should come faster than we expected.”
Fools.
Varzok's lips curled into a sneer. Yes, some of what they said was true. Castle Dorn had been won. But victory? No. That was an illusion. The humans celebrated too soon, blind to the inevitable. Lord Shakran himself was moving to strike, and when he did, the so-called lord of their—Arzan Kellius—would fall. His severed head would be offered to Mistress Regina, and with him gone, chaos would rip through the region.
Varzok felt a pang of bitterness. He would miss the carnage. The sweet, desperate cries of the dying. The warm taste of Mage’s blood as his brothers and sisters feasted on the fallen. It would have been glorious.
But he had a mission. And if he carried it out well, when he returned to his lord’s triumph, his contributions would not be forgotten.
Turning his gaze toward the far end of the city, he spread his wings and leapt into the air once more. The castle was in the distance, a dark silhouette against the twilight sky. Below him, patrols of armored men moved in formation, their eyes sharp, their postures rigid. There were not many, but enough to serve as minor obstacles.
Still, they were only mortals. He could rip through them with ease.
The only real threat would be the man called Enforcers, but according to their gathered intelligence, every last one had left the city to aid their lord. Perhaps a Mage or two remained, but that was no concern. Mages were dangerous at a distance—deadly, even. But if he closed the gap before they could react?
Their heads would roll just like any other.
With that thought, Varzok tilted his wings and shot toward the castle, his presence still hidden from sight. Tonight, he would complete his task. And when he returned, it would be to a castle ruled by his kind. But for now, he didn’t need to kill anyone.
Dark wings sliced through the night air, a silent shadow against the moonlit sky. The drinker glided over the castle's highest spire, his gaze flickering between towers and cannons, tracking movements below. The scent of old parchment drifted faintly from somewhere within.
Circling lower, he skimmed past rows of windows, keen eyes scanning for anything of worth. Then, there it was—a vast chamber lined with shelves, their burden of books stretching into the dimly lit depths. An archive.
He banked sharply, wings folding as he dove toward the window. His fingers twitched, and a sliver of his own blood curled into the air, weaving a silent command. The glass cracked in spiderweb fractures, shards trembling on the brink of collapse. A flick of magic caught them midair, suspending disaster before lowering them soundlessly to the floor.
Slipping inside, he let his cloaking ability fade, mana humming low in his core, conserved for the inevitable. Shadows curled around the towering bookshelves as he prowled between them, getting to work immediately, fingers trailing over leather spines, flipping pages, scanning lines before discarding each volume in search of the ones he needed.
Where is it?
Varzok prowled through it, his eyes scanning rows upon rows of books, his fingers tracing over aged spines. The smell of parchment and dust filled the air—horrible smell, but none of the tomes he picked up contained what he sought.
Druidic magic.
Lord Shakran had made it clear—above all else, those books were the priority. If Varzok could retrieve them, it would be a victory in itself. Anything else—information on the drones, the enchanted armor, the forge’s inner workings—would be a bonus.
Serving under Mistress Regina had given him the knowledge he needed to learn the languages of mortals. Therefore, he was well versed in reading and had little to no problem skimming through a lot of books.
But no matter where he searched, the druidic texts were nowhere to be found.
A low growl rumbled in his throat as he rifled through a pile of books on a long oak table. Beginner magic theories. A treatise on elemental affinity. A stack of notes on golem creation—perhaps useful, but not his goal. He marked them mentally, considering whether they were worth taking back.
Then—footsteps sounded.
Varzok froze, every muscle going taut as his sharpened senses picked up the sound of soft-soled shoes tapping against the stone floor outside. The rhythm was light, unhurried. A single person. A woman.
A maid, most likely.
His lips curled in amusement. Easy prey. He could silence her before she even realized she wasn’t alone. A quick slit of the throat, a hidden body, and then he could continue his search undisturbed.
The steps grew closer.
With a practiced motion, Varzok leapt soundlessly onto the top of a bookshelf, his cloaking ability activating once more, shrouding him in the darkness of the high rafters. He crouched low, his crimson eyes gleaming faintly as the door creaked open and the maid stepped inside.
She was young.
Her brown hair was neatly tied back, a few stray strands framing a soft face. The uniform she wore—a simple black-and-white maid’s dress—was pristine, not yet stained with sweat or dust from the day’s work. She moved with an easy grace, her steps light as if she were accustomed to walking quietly.
Unaware.
Defenseless.
Varzok watched, unmoving, his claws flexing slightly as he considered his next move.
Would she scream? Would she struggle? Or would she simply drop, throat sliced open before a single sound could escape?
He would find out soon enough.
Varzok remained perfectly still, his breathing nonexistent as the maid stepped further into the archive. He observed her carefully, waiting for the moment to strike.
She wasn’t leaving.
Instead, she moved through the bookshelves, her eyes scanning every corner, her brows furrowing slightly. She had heard something. That much was clear. But she was just a mortal, no trace of mana leaking from her form. No Enforcer, no Mage, nothing.
And yet, she was searching.
Varzok almost scoffed. Did she truly believe she could find anything?
Then she reached the table where he had been moments before.
Her gaze flicked to the displaced books, her expression shifting into quiet confusion. The drinker cursed inwardly. A mistake. He had been too focused on speed, too careless in returning things to their place. And now, this mere servant had noticed.
He couldn't give her more time.
Varzok moved.
In a blink, he shot forward from the shadows, claws poised to silence the girl before she could even scream—
But then she looked up.
Straight at him.
Varzok’s body locked up, his instincts screaming. Could she see him? No—that was impossible. His cloaking ability was absolute. There was no way she could—
Then the air changed.
A storm erupted from nothing.
The pressure in the archive shifted, thick mana rolling through the space like crashing waves. The drinker’s eyes widened in shock as a powerful presence coalesced into existence. Right before his eyes, from the heart of a spiraling storm, a figure emerged.
The mist from the summoning still clouded the room, but through the veil, Varzok could make out a shape—a towering, majestic deer.
Storm clouds wreathed its body, roiling with every graceful movement. As it shook itself, the mist dispersed, revealing its full form.
Its horns were long, sharp, and crackling with wind, miniature tornadoes swirling around them. Across its stormy pelt, lightning flickered and danced, illuminating the creature with a spectral glow. Its piercing eyes locked onto him.
Varzok had never seen such a being before, but his instincts screamed that this creature was dangerous.
Far beyond anything he could hope to defeat.
Then, the creature’s gaze sharpened, and its mouth opened.
“I told you, Claire. I felt a presence.”
Its voice was deep, resonant, filled with the weight of the storm itself.
“This pesky creature is hiding here like a rat.”
Bolts of lightning tore through the air, their crackling hum deafening as they surged toward him.
Varzok barely managed to dodge, twisting his body mid-air as the searing light burned past him. The force alone sent a tingling sensation across his skin, and he knew—had he been even a fraction slower, the attack would have ripped through him.
His cover was gone.
Snarling, he called upon his blood magic, twisting the very essence of his being into crimson lances, sharp and deadly. They shot forward in retaliation, aiming for the beast that dared to stand in his way—
But his magic was nothing.
The lightning bolts struck through them effortlessly, dispersing his attacks as though they were mere candle flames in a storm.
Then the creature spoke again, its voice booming.
"You are far too weak for your attacks to do anything to me."
A fresh wave of energy surged through the archive, the air charged with lethal intent.
"Just die and make sure you don’t cross my path again in your next life, filthy drinker."
Varzok gritted his teeth, dodging again as another bolt tore through the space he had been in mere moments ago. He hadn't expected such a monstrous entity to be guarding the castle.
For a brief moment, the warrior in him wanted to test his strength against the creature, to push forward and claim victory for his lord. But he knew better.
This wasn’t his mission.
Fighting a prolonged battle here meant death.
So, he ran.
Vanishing from sight, he reappeared in the corridor outside, feeling the thick, crushing presence of mana still clawing at his heels. The lightning did not stop—it chased him, hounding his every move, as though the beast’s wrath had taken on a will of its own.
Varzok flew through the halls, moving faster than ever before, weaving through stone passageways and twisting corridors. But the storm was relentless.
And so was the laughter.
Its voice echoed after him, its amusement grating against his pride.
He needed to escape.
With no other choice, Varzok rushed toward the stairway leading up. If he could reach the rooftop, he could disappear into the sky, away from this cursed place.
But as he splintered the door open with his blood magic and stepped onto the rooftop—
He knew he had made a mistake.
The rooftop wasn’t empty.
Men stood in formation, weapons drawn, eyes locked onto him with sharp, deadly focus.
In the center of the gathering, amidst the flickering torches and steely-eyed soldiers, stood a woman who commanded the very air around her. Who the fuck is that?
Petite yet striking, her long hair reached her waist. She held herself with a regal poise, every movement exuding a silent authority that made her presence impossible to ignore.
A noble lady, possibly. Her attire screamed so.
Her posture was impeccable, the subtle grace of her stance telling of her noble blood, but it was the cold fire in her eyes that held his attention. In her hands, the air seemed to twist and curl with power. But was that—was that water magic?
Varzok’s instincts screamed within him, a primal, gut-wrenching warning that set his teeth on edge. From the moment he’d entered, he had expected things to go smoothly, then how? His stealth was flawless, his senses honed over countless years of hunting and evading—no one should have seen him.
And yet, there she was, standing at the heart of the trap, her gaze fixed on him with unwavering precision.
How did they know?
Varzok stood motionless, his crimson eyes flicking across the ranks of armed soldiers surrounding him. His mind raced, calculating every possibility, every potential escape route. But none were good enough.
Then, as if sensing the end, the woman spoke.
"Surrender, and we will make sure you don't die. You'll only be captured."
To most, those words would have sounded like mercy. But to Varzok, they were a death sentence wrapped in chains. A fate worse than any execution. The bitter smirk that curled his lips was one of grim acceptance.
"That's a fate worse than death already," he muttered under his breath, his voice a low rasp of defiance.
With a fluid motion, blood began to surge from his body, twisting and coiling like a living entity. It formed a barrier of deep crimson around him, pulsating with the rhythm of his heartbeat. The soldiers tensed, their weapons raised.
The first arrow came with a sharp whistle through the air, its steel tip gleaming under the moonlight. Varzok's blood shield responded instantly, surging to life as the arrow crashed against it. Some arrows shattered on contact, others ricocheted off with harsh clinks, but none breached the shield.
His eyes flicked to the noble Mage just in time to see the glow intensify in her hands. The air around her seemed to hum with magic. A stream of water condensed into a razor-sharp beam, hurtling toward him with deadly speed.
Tch.
Varzok’s hands shot outward, his blood exploding in all directions, forming a violent wave of crimson mist that enveloped the rooftop. The air filled with the sounds of gasps and staggered footsteps as the soldiers were momentarily blinded by the eruption.
In the instant of chaos, Varzok moved. His wings—made of nothing but blood and will—spread from his back, and he launched himself into the night sky, his body propelled by raw, frantic power.
Arrows streaked past him as he ascended, some grazing his skin, others tearing through his clothes. Pain flared in his chest, but he pushed it aside, focusing only on escape. Higher. Faster. Away from this ambush.
But then—
The sky darkened, swirling with ominous clouds. A distant rumble rumbled through the air, heavy and foreboding. The rain began to fall, sharp and cold, drenching him in an instant. His blood wings fought the wind, but his instincts screamed that something was wrong. Something far worse was coming.
And then he heard it. A voice he had hoped never to hear again, cold and venomous, slicing through the storm.
"Filthy drinker, you are going to die here."
The same deer-like creature. Fuck.
His breath caught in his throat, his heart skipping a beat. And then, with a deafening roar, lightning tore through the heavens, twisting and writhing like serpents hungry for their prey.
Varzok barely had time to summon his blood again, his final defense, his last hope. But it was too late.
The bolt of raw energy struck him like an unstoppable force, ripping through the sky with a deafening crack.
Pain.
It was unlike anything he had ever felt before. His entire body seized in agony. His muscles locked, his chest constricted as if all the air had been sucked from his lungs. His thoughts shattered, leaving only white-hot torment.
He could feel his body plummeting, the world spinning out of control, the earth rushing up to meet him at terrifying speed.
The castle below loomed, growing closer and closer.
And then—
Crack!
His body collided with solid stone, his skull slamming into the unforgiving surface. The world went black in an instant, swallowed by the abyss of unconsciousness.
***
Kai stood in the middle of the wreckage, his dark gaze sweeping across the ruined courtyard. The scent of blood still lingered in the damp air, mixing with the charred remains of spell-torn stone. Corpses were being carried away by soldiers, their bodies lifeless reminders of yet another battle fought in the name of power.
The castle grounds bore the scars of the fight—cracked stone, shattered parapets, and deep scorch marks from magic that had been unleashed without restraint. All of this… because of one man’s ambition.
He exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders to ease the tension coiled within him. He cracked his neck to the left and right, the tension leaving him ever so slightly. Just as he turned, he caught sight of two figures approaching—Ansel and Killian, both moving with the kind of urgency that only meant more bad news.
Ansel was the first to speak.
"Lord Arzan, we just received the report from the scouts. A blood drinker did try to infiltrate Veralt… but it has been taken care of."
Kai’s eyes narrowed slightly. "Did it survive?"
Ansel shook his head.
"Unfortunately, no. The Storm Sovereign struck it down. It crashed head first into the stone wall, and… well, its head burst on impact. We weren’t able to interrogate it."
Kai clicked his tongue in irritation.
"That’s bad. It would have been useful to learn more about Regina’s forces."
He turned toward Killian next, shifting gears. "And what about Lucian? Did you find him?"
Killian shook his head. "No, my lord. There’s no sign of him anywhere."
Kai’s jaw clenched.
"We’re searching everywhere around Dorn, even in the nearby mountains," Killian continued. "We did find tracks, but they’re muddled—it’s difficult to follow them."
Kai nodded, thoughtful. Lucian was a dangerous man. He had been the war’s instigator, the one pulling strings behind the scenes. As long as he remained free, there would be no true victory.
As he was lost in thought, Ansel stepped forward.
"I believe I know where he would be, Lord Arzan."
Kai raised an eyebrow, folding his arms as he studied Ansel. "And where exactly do you think he is?"
Ansel’s answer came without hesitation. "Veyrin."
Kai's eyes sharpened.
"You’re sure?"
"I’m confident he ran back into the walls of his city, taking advantage of the battle as a distraction," Ansel continued. "The soldiers we took prisoner mentioned seeing him flee when most weren’t looking. It lines up with what I expected."
Kai exhaled, rubbing his chin. "That means we’ll need to march. Veyrin might not have many men left to guard it, but the walls will still be an issue."
Ansel, however, merely shook his head. "I don’t think that will be necessary, my lord."
Kai narrowed his eyes. "And why is that?"
A small smirk tugged at Ansel’s lips. "Because I have a way to get inside without a battle."
***
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2025-03-01 17:21:23 +0000 UTC
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Chapter 77
When Chen Ren first decided to bring mortals into his sect, it wasn’t just to have them handle merchant activities while the cultivators acted as the sect’s muscle. No, he had bigger plans for them—plans that involved making them stronger.
The problem had been, how?
In a world where even a one-star body forging realm cultivator could slaughter a dozen mortals without breaking a sweat, how was he supposed to bridge that gap?
Worse still, most mortals would rather bow or flee the moment they saw a cultivator, not stand and fight. That fear had been ingrained in them for generations, passed down like an unshakable curse.
So, how was he supposed to make them strong enough to at least stand against a cultivator?
The solution was simple—give them a weapon that could kill one. The idea first struck him when he read a story in Qing He’s shop. It was about a mortal boy who found an artifact with a spirit stone embedded in it. Using that artifact, he killed a cultivator who had slaughtered his family over a petty grudge.
Obviously, that was just a fairy tale. Even if it had been real, the cultivator in question must have been pathetically weak.
But the story had done its job—it had planted a seed.
While Chen Ren couldn’t forge artifacts for every mortal in his sect, he could create something else.
A gun workshop.
Arm every single one of the mortals.
That was one of the main reasons he had sought a sect location far from Cloud Mist City, somewhere secluded. If he had started building guns in the city and word had leaked out, some powerful clan would have taken an interest. Or worse, an accident could have exposed his plans before he was ready.
No, he had to be patient. Careful.
Though, the hardest part of making a gun still remained—finding a blacksmith capable of crafting one.
Chen Ren watched the man in front of him, eyes scanning the parchment with an almost feverish intensity. His fingers traced the diagrams, his brows furrowing and then relaxing as he absorbed every detail.
This was the moment. Was this man truly skilled enough?
Finally, Feiyu spoke. “I think this is… very, very interesting.” His eyes sparkled when he looked up from the parchment. He tapped a finger on one of the diagrams. “I’ve never seen a design like this before. If this really works—if it can launch this metal casing at such speed—it would be a lethal artifact capable of killing even cu—”
He stopped mid-sentence. His face shifted, his eyes now wary as he looked up at Chen Ren with newfound scrutiny. A long pause stretched between them before the man spoke again.
Chen Ren didn’t say anything, he didn’t rush the man to spit out his words, or even show any sort of emotion at his sudden outburst. He simply stood, waiting for Feiyu to grasp the weight of the diagrams.
“Can I ask you some questions, Daoist Chen? I’m very curious about this.”
Chen Ren nodded, retrieving the parchment from his hands. “Go ahead.”
Feiyu wasted no time. “To push out this metal thing that you seem to have called a ‘bullet,’ it would require some kind of explosive force inside the weapon’s body. Is it some sort of alchemical compound?”
Chen Ren shook his head. “No, it’s something different—gunpowder, or black powder. It’s not exactly an alchemical creation, but a chemical mixture. We don’t have it yet, and our sect is missing some parts of the formula, but I know the basics.”
The man nodded, his fingers drumming against his thigh as he processed the information. “I see… Then, how do you prevent the weapon from exploding? I didn’t see any rune inscriptions on this design to reinforce the structure.”
Chen Ren smiled faintly. “That’s because the original design doesn’t use runes.”
Feiyu’s frown deepened. “Then how does it not blow up in the user’s hands?”
“Simple. The design allows some of the explosion to escape, preventing it from building up too much pressure. If we completely sealed it, the weapon would be too dangerous to handle.”
“Uhnn… That means every step of crafting and handling it would need to be precise. One mistake, and the weapon could kill its own user.”
Chen Ren nodded. “That’s true. But then again… isn’t it the same with a sword?”
A slow smile spread across his face. “Heh. I suppose it is.”
“A sword’s sharp edge can cut its wielder too,” Chen Ren said, mirroring Feiyu’s smile. “But in the case of a gun? It’ll just blow you to bits.” He chuckled before adding, “But don’t worry. Once I get my hands on the weapon, whoever we give it to will have to go through extensive training before they’re allowed to use it.”
Feiyu nodded in agreement. “That would be the right way.” He hesitated for a moment before asking, “Though… am I right in assuming even a mortal could use this?”
Chen Ren didn’t answer immediately. His gaze lingered on the man, weighing his trustworthiness. If Feiyu babbled to the Zhu Clan, they might get unnecessarily interested. But then again, as a slave, it was unlikely anyone would take his words seriously. And even if they did, Chen Ren could always deny everything.
After a moment, he nodded.
“Yes. Mortals can use it.”
Feiyu’s eyes widened. “I see…” His fingers twitched as he processed the revelation. “Then… if this could be mass-produced and there were enough of them, like common weapons… it might change everything.”
Chen Ren exhaled sharply. “That’s true. But I have no intention of letting it fall into other people’s hands. This is one of my sect’s most precious artifacts.”
“Then… Why did you show it to me?”
“There are a few reasons.”
Feiyu raised an eyebrow, urging Chen Ren to continue.
“First of all, I don’t think you can do much with what you’ve seen. Sure, maybe you could forge a metal case that resembles a gun. But you don’t have the powder to make it work. And you already understand how dangerous it is. If you try to build it without the right knowledge, there’s a good chance you’d get yourself killed.”
Feiyu slowly nodded, his fingers gripping his own arms as he listened.
Chen Ren continued, “Secondly, I showed it to you because… I want your help in making it.”
The man’s head snapped up. His eyes searched Chen Ren’s face, as if trying to determine if he had misheard. “Me?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper, thick with disbelief.
He met Feiyu’s gaze and nodded. “Yes. You look like a capable blacksmith—and a cultivator too. I’m pretty sure working on this will help your Dao.”
“You know my Dao?” His eyes widened at that. Chen Ren even noticed the subtle twitch in his lips.
Chen Ren smirked. “It wasn’t hard to guess. I’ve heard you’re not good at fighting, and you don’t like to sit and cultivate either. You’re always in the forge, hammering away. And yet, despite that, you’ve reached the qi refinement realm.”
“That’s true. I’m not good at fighting no matter how hard I tried when I was small. I follow the Dao of the Forge. Every time I create a new piece of equipment—something better than anything I’ve made before, or something truly unique—I gain insights. But… it’s not easy to improve while stuck here.”
Chen Ren crossed his arms. “Then you’d be interested in guns?”
The man’s eyes gleamed with intrigue before it dimmed wholly. He shook his head. “I am. But I can’t help you, Daoist Chen.”
Chen Ren raised an eyebrow. “Because you’re a slave.”
Feiyu smiled, but it was a bitter one. “Yes. I’m a slave. Even if I wanted to help, I can’t. Not for the next ninety years.” He let out a short laugh, shaking his head. “If you’re still looking for a blacksmith after ninety years, you can always look me up. I’ll help you.”
With that, he turned back to the cart he’d been working on, his hands moving as if the conversation had never happened.
Chen Ren remained standing there for a while, watching Feiyu work. The man hadn’t even hesitated when he said he was a slave. There was no bitterness in his voice, just a quiet acceptance of his fate, as if it had long since settled into his bones.
Yet, despite that, his eyes had gleamed with interest when they talked about the gun. That spark, however fleeting, was enough for Chen Ren to know that Feiyu wasn’t completely resigned. He still had ambition—buried, restrained, but there.
Chen Ren let out a slow breath. The man had grasped the design far better than any other blacksmith he’d spoken to. More than that—he was interested. But his slave status… That was a problem. A big one.
Chen Ren let out a slow breath. If he could free him, he wouldn’t just be getting someone to forge him a gun. He’d be gaining a blacksmith who specialized in the Dao of the Forge—someone whose entire cultivation path revolved around creating superior weapons.
But how was he going to do it?
The more he thought about it, the more he realized—this might be the most complicated problem he had faced so far.
***
The next three days went by in quiet observation.
Chen Ren kept his distance at first, watching how Feiyu interacted with others. Just as he had expected, most of the Zhu Clan members weren’t kind to him. While they didn’t outright beat him, they treated him like a tool—an object to be used when needed and discarded when not. They ordered him around with the same casual disregard one might show to a servant, rarely acknowledging his skill beyond what was necessary to get their work done.
The man spent most of his time doing odd jobs—repairing carts, reinforcing weapons, fixing farming tools—whatever the Zhu Clan needed. Only in the free time he managed to scrape together did he return to the forge, hammering away at whatever project he had been working on.
That was when Chen Ren approached him.
Fortunately, Feiyu wasn’t cold toward him. He would engage in conversation on a large number of topics, from metallurgy to cultivation techniques, from the best way to temper steel to the flaws of certain battle formations. He was knowledgeable, well-spoken, and most importantly—he was rational.
The more they talked, the more certain Chen Ren became that he wanted this man in his sect.
He was skilled, disciplined, and ambitious in his own way. While he didn’t openly declare his desires, Chen Ren could see it in the way he worked—how he strived to improve his craft, how his eyes sharpened when discussing designs, how his hands moved with certainty even when experimenting with something new.
But once again, he confirmed that his ambition was chained. And the man knew it.
More than once, he told Chen Ren outright—there was no way to break a slave pact before the required servitude time ended.
Chen Ren had initially dismissed that. There had to be a way.
But as the days passed, doubt crept in.
It wasn’t as if he wasn’t trying. He had spent the last few days wracking his brain, trying to think of a loophole, a weakness in the system, something—anything—that would let him break the pact. But every possibility he came up with led to a dead end.
And worst of all, Feiyu wasn’t even hoping for it.
He had accepted his fate.
Chen Ren clenched his jaw. He refused to do the same.
He had spent the past few days maneuvering through the Zhu Clan, engaging in casual yet much-needed conversations. Zhu Yuan had been a frequent target, as well as any other influential figures he happened to cross paths with. Each time, he had subtly broached the topic of acquiring the blacksmith. Each time, he had been met with rejection.
It wasn’t hard to see why. A cultivator bound by servitude was a rare commodity, and the Zhu Clan had no intention of letting Feiyu go without bleeding him dry first. They didn’t understand his dao—probably didn’t even realize he had one. If Feiyu had kept it hidden, it was with good reason. The Zhu Clan thrived on the martial dao, fists and blades carving their path forward. To them, forging was merely a means to an end.
Yalan had warned him more than once. You’re wasting your time. It’s a lost cause.
But Chen Ren couldn’t bring himself to agree. Something in his gut told him otherwise. He didn’t need brute force or wealth to get what he wanted—just an opening, a single crack in the foundation that he could slip through.
And on the fourth day, that crack finally appeared.
The sun hung low in the sky. Chen Ren sat cross-legged on the wooden perch near the forge, eyes half-lidded as he slowly guided the immense surge of qi within him, absorbing what he could from his deal with the Zhu Clan. The quiet hum of the forge filled the air, steady and unbroken—until it wasn’t.
Footsteps sounded out. His eyes flicked open.
A group approached the forge.
A young man led them, his confident stride and the smug tilt of his chin making it clear that he was here to enjoy himself. He was Zhu Renjie, someone Chen Ren had a conversation with two days back while trying to get to know more people in the clan. Beside him, a handful of lackeys followed, grinning like they were in on a private joke.
But it was the girl among them who caught Chen Ren’s attention.
She walked stiffly, her gaze darting away from the forge as though she was dragged here. Unlike the others, she carried no amusement in her eyes. Her robes, fine with artistic embroidery, marked her as a Zhu—one of Renjie’s cousins, most likely. But, he knew one thing—she didn’t belong with them, not entirely.
Her expression was tight, her shoulders stiff. She wasn’t eager like the lackeys, nor was she indifferent like Renjie. Instead, she looked… reluctant. Uncomfortable. Her gaze flitted around, never settling too long on anything, and though she walked with them, there was a hesitation in her steps, as if she would rather be anywhere else.
Chen Ren’s eyes narrowed slightly. Interesting.
The group came to a stop before the forge, and Feiyu, who had been hammering away at a piece of metal, slowed his strikes before setting the hammer down. He turned toward them, wiping the sweat from his brow.
Zhu Renjie smirked. “Still toiling away, I see.”
Feiyu straightened. His hands tightened at his sides before he quickly stepped forward, bowing low.
“Young Master Renjie.” He shifted, lowering his head toward the girl beside him. “Young Miss Lingyan, this slave greets you.”
The young woman hesitated before inclining her head in return, her sleeves shifting as she folded her hands together. Her gaze flickered downward, barely meeting Feiyu before shifting away.
A hand clamped down on Feiyu’s shoulder, casual in appearance but pressing with weight. “Feiyu,” Renjie said. “It’s been far too long. I figured you’d be holed up in this forge, hammering away all day. Thought I’d come check on you.”
Feiyu’s jaw tightened. The fingers on his shoulder curled slightly, a not-so-subtle squeeze.
He lowered his head again. “Young Master, I am but a servant. It is my duty to work.”
“Nonsense.” Renjie’s laugh was light, airy—almost friendly, if not for the sharp glint in his eyes. “You’re a cultivator, aren’t you? A man like you should be exchanging pointers, testing your strength. It wouldn’t do for your skills to dull, would it?”
The forge crackled behind them, filling the brief silence.
Feiyu’s shoulders stiffened. Chen Ren, watching from his perch, saw the faintest shift in his stance—the smallest pullback, the subtle hesitation of a man who wanted to refuse but couldn’t.
Feiyu bowed again, deeper this time. “It would be an honor.”
A smirk played on Renjie’s lips as he stepped back, his lackeys chuckling behind him.
Chen Ren exhaled slowly, his fingers tracing the grain of the wooden beam beside him. This wasn’t going to be a simple spar. Everyone knew the outcome of it and were awaiting it.
Except, perhaps, the girl.
Her hands clenched at her sides, knuckles pressing against the fabric of her sleeves. Her lips parted slightly, as if she wanted to speak, but the words never came.
Renjie, oblivious or uncaring, turned on his heel. “Let’s go.”
Feiyu followed, his footsteps steady but heavy.
Chen Ren watched them go, his mind already turning.
The two cultivators moved to the open ground, stepping into their respective positions, the space between them thick with anticipation. The lackeys whispered among themselves, their grins widening and laughter crackling amidst the blood that was about to spill.
Chen Ren let his gaze flicker past them, something catching his attention—a small detail others had missed.
The girl’s hands were cupped together, fingers tightening against the folds of her sleeve. Her eyes, hesitant and fleeting, darted toward Feiyu, lingering for a heartbeat before shifting away.
Feiyu did the same.
His bow was precise, his stance composed, but his eyes—just for an instant—betrayed something else. They found the girl, searching, before quickly lowering again.
Chen Ren’s fingers tapped lightly against the wooden railing.
“You see it too, don’t you?”
Yalan’s voice came through his mind. She scoffed, getting comfortable near him.
He didn’t flinch at her sudden presence—he was used to it by now—but he exhaled through his nose, eyes still fixed on the two below.
“They know each other,” she continued. “And not just in passing.”
He nodded slightly, his mind already turning over the implications. I haven’t done proper research on Feiyu after all. There was more to him than just being a slave blacksmith. More that Chen Ren hadn’t considered.
“Will their connection help you?”
Chen Ren’s lips curved into a small, knowing smile. “Maybe. If things go right, I might have finally found a way to get our hands on him.”
And as those words left his mouth, the spar began.
2025-02-27 17:21:53 +0000 UTC
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Chapter 186
As soon as the barbarians entered the battlefield, it felt as if the winds of change had finally begun to low.
For a moment—just a fleeting moment—the entire battlefield froze or so it seemed.
The fighters that were on top of the walls, the soldiers that were on the ground, even the archers who had been loosing arrows relentlessly—all of them paused. Allies and enemies alike turned to stare as the barbarian horde roared their war cry, a thunderous sound that shook the air.
And then they charged.
The troops on the ground—those who had been desperately scaling the castle walls, trying to carve a path inside—had only seconds to react. Killian saw it in their eyes—pure, unfiltered fear.
They knew.
They knew what was coming for them.
And at the head of it all—Yafgar.
The barbarian chieftain was a huge man, his muscles corded with raw, primal strength. But it wasn’t just his presence that turned the tide of the battle.
It was what he did next.
With a guttural roar, Yafgar lifted both arms and set himself ablaze.
Flames roared to life around his entire form, crackling and dancing along his flesh—yet he showed no pain. Instead, he leapt from the massive bulldrake like a death god descending from the heavens, his massive battle axe raised high. He landed.
The ground shook under the impact, flames engulfing everything around him. Three men were cleaved in half by his first swing, their blood spraying into the fire. Gasps erupted at the sudden massacre. The rest? Burned alive, their screams cut short as their bodies were reduced to charred husks.
And then—more came.
A second wave of barbarian warriors, led by Ragnar, surged forward, their weapons gleaming in the firelight. They tore into the enemy ranks, hacking and slashing, blood spewing as their weapons sank deep into flesh.
Killian saw a few of them grabbing ropes and hooks, beginning to climb the walls to assist the defenders. The shift in battle was instantaneous.
And with it, Killian felt something stir inside him.
Confidence.
A fire in his chest, rekindled by the arrival of true warriors. He felt the confidence in his chest blooming and bleeding inside him. He suddenly knew they could win this.
He turned back to the knight, who was still frozen in place. His eyes were filled with shock. His jaw clenched, and then he spat onto the ground, his eyes burning with disgust.
“Fucking traitors.” His words dripped with venom as he looked at Killian. Pure betrayal in his eyes. “Involving yourself with the enemies of the kingdom?”
Killian simply smiled, the sparks of lightning flickering around his fingertips.
“Right now?” He tilted his head. “They’re only your enemies.”
And then he charged, wanting to end this battle once and for all.
Garrik barely had time to react, snapping up his shield just in time to block the impact. But
Killian didn’t strike mindlessly.
Instead, he channeled the lightning around his legs and jumped.
His body twisted in midair as he soared over the shield, flipping behind the knight before his blade swung downward.
Garrik tried to turn, but it was too late—the sword carved through his waist, slicing through the metal plating.
A pained growl tore from the knight’s throat, but he didn’t stagger—he turned on pure instinct, his enchanted sword whipping toward Killian’s head.
The latter didn’t flinch.
With a snarl, he let loose a frenzy of lightning, a violent burst that crackled through the air and slammed into Garrik’s left side of the chest. The man convulsed, his armor sparking wildly, and his grip on his sword weakened just enough for Killian to see his opening.
With a final surge of power, Killian’s lightning ripped through the knight’s weapons, shattering the aethum cores inside both his sword and shield.
The enchantments collapsed instantly, the once-glowing runes flickering out like dying embers.
And then—Killian kicked him.
The force of the blow sent the knight sprawling onto the ground, his armor scraping against the blood-soaked dirt.
Killian took a step forward, his blade still crackling with power.
This battle was over.
Garrik groaned, his body trembling as he tried to move, his arms scraping against the bloodied ground in a desperate attempt to crawl away.
But Killian was faster.
With a single, merciless step, he crushed the knight’s leg beneath his boot.
A sickening crack echoed from where their legs met. Killian clearly broke some of his bones.
Garrik screamed, his hands clenched into fists, his face contorted in pain. Soon, the screams turned to desperate pants. But through gritted teeth, he still looked up at Killian, desperation flickering in his eyes.
“Killian... I trained you,” he gasped, struggling against the weight pressing down on him. “You can’t do this. You’ll be a traitor to all knights if you do.” His voice turned pleading, his breath ragged. “You’ll be breaking the oath of camaraderie.”
Killian’s face didn’t change. Not a single muscle.
The lightning still crackled around him, illuminating the blood staining his armor. His grip on his sword tightened, and then he spat at the fallen knight right on his face. Garrik turned his face—the insult thick.
“I only made an oath to my lord—and to the people of his lands.”
He leaned in, his eyes glowing with the storm raging inside him.
“I was just another knight under you. No one special to you. Just another blade in a kingdom that never cared about me. And you—you don’t give two shits about any of us.” He straightened, his lips curling into a sneer. “But Lord Arzan gave me power. He trusted me with it.” He scoffed. “Trust! You have no idea what that even means.”
Garrik’s face twisted in horror as he realized—Killian wouldn’t stop.
“Killian, wait—”
The blade plunged down, piercing the knight’s throat. Blood spurted out immediately, covering his armor. A gurgled gasp escaped him, his body convulsing for a second—then stilled.
Killian didn’t hesitate. He wrenched his sword free, raised it high, and with a single, decisive stroke—severed Garrik’s head.
Blood spurted even more, the severed head rolling onto the battlefield.
For a moment, all Killian could hear was the roar of his own heartbeat.
And then—he lifted the head into the air.
Silence.
The battlefield, once filled with screams, cries and clashing steel, froze again.
Killian turned, his eyes sweeping over the walls—over the battle that was reaching its final moments.
And it was them—his side—who were winning.
The enemy forces had been subdued. Bodies lay scattered across the ground, blood pooling in the cracks of the stone.
Ragnar and the other Enforcers had surrounded a last group of blood drinkers, the once-feared creatures now trapped, their claws still drawn—but their expressions betraying doubt.
Killian barely had to say anything.
As soon as the remaining soldiers saw the head of their knight, something in them broke.
One by one, weapons clattered to the ground.
Surrender.
Killian should have felt relief—but his mind was focused on one thing, one person.
His gaze swept the battlefield, searching, scanning—
Lucian.
Where was he?
Killian’s grip tightened, his jaw clenching as he threw the severed head to the ground.
He had seen Lucian at the start of the battle—but now?
He was gone.
“Where is he?” Killian muttered, lightning flickering around him once more.
The war wasn’t over.
Not until he found Lucian—and ended this once and for all.
***
Ragnar gripped his mace, its weight solid in his grasp as he rushed forward, eyes locked onto the blood drinker before him. From behind, he knew he had support. His right-hand man. Wulfgar.
Wulfgar swung two glaives in his hands, posing and ready to strike.
The creature snarled, baring elongated fangs, and with a single swipe of its claws, a wave of blood erupted from its form, rushing toward Ragnar like a crimson tide.
But Ragnar had faced worse.
With a roar, he raised his shield, slamming it into the incoming blood magic. The steel flared, repelling the attack, and in the same motion, Ragnar sidestepped, moving with unexpected agility for his size. His mace whistled through the air, coming down in a brutal arc toward the blood drinker’s side. But it went right past it.
Without wasting time, Wulfgar sprung into action. One of his glaives found the blood drinker’s arm.
The creature moved fast, its blood-red eyes narrowing as it brought up its clawed hands to block. Metal met flesh, and instead of the sickening crunch of breaking bones, the blood drinker vanished—its body dispersing like a shadow.
Ragnar’s eyes widened. Wulfgar mirrored his expression. This time, they stood side by side, awaiting where it would appear again. Before they could react, pain seared across Ragnar’s back.
The blood drinker reappeared behind him, its claws raking across his skin in a shallow cut. Wulfgar was right on his toes, slashing his glaive across the blood drinker’s already wounded arm, removing it from its form.
Ragnar gritted his teeth against the pain. He hadn’t faced an opponent like this before, but he had known exactly what he was walking into before entering this war.
And pain would not stop him.
With a grunt, he spun—raw power driving his movements. His mace came around in a sweeping blow, but the blood drinker twisted, barely avoiding a direct hit—
But not completely.
The sharp head of Ragnar’s weapon tore through flesh, severing the creature’s head from the neck.
A horrific scream echoed as dark, corrupted blood sprayed from the wound.
Somewhere from behind, another blood drinker appeared. It made an alarming noise before lunging itself forward with an unnatural speed.
It manipulated the very essence of its own lifeblood, shaping it into a twisting spell—a spear of dark magic hurtling toward Ragnar.
Bham!
The impact slammed into his shield, sending him skidding backward. His boots dug into the stone, his arms screaming from the force.
The blood drinker saw its chance. It lunged, fangs bared—
A mana blast slammed into its side.
The creature shrieked, chunks of flesh and bone torn away by the attack. More gunners on the wall fired in unison, their mana bolts ripping through the creature’s form.
The blood drinker howled in agony and, in a desperate move, dissolved into mist, trying to escape into the air—
A hook shot out, catching it mid-flight.
Bran, one of the Enforcers, pulled the chain taut with a victorious grunt.
"You’re not going anywhere," he growled, yanking the creature violently back toward the wall.
With that Wulfgar was on his feet, moving to fight another blood drinker with all his might. The man had always been quick—too quick to get on his feet. He was war-trained, never leaving an opening to attack him, even when the blood drinkers played dirty tricks.
Ragnar grunted as the pain shot from his arm where he held the shield and ran to his spine.
All around him, he saw more Enforcers engaged in a ruthless hunt—ensnaring any blood drinker that tried to flee. Some were caught in arcane bindings, others blasted apart by focused spells, their wails of pain and fury filling the night air.
The Mages struck with merciless precision, launching spells that burned through the drinker's dark magic, leaving them weak and vulnerable. He didn’t know what exactly those spells were, but they looked as if they were designed to kill blood drinkers. The lethal intent and the screams that followed after every contact proved so.
His men and the Enforcers followed without hesitation, weapons flashing, severing heads, and ending the creatures before they could recover.
Bodies fell from the walls, hitting the blood-soaked ground below. There was even blood dripping down the walls in an ungodly way.
Victory was within reach.
He pushed himself up, ignoring the pain burning through his muscles. Blood dripped from his wounds, but he hardly noticed.
He gritted his teeth, tightened his grip on his mace, and looked at the last remaining blood drinkers, still trapped, still fighting for their lives.
He let out a deep breath.
Then, alongside his comrades—one blood drinker charged.
Ragnar barely had time to think.
His body moved on instinct.
“Wulfgar! Behind you!”
The words had barely left his mouth before he lunged forward, gripping his mace and throwing it with all his strength. The air whistled as the weapon hurtled through the blood-stained battlefield—
But it was too late.
A shadow surged behind Wulfgar.
He barely had time to react before something sharp and black burst through his chest, a clawed hand dripping with blood. It took his heart from the chest.
He choked, eyes wide in shock. His knees buckled, body twitching as the blood-covered figure yanked its arm back, letting him collapse onto the ground. Before he could hit the soil, the blood drinker clawed him by the neck, removing his head from the body.
“Fuck!”
Ragnar skidded to a stop, his boots sliding against the gore-slicked floor.
His breath caught as he finally got a good look at the thing that had just killed Wulfgar.
It wasn’t a normal blood drinker.
No—this one was different.
Its body was thinner, more sinewy, the exposed flesh pulsing unnaturally, as if alive on its own. Its skin was pitch-black, veins glowing crimson, and where its eyes should have been—
There was nothing but a deep, empty void.
Ragnar grabbed his mace, stepping forward, but before he could charge, the creature’s mouth split open, revealing rows of sharp fangs.
And then—it vanished.
This one didn’t turn into mist or retreat. It simply blinked out of existence, disappearing completely as if it had never been there in the first place.
The Enforcers who had been unguarded and casual just seconds ago now stood frozen, weapons half-raised, staring at the place where the creature had disappeared.
He looked down. To make sure. Blood still dripped from Wulfgar’s corpse joining the thousand others that died. Ragnar clenched his jaw, his grip tightening around his mace until his knuckles turned white.
The blood drinker appeared a few feet away, and crackled, baring his fangs in a twisted grin, completely unfazed by the mace lodged deep in his side. Ragnar and the others surged forward, fury igniting their
movements, their blades poised to strike.
“What the fuck did you do?!” Ragnar yelled.To his side, he saw two Enforcers raise their weapons while Mages began weaving their spells. But before any attack could land, the blood drinker vanished, reappearing in midair.
Hooks and ropes shot toward him, but it twisted through them effortlessly, moving faster than any of the previous ones they had slain.
Even spells failed to touch it, their energy dissipating as it darted between them with unnatural speed.
For a moment, it seemed like it would escape.
Then Ragnar caught a flicker of movement in the sky—lightning. A blinding bolt shot down, striking the blood drinker square in its chest. The creature let out a sharp cry, faltering in the air before plummeting to the ground in a heap.
Before he could recover, a figure charged toward him—Knight Killian.
His sword was already mid-swing, his face twisted in fury. Steel met flesh in a brutal clash, but the blood drinker, realizing escape was no longer an option, conjured a shield of thick, pulsing blood.
Killian’s blade bit into it, struggling to push through, but before the creature could retaliate, another lightning bolt ripped through the sky, piercing the shield and searing into the drinker’s body.
The blood drinker snarled and vanished—only to reappear next to Killian in a flash. But Killian was already prepared. His sword met the creature’s claws, deflecting the strike, and with his free hand, he drove his fist straight into the drinker’s face, sending him stumbling backward toward the wall.
The blood drinker tried to rise, but crackling energy surged around him. Lightning chained him to the wall, locking his limbs in place. He thrashed violently, but before he could break free, a mace plunged into his neck—Ragnar’s mace. He twisted it inside the monster’s body as deep as it could go, making more and more dark liquid spurt out.
No matter how deep it went, Ragnar didn’t feel an ounce of satisfaction.
“ARGH!” he grunted.
Then all the lightning in the air from Killian converged, surging into the creature’s body, burning him from the inside out. His corpse collapsed onto the ground, the stench of charred flesh filling the air.
Killian exhaled sharply, stepping back from the smoldering remains. But as his gaze shifted, his expression darkened, his eyes landing on the unmoving form of the Lombard.
Ragnar followed Killian’s gaze, and his shoulders sagged. He had seen death before—when his tribe was forced from their lands, when his friends had been torn apart by beasts—but this felt different. He clenched his fists, swallowing the bitter taste in his throat. This loss, in the wake of their victory, felt like a dark stain on what should have been a moment of triumph.
And most of it all, it was his fault. He failed to protect one of his own. He failed to—
Killian stepped forward, and instinctively,
Ragnar lowered his head. The others beside him followed suit, their expressions grim. The weight of failure pressed heavy on Ragnar’s chest as he forced himself to speak.
"Wulfgar lost his life.. Because of me!"
Ragnar’s hands formed into fists by his side and he screamed. He screamed until he could no longer.
He felt pain everywhere, but especially in his chest. He walked towards the corpse of Wulfgar and took the man’s hand and placed it on his chest. Tears streamed down his face, one after another.
Killian exhaled sharply from behind. He moved towards Ragnar. And for a few minutes, everyone including Killian and the Enforcers let him mourn.
Not a single trace… The blood drinker hadn’t left a single trace of his identity except for his limbs. Fuck… it shouldn’t have been him.
“I’m sorry…” Ragnar whispered. He knew Wulfgar was long gone. But the guilt caught up to him. “I should’ve had your back. I… I should’ve been with you, You had my b-back. And I failed; I failed like always.” His words muffled his cries.
For some more time, Ragnar mourned, apologizing over and over. And they all waited until the heavy sobs died.
"Wulfgar was brave," Killian said from behind, his voice firm despite the sorrow in his eyes. He placed a warm hand on his shoulder. "And although it's unfortunate, You avenged him"
“It’s the least I could do…” Ragnar looked at the unrecognisable form. “Until we meet again,” he whispered and stood up.
He looked at Killian and followed his eyes. The battlefield was filled with corpses, blood and so many filthy memories.
“Thank you for killing it.” He wiped his eyes, and the blood that was in his hands smudged on his face. “He was a great friend to me since we were… nine.” He looked down. “I will miss him.”
Another heavy silence fell over them.
“And… we won…” someone from behind broke the silence.
"But we lost too many lives,” Killian spoke, speaking everyone’s mind.
Then, Killian’s expression darkened further. "The worst part of all…" he hesitated, his hands clenched into fists, "I wasn’t able to find Lucian."
One of the Enforcers, Bran shifted uneasily before speaking up. "I thought I saw him in the first phase of the battle."
Killian’s gaze snapped toward him. "Yes, but after that, there's been no sign of him. I questioned and interrogated the soldiers—no one knows what happened." His teeth clenched. "I got caught up in that, and while I did... A lot of people lost their lives. Anyway," he said, exhaling. "I need a small contingent to go with me and search for Lord Arzan. There’s no sign of him, and he moved west while fighting that blood drinker that was their leader. I think he managed to kill him, but if he’s injured, then—"
A shout from the wall cut him off.
"I see Lord Arzan! He’s moving toward us!"
Killian and the others turned sharply, rushing toward the walls. As they looked out, they spotted him.
Lord Arzan was moving toward them,
propelled by the winds. Not flying, but walking—fast, unnaturally fast.
Relief and urgency clashed in Killian’s eyes as he took in the sight. "Let’s move," he ordered, already stepping forward. They needed to know what happened.
***
By the way, Magus Reborn Volume 1 is now on Amazon for pre orders if anyone of you want to check it out.
2025-02-27 17:20:30 +0000 UTC
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Chapter 76
A wave of heat passed through Chen Ren as he walked towards the forge. Sparks erupted with each strike of the hammer, fire burst into existence before dying just as quickly.
Regardless, Chen Ren walked closer.
The man at the forge didn’t look up from the armor he was working on, utterly absorbed in his craft. But this close, it was unmistakable—he was a cultivator. He could feel the flow of qi radiating from the latter, his realm and star matching Chen Ren’s own.
Yet something was off. The man was attempting to infuse his qi into the metal, but it wasn’t working. Every pulse of energy bounced off the armor, dissipating into the air rather than sinking into the material. Was the metal simply unfit to conduct qi, or was it a flaw in the craftsman’s technique? Chen Ren didn’t know, but the process intrigued him, his eyes following every movement of the hammer with rapt attention.
A heavy pat on his shoulder pulled him from his thoughts.
“You got any weapons you need fixed?” Zhu Yuan grinned at him. “This guy’s no good in a fight, but he does well enough with scraps of metal.”
The man at the forge remained focused, hammering away as if he hadn’t heard a word. Zhu Yuan’s grin turned into a scowl.
“Hey, Feiyu, can’t you see I’m here with an esteemed guest?” His voice took on a sharp edge. “Why aren’t you bowing yet?”
At that, the forger’s hammer froze mid-swing. Slowly, he lifted his head, eyes widening as he registered their presence. Now that he was facing him, Chen Ren got a proper look at the man.
Feiyu was in his mid-twenties, a few years older than Chen Ren, with a face roughened by hard work and exposure to heat. His skin was tanned, his arms corded with lean muscle from years of swinging a hammer. Sweat dripped down his forehead, matting his short, unkempt black hair, and his brows were furrowed, not in anger but in intense focus that had yet to fade completely. His eyes, a deep brown, held the sharpness of someone used to measuring things with precision.
Chen Ren could say that his robes were once a deep blue. But now, it was all stained with soot, patched in a few places where stray sparks had burned through. The forge behind him was a sprawling workspace, an open-air structure that let out waves of heat with every billow of the flames.
Iron tools lined the walls, some simple, some not-so simple, their purposes unknown to the untrained eye. A massive anvil stood at the center, its surface dented and scarred from countless strikes. Buckets of water sat nearby, the surface of one still rippling from the latest piece of metal being tempered. The pounding of steel against steel had momentarily stopped, replaced by the crackling of the flames and the faint hissing of cooling metal.
Chen Ren’s gaze flickered back to Feiyu’s qi, faint traces still lingering in the air around the unfinished armor. A craftsman with some cultivation, but not much talent. Someone who struggled to walk the path of a cultivator, yet still held on.
Though Chen Ren knew that calculating a person’s spirit roots based solely on how fast they reached a certain realm wasn’t entirely accurate, it gave him a rough estimate. But in this case, he could be far off. He had no idea about Feiyu’s dao, and from the way Zhu Yuan spoke about him, it was safe to assume that the blacksmith didn’t follow a martial dao. It would explain why he was in the qi refinement realm even with not being in martial arts.
Feiyu’s lips pressed together before he finally gave a stiff nod, his voice slightly hoarse from disuse. “My apologies, young master.”
Then, he bowed deeply, his posture rigid and submissive. His eyes glued to the floor.
“I’m really sorry, Young Master Yuan,” he said once again, his voice thick with apprehension. “I didn’t realize you were here.”
Zhu Yuan glared at him, arms crossed and stepped towards him.
“Didn’t realize?” he sneered. “It seems like your senses have gotten worse. For a slave, you sure aren’t attentive enough.”
Feiyu stiffened, bowing lower. “I—”
“Just apologizing won’t correct your disrespect,” Zhu cut him off. “You’re going to be sleeping with the horses tonight. Maybe getting kicked in your sleep will teach you better manners.”
Feiyu paled, his back breaking out in a cold sweat.
“Please, no, Young Master Yuan,” he pleaded. “Last time, one of the horses nearly crushed my hand in my sleep. There’s no space there—”
“That’s not my problem.” Zhu Yuan waved him off, uninterested.
Chen Ren exhaled through his nose, seeing the interaction, questions bubbling in his mind. A punishment like that wasn’t just cruel, it was completely unproductive. The man clearly had talent and was a cultivator and letting him sleep with the horses was clear disrespect. Though, Zhu Yuan didn't seem to feel that.
In the back of his mind, Chen Ren somehow felt obliged to help the man. No one deserved a punishment just for not noticing a person due to being focused on work.
“Wait, Young Master Yuan,” Chen Ren interjected. “How about instead of sleeping with the horses, you assign him to repair my carriage and a few weapons I have? That should take him a few hours, and I believe it’ll be a good enough lesson. After all, forcing him to sleep in the stables won’t do anything productive.”
Zhu blinked at him, frowning as he mulled it over. Chen Ren saw how Feiyu raised his eyes to meet him, but soon he looked back at the ground in respect.
After a long pause, he finally shrugged. “Fine.” Then he turned to Feiyu. “You heard him. Serve Daoist Chen well. If I hear any complaints, I’ll throw you into a spar with my older cousins.”
Feiyu hurriedly nodded, bowing once more. “I will make sure you have no complaints, Daoist Chen.”
Satisfied, Zhu Yuan gestured for Chen Ren to move, leading him away from the forge. As they walked, Chen Ren found his gaze drifting back, his mind lingering on the whole interaction.
Something about it felt strange.
It wasn’t Zhu Yuan’s attitude—he had expected that from a young master of a powerful clan. No, it was something else. Something about the way Feiyu reacted.
After all, Zhu Yuan was a young master. Most of them had no idea how to talk to others, being too arrogant and haughty. Chen Ren didn’t like it, but he wasn’t going to say anything in the man’s own home, especially when they were about to become business partners.
Still, his thoughts kept circling back to the blacksmith.
By the qi the man gave off, he was a cultivator—and not a weak one. On the other hand, Zhu Yuan was a mortal. Even if he had the backing of the Zhu Clan and was part of the family, he doubted he could talk like that to a cultivator serving his family. Normally, these were rogue cultivators who formed contracts with clans, trading their strength for resources, protection, and a place to cultivate. They were expected to be subservient, but there was still a limit. No cultivator would tolerate open disrespect, not unless they had no choice.
But Zhu had spoken to him like the man was a mortal, even calling him a slave.
Unable to hold back his curiosity, he finally asked, “Young Master Yuan, that man
we spoke to… who is he?”
“Oh, him?” Zhu snorted. “He’s just a slave.”
Chen Ren frowned. “A slave? But he’s a cultivator. And slavery was abolished in the empire.”
He knew it was common knowledge that slavery had been outlawed.
For a long time, about a hundred years ago, it had been legal. Most clan servants were once slaves, bound not just by circumstance but by powerful contracts and techniques that etched slave marks onto their souls. Even cultivators weren’t exempt from this, forced into servitude through binding techniques that left them with no choice but to obey.
But the current emperor, after his own experiences with palace slaves, had declared it inhumane and abolished it completely.
So what Zhu Yuan was admitting to was a grave crime—especially when the man in question was a cultivator.
Zhu caught the look on his face and waved a hand dismissively. “You misunderstood, Daoist Chen. The man isn’t an ordinary slave.”
Chen Ren’s brows furrowed. “Then what is he?”
“He comes from a caste of slaves.” Zhu Yuan smirked, as if the explanation was obvious. “His father was a slave, and before him, his grandfather was a slave. Even if our glorious Emperor Xian abolished slavery, there were still… special circumstances.”
Chen Ren’s expression didn’t change, but inside, his thoughts raced.
Zhu continued, clearly unbothered by the lack of his enthusiasm to agree. “There are those who were pushed into slavery due to their crimes. That man’s grandfather was one of them. He killed a member of our Zhu Clan, and in exchange, the court sentenced his bloodline to 250 years of servitude.”
Chen Ren exhaled slowly. So that’s how they justify it.
Even if slavery had been abolished, loopholes still existed.
As Chen Ren heard that, understanding dawned on him. His gaze flickered to Zhu Yuan, sharp and assessing.
“So, the man is a slave because of his ancestors?”
Zhu nodded without hesitation. “Yes. He still has ninety years left in his servitude. But fate has finally smiled on him.” He chuckled. “Since he turned out to be a cultivator, he’ll actually live long enough to see the end of his sentence. Most of his ancestors weren’t so lucky.”
Chen Ren hummed, neither agreeing or disagreeing.
Zhu then paused, lowering his voice as if sharing a great secret. “Let me tell you, it wasn’t easy creating a slave mark for him, especially since they’re forbidden now.” He smirked, puffing up with self-importance. “But my uncle, he—”
Chen Ren barely heard the rest.
His mind was already elsewhere, turning over what he had just learned. His thoughts lingered on the blacksmith—the cultivator treated as a slave, bound by the sins of his ancestors. Even if the empire had outlawed slavery, the powerful still found ways to keep people in chains.
His focus was so distant that he didn’t even notice when Zhu finished his story, laughing to himself as he pushed Chen Ren into his guest quarters.
The door shut behind him with a dull thud, leaving the room silent.
And in that silence, only one question remained in his mind—Was that man the one he was looking for his future plans?
***
It took an hour for his three subordinates to return after unloading all the alcohol in the warehouse. Surprisingly, Yalan was with them too.
Before anyone could settle, Chen Ren cut straight to the point. He told them about Feiyu—about the man’s cultivation, the slave mark, and the way he was treated. He left nothing out. He explained how good blacksmiths were already rare, but a blacksmith who was also a cultivator? He might never get such an opportunity again. And how he wanted to get the man in the sect to work on some projects.
Both Anji and Zi Han didn't seem to mind the extra stay, but Hong Yi wanted to get back to the sect as soon as possible. Apparently, the man wasn't happy, being away from working on his puppets for so long. Even when they talked about Feiyu, he seemed much more interested in carving away on wood.
Chen Ren didn't mind it and assured him that it won't take more than a few days.
And so, the decision was made. They would remain for a few more days. Once that was done, he started considering how they were going to even poach Feiyu from the Zhu clan.
Judging by what he had witnessed, the man’s treatment under Zhu Yuan had been anything but good. That alone suggested he would be eager to leave. However, there was always the possibility that the other clan members treated him better. Still, Chen Ren doubted it. Large clans rarely treated their servants with respect, let alone slaves bound by an unbreakable mark.
That mark was a major obstacle itself. Chen Ren had no way of breaking it himself. The only one who could even try was Yalan, but when he asked her, she shook her head, claiming that even if she could, it would probably cripple or kill the man outright. Chen Ren didn't want to take such a risk no matter what.
That left only one option—getting the Zhu clan to break the mark themselves.
And he had no idea how to make that happen.
Though before that, he knew the first thing he had to do was to make friends with Feiyu. He had to find out if the man was even capable of helping him out in making the weapon. If he wasn’t, then Chen Ren could forget the idea of risking a good relationship with one of the biggest clans in Ashen City.
So, he took advantage of the punishment that Zhu Yuan had given him. At night, he went to talk to Feiyu.
Chen Ren crouched beside the carriage, inspecting the damage from their long journey. The hinges on the door were loose, the wheel alignment was slightly off, and there were cracks in the axle that needed reinforcing. Nothing catastrophic, but enough to warrant repairs. And as luck would have it, the punishment meant the blacksmith cultivator was the one fixing it.
As Feiyu worked beside him, his calloused hands moved, tightening bolts, adjusting wooden joints, and hammering weakened spots back into place. Chen Ren watched closely, taking note of the ease with which the man handled metal and wood alike.
“I believe this is a dumb thing you’re trying to do.”
Yalan’s voice echoed in his mind. She sat nearby, making herself comfortable and looking around the night sky.
Chen Ren didn’t even blink. “It’s not. I’m just trying to get capable people into my sect.”
“Let me rephrase it,” she said dryly. “You’re attempting the impossible. Even if the slave is a cultivator and wants to leave, you have no way to make it happen. Are you planning to ask the Zhu clan to hand him over? Even if you’re business partners, why would they give up a cultivator who’s completely bound to them? One who literally cannot betray them?”
Chen Ren exhaled sharply through his nose. She was right, of course. The logic was solid. But logic and opportunity rarely aligned. He had been given a chance, and if he didn’t at least try, he would regret it.
“I know the complications,” he admitted. “But no blacksmith I’ve met so far could even come close to understanding my diagrams on the way here. If this man can, then he’d be the biggest asset to the sect.”
Yalan gave him a long, searching look before shaking her head. “If he can. Right now, you don’t even know if he’s capable.”
“You’re right.” Chen Ren rubbed his hands together, and let the debris fall to the ground. “Let’s find out.”
He looked at the blacksmith, who was bent over a few inches away, hammering a metal pin into place.
“We didn’t get a proper introduction before,” Chen Ren said, keeping his tone light.
Feiyu paused, his grip tightening around the hammer before he turned his face toward Chen Ren. His dark eyes narrowed and looked at Chen Ren from head to toe.
Chen Ren didn’t falter. “My name is Chen Ren. I’m from the Divine Coin Sect, currently in business with the Zhu Clan.”
The man held his gaze for a moment before turning back to the carriage, adjusting a loose bolt. “I’m Feiyu. Though I’m sure you know that already, Daoist Chen.” His voice was even, but there was a trace of bitterness beneath it. “I’m a slave.”
“And a cultivator.”
Feiyu scoffed, shaking his head. “Barely. Just because I have spirit roots and know a few martial techniques doesn’t make me a cultivator. I feel like an imposter.”
Chen Ren crossed his arms. “If you don’t want to be called a cultivator, then what else would you rather be called?”
The man didn’t hesitate. “A blacksmith. I come from a long line of them. It’s in my blood. I like creating things—fixing things, like your carriage here.”
Chen Ren nodded, watching the way the man spoke with conviction. He hesitated for a brief moment before taking the next step.
“Are you interested in weapons?” He asked.
“Obviously,” Feiyu said. “Weapons are the things that I deal with the most in the clan. I like working on them the most, seeing my weapons in action.”
Chen Ren nodded before asking the question he had been waiting to ask. “So, are you interested in developing a new kind of weapon?”
Feiyu’s hands stilled. Slowly, he turned around and pursed his lips. “What do you mean? I didn’t get it.”
Chen Ren pulled out a parchment from his robes and handed it over. “This is an ancient artifact our sect has information on. Can you understand it?”
Feiyu took the parchment, his thick fingers brushing over the surface as he unfolded it. The moment his eyes landed on the diagrams, his expression shifted. His pupils widened, his breath hitched just slightly—subtle signs, but enough for Chen Ren to notice. He wasn’t just looking at it. He was processing it.
Seconds stretched into silence as Feiyu’s gaze flickered over the details, his lips parting slightly in contemplation. Then, slowly, he lifted his eyes to meet Chen Ren’s.
There was something different in his gaze now. “What are these called, Daoist Chen?”
Chen Ren allowed himself a small smile. “Guns.”
2025-02-25 16:06:44 +0000 UTC
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Chapter 185
Kai knew his odds in a direct fight were abysmal. Shakran used blood like a second skin, twisting it into tricks that could cripple even seasoned Enforcers. A straight duel would be suicide.
He had considered options—coordinating an assault with his Enforcers, manipulating the terrain—but none were foolproof. Shakran could fly, and that alone tilted the battlefield in his favor. And he needed his Enforcers elsewhere, fighting where the rest of the blood drinkers were. Therefore he knew a different approach was needed. One that played into the blood drinker’s nature.
Predators loved the hunt. And to Shakran, Kai wasn’t an opponent—he was prey.
The moment he confirmed the blood drinker’s relentless pursuit, the plan fell into place. He led him straight toward the gorge, where the real battleground had already been set.
But before that, transporting Balen and the dwarf unnoticed had been no small feat, especially with mana cannons in tow. They were huge in size, and enemies could easily track them down if they saw.
But thankfully, the chaos at Dorn had provided perfect cover. Blood drinkers were vicious, but even they weren’t omniscient in the heat of war. He knew they would have been watching the siege, so in the middle of it, he had ordered to move the cannons with the two blacksmiths in the nearby gorge.
The pieces had aligned, the trap had been set—now all that remained was execution.
Shakran’s snarl twisted into a scream as mana ripped through his decayed flesh. The blast tore into him, white-hot energy searing away the dead mana clinging to his form. His knees buckled, body jerking as the binding circle beneath him pulsed with golden radiance, locking him in place.
Teeth bared, he lunged, snapping at the bindings, but the arcane seals pulsed again—unyielding, absolute. His charred flesh sloughed off, eaten away by magic too strong to resist. Kai watched impassively. A fourth-circle binding ritual. Even if Shakran threw himself at the restraints with all his might, his body would break long before the spell did.
And then, the cannons hummed again.
The mana cannon’s beam carved through the darkness, lancing into flesh that had no right to exist. Shakran’s scream twisted into something more primal as the parasite latched to his body convulsed, tendrils writhing in desperation. It curled over him, a final, futile shield against the onslaught.
It didn’t matter.
The beam intensified, searing through decayed flesh and dead mana alike. A wet squelch, then a hiss. The parasite’s body bubbled, its ugly form warping under the pressure. Kai watched as its flesh finally gave way—rupturing in a shower of charred remains that splattered across the stone. What was left fell lifeless to the ground, twitching once before stilling forever.
With the parasite gone, Shakran had no defense. He staggered, his body unraveling before Kai’s eyes—limbs trembling, flesh splitting where dead mana once held it together. Blood, thick and sluggish, dripped from the deep fissures spreading across his frame.
Still, he lifted his head. Eyes blazing with fury and something close to disbelief, he locked his gaze onto Kai.
Kai tilted his head, meeting that stare without a hint of sympathy. “You wanted to know how I found you back then?” His voice was quiet, almost as if he was planning to have a conversation about dinner. “You had my blood on you.” He paused, watching the understanding dawn in Shakran’s pained expression. “I followed my own mana to track where you would strike from.”
Shakran’s lips parted, a rasping breath escaping, but Kai wasn’t done. His voice turned colder.
“I didn’t want you to die before knowing that.” A beat of silence followed. “Make sure you don’t cross paths with me in the afterlife. Or I’ll kill you worse.”
Shakran made a sound, half a snarl, half a dying breath. His body sagged. Then, with one last twitch, he collapsed, lifeless.
Kai watched for a moment, waiting, but the blood drinker remained still. No revival. No final attack. Just a corpse. It had ended just like that.
The hum of the mana cannons faded. Balen and Tharnok stepped out from behind them, surveying the scene.
Tharnok exhaled, shaking his head. “I’ve seen some bad deaths. Men crushed under boulders, limbs twisted the wrong way—but that?” He gestured at the remains with a grimace. “That’s something else.”
“He deserved it.” Kai shrugged. He looked at the little of what was left. “He’s slaughtered thousands to satisfy his hunger. If anyone deserves a death like that, it should be him.”
Balen grunted in agreement, eyeing the mess. “It’ll take some work to clear this out.”
Kai waved him off. “The local beasts will handle it. Let them. I wouldn’t want anyone touching a blood drinker’s corpse—especially one infested with a dead mana parasite.”
Silence stretched between them. Then Kai turned, gaze shifting toward the cave’s exit. “With Shakran dead, I need to get back to the battlefield.”
Tharnok raised a bushy brow. “I thought you were drained.”
“I am.” Kai rolled his shoulders, and cracked his neck, feeling the lingering strain in his body. “It’ll take time to replenish enough mana for Dorn. But I can walk. This new body’s good enough to cover the distance before I get enough mana back.” His gaze flickered toward the distant horizon. “Besides, Killian should be holding the line by now.”
***
Killian felt the battle slipping through his fingers.
The field before him was a maelstrom of chaos—screams, steel, and raw mana clashing in an uncompromising cacophony. The night was alive with the glow of spells and the bright light of burning siege weapons. Blood drinkers swooped down from the skies, their shrieks piercing through the air as they tore into defenders, while the remaining mana cannons fired relentlessly, searing through the hordes.
But it wasn’t enough.
Half the cannons had been destroyed in the first wave, shattered by coordinated attacks from the blood drinkers who had targeted them the moment the battle began. The remaining ones still held, their beams cutting through flesh and armor alike, yet they could only hold back so much. The golems and drones had deployed, fighting alongside the defenders, but even with them, victory was uncertain.
Lucian’s forces were fewer than they could have been—thanks to the nobles they had already taken down before this battle—but the forces he had left were still formidable.
Blood drinkers, dozens of Archine Tower Mages, and seasoned soldiers who knew how to lay siege.
And Killian had no reinforcements. The stronger ones of the Enforcers weren't back from the noble territories, leaving him reliant on what remained—the gunners, the remaining cannons, and the golems.
Lucian’s soldiers had adapted well. Their shields held against gunfire, and they knew to stay out of range of the cannons. Meanwhile, their Mages and blood drinkers focused on systematically dismantling their defenses, striking hard and fast before vanishing into the shadows. Even now, more of them swarmed the walls, scaling them with hooks and ladders, pouring in wave after wave.
They weren’t losing.
But they weren’t winning, either.
Killian exhaled, gripping his sword tighter.
Then his instincts flared.
He twisted just in time to meet a clawed strike, steel clashing against unnatural flesh. A blood drinker snarled at him, fangs bared, its crimson eyes alight with hunger. The blood hungry eyes were something he could never forget. It was disgusting to say the least and threatening at the same time.
He struck back, lightning crackling along his blade. The moment he swung, the creature vanished—then reappeared an instant later, its speed unnerving.
He barely had time to register the three blood-forged blades rushing toward him. His sword snapped up, deflecting them in a shower of sparks. His gaze flickered to his surroundings—two more blood drinkers, flanking him.
A frown tugged at his lips.
“Let’s end this fast.”
They lunged.
A blur of blood magic and claws came at him from both sides. Killian surged forward, lightning wrapping around him as he closed the distance with the nearest one. The creature raised a blood shield in defense—too slow. His blade tore through it, his strike carving deep into the blood drinker’s shoulder.
A scream echoed out—high and piercing.
Killian didn’t hesitate.
As the blood drinker’s mouth opened in pain, he shoved forward, his hand slipping into his robes. In a single motion, he flung a potion straight into the creature’s face. The glass shattered, its contents splashing over its tongue and gums.
The blood drinker’s eyes widened in shock.
Then it screamed as the acidic potion burned through its skin, its flesh sizzling and peeling away.
Killian didn’t waste the opportunity. He stepped in, blade flashing as he slashed through its neck in one clean stroke. The creature’s body stumbled back before collapsing lifelessly to the ground.
A sudden impact slammed into his back. “Fuck!”
Pain erupted through him as a blood-forged spear tore into his armor, knocking the breath from his lungs. He staggered, gasping, as he turned to see the second blood drinker snarling at him before vanishing into the shadows.
Killian’s gaze darted around, searching.
Nothing.
Sweat beaded on his forehead. His heartbeat pounded in his ears.
Where—?
A flicker of movement occured.
He barely saw the claw before it came for his throat.
Killian ducked, the sharp talons slicing through the air where his neck had been a second ago. Without thinking, he surged forward, tackling the blood drinker straight into the stone wall.
The creature shrieked, thrashing, but Killian didn’t let up. Lightning crackled over his arm as he clenched his fist and drove it into the blood drinker’s face. The impact cracked bone, but he didn’t stop—he punched again and again, each strike laced with deadly mana until the creature’s movements slowed.
His sword—where was his sword?
He spotted it a few feet away, scooped it up, and without hesitation, plunged the blade into the blood drinker’s stomach. The creature convulsed, its mouth opening in a silent scream before it slumped forward, dead.
Killian exhaled heavily, his breath ragged.
Then he looked up—and froze.
The walls were swarming.
More blood drinkers. More enemy soldiers. How many of them were even there?
They hadn’t breached the gates, but they didn’t need to. Mages, hooks, and ladders had given them another way in, and his men were struggling to keep up. The gunners and Mages—their strongest assets—were being targeted first, the blood drinkers weaving through spells and mana blasts like shadows in the night.
They were losing ground.
Killian clenched his jaw, forcing himself to stay calm. He couldn’t let despair take root—not now. Lord Arzan had entrusted him with this battle, and he wasn’t about to let it slip through his fingers.
He needed to strike back. Hard.
His eyes scanned the battlefield until they locked onto a towering figure in the midst of the chaos—a knight, older and broader than the rest, his heavy armor gleaming in the flickering light of fire and spellwork.
Killian recognized him instantly.
Knight Garrik. The leader of Lucian’s forces.
Lucian himself was nowhere to be seen, which meant this man was the one keeping the enemy’s strategy intact. If Killian could take him out, it would send a devastating shockwave through their ranks.
His grip tightened around his sword.
He ran.
Enemy soldiers spotted him, moving to intercept, but Killian didn’t slow.
Lightning surged through his body as he dashed forward, weaving between attacks, his focus locked on his target.
He was going to end this.
Killian moved like a storm through the battlefield.
One soldier lunged at him with a spear—Killian grabbed the shaft with his bare hands and snapped it in half like a twig before hurling the man aside with a single motion. An arrow whistled toward him—he twisted just enough for it to graze his shoulder, then retaliated by whipping a dagger through the air. The projectile buried itself in the archer’s throat before they could fire another shot.
More arrows. More attackers.
Killian moved with a deadly precision as all his senses heightened, deflecting, dodging, striking. By the time he broke through the wave of enemies, his path was littered with bodies.
And then—he was there.
Knight Garrik. The man in flesh. He stood at the center of the chaos, larger and broader than the others. His thick plate armor dented, but not fully pentrable. Killian could see lines of enchantments on top of it, giving the man a greater strength than he deserved.
He turned as Killian approached. Their eyes met.
Killian didn’t stop to introduce himself—his sword was already swinging, lightning crackling along the blade as it whipped toward the knight’s head.
The knight’s eyes widened in surprise, barely managing to twist away. Sparks danced over his armor as he jumped back, exhaling sharply.
“It’s been a long time since we last met, Killian.” The knight’s deep voice cut through the chaos. “I can see you’ve grown.”
Killian grunted, already stepping forward. “And you’re still the fucking same.” His blade sparked in his grip. “Still doing anything for Lucian, dirtying your hands like a dog.” He spat on the ground in disgust.
Garrik raised an eyebrow. “I see you’ve forgotten how to respect your superiors.”
Killian snorted, lightning flickering around his form. “You’re not my superior. I only answer to Lord Arzan.”
Then he moved.
The knight barely raised his shield in time as Killian’s blade struck—the force sent the man skidding backward.
Another strike—his armor sparked under the impact.
Garrik’s eyes darkened. He dodged instead of blocking, shifting to avoid the brunt of Killian’s blows, but he was already at a disadvantage. Killian was faster, stronger, and relentless. His sword left scorching marks on Garrik’s shield, his armor denting further under the force of each strike.
The old knight gritted his teeth, visibly realizing he couldn’t win in a contest of raw power. He sidestepped just in time as a strike whistled past his shoulder, then spoke. His voice was undeniably calm despite the battle raging around them.
“Do you really think you can change anything about this battle?”
Killian didn’t answer—his sword was already swinging again.
Garrik rolled away, barely dodging, his voice still steady. “You might be able to kill me… but you’ll still lose this war.”
“Shut up.”
Another strike—lightning surged through the blade as Killian pushed forward.
But the knight kept talking.
“You know I’m right,” he said, dodging again. “The battle might be even for now, but soon…” A smirk. “Shakran will arrive with your lord’s head, and we will win.”
Killian’s blood boiled at the mention of Lord Arzan.
Lightning crackled violently around him, the very air humming with power.
Garrik continued, unbothered. “Look around, Killian. Your forces only fight because they believe in Lord Arzan. But once his head is brought here?” He gestured to the battlefield. “Their motivation will crumble. Their vigor will vanish. They will break. Break into tiny pieces as they already are!”
Killian gritted his teeth.
“When he arrives here,” he growled, lightning surging through his entire form, “he’ll see your forces crushed.”
With thunderous force, he charged.
Garrik braced, raising his massive shield—Killian’s strike slammed into it, the sheer impact sending him staggering backward. Garrik dug his heels into the stone, struggling to hold his ground.
Still, he sneered. “How will you crush my forces when my blood drinkers are going to—”
BOOM!
A deafening noise ripped through the battlefield, shaking the very earth beneath them.
Killian froze for a split second. Garrik, too, faltered—both of them turning their heads toward the source of the tremor.
And then—they saw them.
Charging through the battlefield, a massive force surged forward like a tidal wave of fury, enraged bulls, no, they were much more powerful than bulls.
Hundreds of them. They were all on Bulldrakes, much larger in size than the ordinary horses the enemies were on and completely shaking the earth with every stomp.
The barbarians—massive, battle-scarred warriors, their bodies clad in fur, metal, and war paint. Some wielded axes as tall as men, others bore heavy clubs and spears, their roars shaking the battlefield. Their eyes gleamed with bloodlust, their advance an unstoppable force of destruction.
At the front, their chieftain, Yafgar led them—a giant of a man, his arms thicker than most men’s legs, and he stuck his arm out in dominance, showing off his bloodied tribal tattoo and yelled orders.
Killian smiled.
“Like I said…” He turned back to Garrik, grinning as lightning danced around his fingers. “When Lord Arzan arrives—your forces will be crushed.”
Garrik’s face went pale.
2025-02-25 16:05:10 +0000 UTC
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Chapter 184
Kai’s spell repertoire was vast. Fire and wind—his primary elements—were his domain, and he had mastered most spells up to the fifth circle, with knowledge that stretched even beyond that. He prided himself on being an all-around Mage, capable of adapting to any situation. But raw power wasn’t everything.
Most spells at his level required a certain level of precision. They demanded either direct contact or careful aim, both of which were nearly impossible against an opponent like Shakran. The blood drinker flickered in and out of existence, vanishing mid-motion and reappearing from unpredictable angles. It wasn’t as if Kai lacked counters, but the ones he had were costly. Spells layered with countermeasures drained mana at an alarming rate, and he couldn’t afford to waste resources on something that might not work.
Not that he had time to consider his options.
A whisper of displaced air. A shift in the ambient mana.
Kai turned—too late.
Shakran materialized inches from him, his crimson-stained blade arcing toward Kai’s throat, aiming for a decisive end.
But this time, he was ready.
The moment Shakran reappeared, the spell structure that he already made, flared to life. A swirling maelstrom of fire erupted all around him, roaring into existence with a force that warped the air. Not just a simple flame spell—this was fire given form, an inferno crafted into a storm, equal parts shield and weapon.
Shakran’s blade never met flesh. Instead, his robes caught fire instantly, blackened and curling from the heat. He let out a sharp, unearthly scream as the flames devoured fabric and flesh alike.
But in that same instant, Kai saw it.
Blood, moving like a living thing, slithered from Shakran’s body, stretching out to shield him. A defensive instinct, not unlike Kai’s own countermeasure, but darker, almost parasitic in nature. It was disgusting to say the least. The blood pulsed unnaturally, forming a protective shell that smothered the flames before they could do more damage.
Even so, Kai didn’t escape unscathed.
Pain lanced through his shoulder as Shakran’s blade, undeterred, slashed into him before the blood drinker vanished again.
Kai gritted his teeth, glancing down at the wound. A deep gash, but not enough to cripple him. He looked up, his gaze locking onto his opponent as Shakran reappeared several paces away.
The blood drinker’s cloak was in tatters, burned down to rags. Angry, blistered burns marred his arm and torso, the raw flesh beneath glistening in the firelight. But the bastard was still smiling.
Hovering over his twin blood-forged blades, he chuckled under his breath.
“Next time,” he murmured, voice like a promise, “it’ll be your neck.”
Then he moved.
The floating droplets of blood around him trembled before twisting into a new shape. The crimson liquid elongated, shifting with unnatural grace until it took the form of a massive, jagged-mouthed beast—a shark, its eyes glowing with hunger. With a silent command, Shakran sent the creature surging forward, its maw opening wide to devour Kai whole.
Kai reacted instantly, ice coiling around his fingers as he launched a barrage of frost-laced spears. They struck at his aim, freezing sections of the blood construct mid-motion, but the shark wasn’t like Shakran’s previous attacks. It resisted, its form shifting and reforming almost instantly.
This wasn’t a mere distraction.
This was a true third-circle spell, bordering on the fourth.
And it wasn’t just an attack—it was a hunt.
He braced himself, knowing that while he battled the shark, Shakran would be lurking in the shadows, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
Still, he couldn’t give up. He moved slowly, channeling a surge of mana into an ice barrier that rapidly encased the shark. The cold, crystalline wall shimmered into existence, a temporary prison meant to slow his foe. Before the barrier could fully form, Kai unleashed a gust of wind, aiming to shatter the construct and scatter the fragments of blood that clung to Shakran’s essence.
But then, a subtle movement—like a hush in the wind—alerted him. Spinning around, Kai barely intercepted an attack aimed at his back. He sidestepped, the near miss sending sparks of adrenaline through him, and retaliated with a blazing fire spell.
The searing magic struck Shakran squarely in the face, igniting his features. A shriek erupted from him as he staggered backward, his eyes wide with a mix of fury and disbelief. In that moment of vulnerability, his form wavered and then dissolved into thin air.
Kai’s instincts told him that the next assault would come with even greater ferocity. He paused only for a heartbeat to gather his strength, casting spells in both hands as he stood poised. Suddenly, a ripple of movement below him signaled Shakran’s return.
Before Kai could fully react, Shakran materialized mere inches away, his blade aimed at Kai’s exposed stomach.
Reacting on instinct, Kai unleashed a massive circle of fire, “Astrum Langotra!”.
The cascade of fire engulfed Shakran like a warm hug—maybe a little too warm. The heat seared through flesh and blood, forcing him to recoil as the inferno consumed his very essence.
Seizing the moment, Kai darted backward, putting enough distance between them.
Yet the battle was far from over.
These burnt, sizzling pain meant nothing. He knew his opponent would just recover with time.
With a swift motion, Kai modified the spell structure in his left hand, expanding its reach before unleashing it. A freezing beam of light burst forth, striking Shakran’s chest right on the left side. The impact was immediate—Shakran’s form stiffened as layers of ice coalesced around him. Locked in a frigid prison from neck to legs, he struggled futilely, his movements growing ever more labored as the ice held him captive.
Aware that such a hold could not last indefinitely, Kai began to cast another spell—a risky fourth-circle incantation that would leave him just enough mana to retreat if the gambit faltered.
As the threads of mana wove into an intricate pattern around his outstretched hand, Shakran’s voice cut through the tense air.
“How do you know where I was going to attack from? You didn’t know it before,” Shakran taunted, his voice filled with incredulity even as he strained against his icy bonds.
Kai’s lips curled into a wry smile as he replied coolly, “I don’t have to tell you.” With that, he murmured the incantation.
“Infernal Astrum Veins Pyros!”
In the split second that followed, Shakran shattered free of the ice construct—only to be met by Kai’s next assault. From the palm of his other hand, a single orb of flame materialized.
It pulsed with an inner fire as it hurtled toward Shakran, a burning promise of retribution aimed to end the blood drinker’s relentless, annoying onslaught.
Shakran twisted mid-air, trying to retreat, but the orb of flame grazed his arm. The fire clung to him, licking up his sleeve and charring his skin. He gritted his teeth, then exhaled sharply, shaking his head.
“That was your ultimate spell?” His voice carried the slightest hint of disappointment, a smirk tugging at his burnt lips. “I didn’t even feel anything by this point. Especially with such a weak attack.”
Kai smiled. A slow, knowing grin. “You’re an idiot.”
The moment the words left his mouth, Shakran’s expression flickered. A shift, almost imperceptible at first, like a disturbance in still water. Then—
He inhaled sharply, his body stiffening. His hands twitched. His breathing turned ragged. And then, in front of Kai’s eyes, the impossible happened.
His blood began to boil.
Not metaphorically. Not in rage or exertion. Physically.
Steam curled from his skin. His veins pulsed and bulged unnaturally as if something inside him fought to escape. His eyes, wide with realization, filled with red. Not just bloodshot—but literally bleeding. Crimson streaks leaked from the corners, rolling down his cheeks like molten tears. He staggered.
“What… did you do?” His voice was hoarse, raw with something more than pain—dread.
Kai looked at him emotionlessly. “It’s a banned spell. A taboo in the fire spell directory. Just because of how gruesomely it kills.” He exhaled, watching.
“It’s called [Infernal Veins].”
Shakran’s body convulsed. His hands trembled as he tried to grip something—anything—but his fingers no longer obeyed him. His arms ignited from the inside out, burning like paper catching fire at the edges. His flesh darkened and cracked, glowing ember-red beneath the surface.
“Your blood will burn from within,” Kai continued, looking at him carefully. “Breaking you down. Until there’s nothing left but a puddle of molten blood.”
Shakran screamed.
It wasn’t the sound of a warrior in pain. It wasn’t the cry of someone resisting death. A horrifying sound to ears. His body twisted in agony as the spell took full effect. His legs buckled, the flesh melting and sloughing off his bones. Blood dripped in thick, bubbling globs, eating away at what remained of him.
Kai stood still, watching. He had seen death in many forms, but this… this was something different. Even for him.
Then—
A jolt ran through him.
A warning bell—no, an entire chorus of them—screamed in his mind. His instincts, honed through countless battles, flared to life, screaming at him.
Something was wrong.
This should have been over. He should have won. But he hadn’t.
His eyes narrowed as he focused on the remnants of Shakran’s disintegrating form. And then—he saw it.
In the mess of melted flesh and searing blood, something moved.
A squirming, writhing mass. It pulsed, nestled where Shakran’s heart should have been, covered by layers of half-melted tissue.
Recognition struck Kai like a bolt of ice. A parasite.
Just like the one that had turned Vermorga.
His stomach turned. Was it the same one? Or another? He didn’t know. He didn’t care. Because the battle wasn’t over. The parasite twitched, then sprang to life, latching onto the melting remnants of Shakran’s body.
And in that instant, Kai understood.
This wasn’t just a man he had been fighting.
It was something far, far worse.
And it was still alive.
Kai gasped as he propelled himself through the air, the wind whipping against his face. Below him, Shakran’s form had completely transformed. Patches of dead mana spread across his body like a creeping disease, turning his skin a sickly, charred black. Even the blood that had coated him shifted—morphing into something darker, something unnatural.
If Shakran had been terrifying before, now he looked like something pulled from a nightmarish legend. A beast spoken once and never again just because how terrifying it looked, the kind that children were warned about—but no one truly believed existed.
Then—
A gust of unnatural wind erupted from his back.
“I WILL KILL YOU!” Shakran yelled, his voice guttural and inhuman. His maw twisted into a grotesque sneer, fangs bared. “I WILL EAT EVERY SINGLE BIT OF YOUR FLESH!”
Kai had no time to react. The blood drinker charged, his movements blurring into a streak of black and crimson.
Too fast!
Kai forced his body to move, barely escaping Shakran’s grasp. A clawed hand grazed his side, close enough that he felt the unnatural chill of dead mana seeping from his opponent’s skin.
I need to get higher—!
He gritted his teeth, twisting mid-air. A burst of wind magic surged around his legs, propelling him skyward just in time. The momentum sent him soaring, his body cutting through the night air like an arrow.
His Mana heart throbbed painfully. He had barely enough mana left to keep flying for a few minutes, and that was if he didn’t waste any more on attacks.
A bone-chilling screech shattered the air.
Kai glanced down.
Shakran stood below, his monstrous form quivering with raw, unstable energy. The parasite had latched onto him completely now, pumping so much dead mana into him that it was a miracle his body hadn’t already collapsed under the strain.
But unlike Actra, who had lost himself to corruption, Shakran was different.
His body could handle it.
Which meant Kai couldn’t wait for him to rot from the inside out.
Shakran moved.
Blood erupted from his fingertips, turning into jagged tendrils that shot toward Kai like a volley of lances.
Kai dodged, twisting in the air, his mana straining to keep him aloft. The crimson spikes barely missed him, but as they struck the ground below, explosions rocked the battlefield.
Craters formed on impact.
Kai’s heart pounded.
If even one of those hits me… I’m dead.
Gritting his teeth, he forced more mana into his wind spells, squeezing every last drop from his Mana heart. His speed increased—just barely—but it still wasn’t enough.
No matter how fast he moved, Shakran kept up.
Kai knew something had changed. Shakran’s movements felt sharper now, the parasite—whatever it was, had enhanced his instincts along with his strength.
Kai swore under his breath.
He was running out of options.
He looked around. A gorge loomed ahead, a yawning maw carved into the mountainside. Kai surged forward, his breath ragged, mana flickering weakly in his core. Behind him, Shakran's voice echoed like a curse on the wind.
"You won’t escape! I’ll tear this place apart!"
A crimson arrow shrieked past Kai’s ear, embedding itself into the rock face with an explosive burst. Stone splintered, debris raining down as the gorge trembled from the impact. He twisted midair, dodging another projectile, the scent of corrupted mana thick in his lungs.
The narrow canyon walls shielded him, giving him cover as he weaved through the tight space. But Shakran followed.
More arrows streaked toward him. Kai gritted his teeth, body sluggish, every wingbeat of wind magic costing him more than he could afford.
Then, pain erupted as one of the arrows grazed him by.
The sharp, searing burn of flesh filled him. A sickening crunch. His body lurched mid-flight, his left shoulder jerking back as something tore through it. Blood spattered against the rock.
His control wavered. “Fuck!!” He barely caught himself, and forced his body forward, deeper into a cave in the gorge.
As soon as his feet hit the floor, his breath came shallow, barely making it out of his lungs. His body screamed in protest as he pressed his back against the cool stone wall of the cave. His shoulder throbbed where the blood arrow had struck him, dark mana seeping into his wound like poison.
With shaky fingers, he fumbled for a potion, biting back a wince as he forced the bitter liquid down his throat.
Soon, he felt the pain dull, but only slightly.
He knew that his body was still on the verge of collapse.
And then—
A suffocating wave of power crashed against his senses, making the very air in the cave feel heavy.
Shakran landed at the entrance, his monstrous form fully lit up by the moonlight filtering in from outside. Up close, he looked even worse—his flesh was peeling away in places, revealing something grotesque underneath. His veins pulsed with an eerie, dark glow, patches of dead mana crawling across his skin like a living infection.
But what caught Kai’s attention the most was the thing embedded in his chest—the pulsating mass of writhing tendrils, thick with pitch-black ichor.
The parasite.
Shakran’s lips twisted into a bloodthirsty grin as he took slow steps toward Kai. He darted his tongue out in amusement.
“You were a hard prey to catch. I’ll give you that.” His eyes gleamed with something wicked. “You even managed to destroy my body. If not for a precious gift I hid in my heart, you would have won.”
Kai’s jaw clenched, fingers twitching as he considered his next move.
Shakran chuckled darkly. “Fortunately, Mistress Regina made sure I always have ways to come back from death.”
Kai scoffed, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Gifts from people like Regina don't come without burden. You are just a servant of Maleficia.” His voice dripped with mockery.
Shakran’s eyes flickered with something—surprise, then amusement. He inclined his head. “I’m impressed. You know the name.” He took a slow step forward, his presence pressing like a stormfront. “Then you should understand the honor of dying by the hands of a follower of the great Malefic. Perhaps in your next life, you will serve him as well.” His grin widened, revealing the dripping blood. “Consider yourself lucky. I won’t make this painful. I have no time to waste—I must return to Mistress Regina.”
Kai let out a breathy chuckle. “I don’t think you’ll be doing that.”
Shakran stilled. His gaze narrowed, scanning Kai’s exhausted frame. “Bold words. And who exactly is going to stop me? You?” He tilted his head, mockery lacing his tone. “You can barely stand. Your mana is gone. You—”
Kai’s smile didn’t waver. “I know.” His fingers curled at his side, hidden in the dim light. “That’s why I made preparations.”
Shakran’s smirk faltered, just for a moment. His eyes flicked to Kai’s hands—too late.
With a sharp flick, Kai swung his arm forward, sending a spray of his own blood splattering against the ground between them.
A golden flare erupted beneath Shakran’s feet. the blood-soaked earth igniting in a burst of golden light.
Arcane symbols spiralled outward, carving themselves into the stone with an eerie hum. The ritual circle snapped to life, its glow searing against the darkness.
Kai soon started chanting the incantation for the ritual to activate.
Shakran lunged back, instincts flaring—too late. From the burning sigils, golden ropes shot upward like striking vipers. They coiled around his legs, his arms, his torso, yanking him down with a force that cracked the stone beneath him. He snarled, struggling, but the bindings only tightened, shimmering with divine energy.
A low chuckle echoed through the cave. “You thought well, kid.”
Shakran’s head snapped to the side just as a figure stepped from the shadows—a squat, broad-shouldered dwarf with his arms crossed, a glint of amusement in his eyes. Tharnok.
Then another voice, this one a tone deeper came out as a minotaur revealed himself, Balen. “Lord Arzan always has his plans.”
Shakran’s eyes widened, but not at them. His gaze locked onto what they held—massive, gleaming contraptions humming with raw power. Mana cannons. Two of them.
Kai exhaled weakly. “Fire.”
The world exploded into white.
2025-02-23 14:50:12 +0000 UTC
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Chapter 75
Heavenly Sleep Inn was a fairly unremarkable place. A middle-tier establishment that catered mostly to merchants and travelers, it saw a steady flow of customers—people of modest means who came and went without drawing much attention.
That was why, on this particular morning, the sight of several extravagant carriages pulling up outside sent shockwaves through the people in the inn.
The moment the first carriage door opened, a hush fell over the common room. Conversations died mid-sentence. Patrons turned to gawk. Even people outside the inn gathered around, craning their necks to get a better look.
The realization spread quickly, whispered from table to table: These were the men who controlled the city’s alcohol trade.
Half a dozen figures entered, each dressed in finely embroidered robes that bore the insignias of their respective clans and trade associations. They moved confidently, the weight of their wealth and influence pressing into the space like an invisible force.
Yet among them, only three men truly stood out.
The first was the owner of Phoenix Tear Tavern, Luo Duyi, a shrewd businessman who had once entertained a visiting noble and boasted about it for years. His sharp eyes swept over the inn with a deep-set frown.
The second was an elder from the Gujam Clan, Gujam Deshun, a man who had controlled the Silver Jug Bar for decades. He stepped inside while clenching and unclenching his fists in habit, his eyes moving across the room, searching for something unseen.
And the last was Zhu Yuan of the Alehouse, his round face lacked any sort of expression as he took his place among the others, giving nothing away.
A tense silence stretched between them as they moved toward the largest table in the inn. The servers, looking nervous, rushed to bring water, placing the glasses carefully in front of them.
Finally they sat down and Luo Duyi broke the silence. He scowled down at the glass of water before him, then scoffed.
"What kind of place has that man called us to?" he muttered, the upper lip curling in disgust. "Couldn’t he have chosen somewhere decent?"
At that, Gujam Deshun chuckled. "I’d love to see if you’ll keep that tone and attitude when Chen Ren arrives." His wrinkled fingers tapped the rim of his glass before he leaned back in his chair with a creak. "Your servants already sent him gifts yesterday, didn’t they? Hoping to buy his favor? And yet, they were turned away. You should be grateful that you’re even getting this opportunity to purchase moonshine."
Luo Duyi shot him a glare. "So, you’ve been keeping track of my servants, old man?" He asked with a smile that mocked the attempt, but his eyes remained cold. "Don’t pretend you haven’t done the same. From what I’ve heard, you outright refused to meet Daoist Chen Ren’s people when they first came to sell moonshine. And now that it's turning into the most sought-after drink in the city, here you are, scrambling to secure a deal."
Deshun’s face darkened at that, his grip on his cup tightening slightly. But before he could shoot back a retort, Zhu Yuan clicked his tongue in annoyance.
"Enough. You two should stop bickering like children. We’re in a public place." He looked around, and took note of all the eyes that were peering down on them.
Luo Duyi scoffed, crossing his arms. "This isn’t bickering. It’s called talking. Fighting is done with fists. And let’s not forget, we’re all competitors here. Do you really expect us to sit around and chat like we’re at a family dinner?"
A few of the seated businessmen nodded at that, but Zhu Yuan remained unimpressed. He merely sighed before speaking again. "It doesn’t matter how much we argue. In the end, none of us can change the outcome of who gets the exclusive contract for moonshine."
Then, his gaze swept across the gathered merchants. "I assume all of you have already decided on your tenders?"
They exchanged looks before nodding.
Duyi clicked his tongue. "I still don’t understand this whole tender process. I’ve never seen anything like it before. Why can’t he just conduct business the normal way, like any proper merchant?"
Deshun exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. "People from sects have their own ways. And in a way, this is revenge. He wants to see which of us is the most desperate to get his product after we rejected him." A wry smile appeared on his lips. "A bitter but clever move. Since we’re not allowed to change our offers once the tenders are submitted, he’s making sure we reveal exactly how much we’re willing to pay—without him having to negotiate at all."
Duyi parted his lips to retort, but before he could say anything, the sound of approaching footsteps echoed through the inn. Instantly, the room fell into silence as all heads turned toward the staircase.
Chen Ren walked down the steps calmly. His robes crisp and his face held a neutral expression. Behind him, two of his subordinates that they remembered as Zi Han and Anji followed closely. The tension in the air thickened as the merchants instinctively straightened their postures.
As he reached the table, the gathered businessmen stood in unison and gave him a slight bow—a gesture of respect, both for his status as a cultivator and as the man they were here to negotiate with.
Chen Ren nodded at them. "Please, sit down. I apologize for the delay, but let’s begin this meeting."
He took his seat at the head of the table, his sharp gaze sweeping over the group. For a few seconds, he simply observed them, letting the silence linger just long enough to remind them who held the power in this negotiation. Then, with a small, almost polite smile, he spoke.
"I see that all of you have decided to come here today with your tenders. First of all, I appreciate your interest in our moonshine. But before we begin, let me make one thing clear—there will be no second chances. Whatever offer you’ve prepared will be final. There will be no renegotiations."
A ripple of tension ran through the merchants, but they nodded in agreement. A few of them even voiced their assurance.
"We are here with our best offer.
Even Duyi, who had been the most vocal earlier, now seemed to have adjusted his attitude. With a more respectful tone, he said, "My Phoenix Tear Tavern will secure this contract."
One by one, the merchants reached into their robes, retrieving their tenders—rolled-up parchments sealed with wax, each holding their final bid.
Chen Ren accepted them, stacking them neatly in front of him. He let his fingers brush over the topmost scroll before meeting their eyes once more
"Now, shall we see who will have the privilege of selling moonshine in this city?"
He then started opening them, one after the other.
***
Chen Ren looked down at the neatly stacked parchments in front of him, fingers brushing lightly over the wax seals. He had anticipated that the bar owners would realize they were in direct competition and would submit strong offers. And he had to admit—he wasn’t disappointed.
Each proposal was significantly better than the initial ones he had received. The desperation to secure the moonshine contract was evident in the generous terms they had put forward. Now, all that was left was to choose one.
Rather than overcomplicating things by immediately looking for the best deal, Chen Ren started from the bottom, gauging which offers were the weakest. His expression remained neutral as he unrolled each parchment, scanning the contents before setting aside the ones that failed to meet his expectations.
With each rejected tender, he silently passed the parchment to Anji and Zi Wen, who stood beside him.
He had to admit—choosing a winner wasn’t easy. The bars had gone all out, offering him terms that were almost ridiculously favorable. He guessed they now viewed moonshine as their golden ticket to expanding their reach into the cultivator market—a customer base that was notoriously difficult to cater to. And because of that, they were offering terms they probably hadn’t given to anyone before.
Part of it was obviously fueled by their competition with each other. No one wanted to lose. But at the end of the day, this was an exclusive contract. Only one of them would be walking away with the rights to sell moonshine.
After shifting through the parchments for a while, weighing the pros and cons, Chen Ren finally came to a conclusion. And he had to say—it wasn’t a surprising one. If anything, he had fully expected this outcome.
Lifting his gaze from the documents, he looked at the gathered businessmen.
"Honorable gentlemen, thank you for your patience as I reviewed your offers." He placed the parchment that he had in his hands on the table. "I found them all to be quite generous, and I appreciate the effort each of you put into your proposals."
The men at the table tensed ever so slightly.
They had maintained an air of composure throughout the meeting, but in truth, they all understood what was at stake. Whoever lost this contract wasn’t just losing out on one product—they were losing an entire market share. Their competitors would gain the upper hand, while they would be left scrambling to catch up.
Ignoring their expressions, Chen Ren continued.
"So, after careful consideration, I have decided that the establishment that will receive the exclusive contract for moonshine is…" He paused for just a fraction of a second. "The Zhu Clan's Alehouse."
The atmosphere immediately turned dire. Zhu Yuan's eyes gleamed as he tapped the table, his jubilant smile widening. The murmurs of surprise spread like wildfire among the gathered crowd, while Luo Duyi’s face paled, his throat constricting as he hastily swallowed a large gulp of water, mistaking it for alcohol in his panic.
"I offered 50 silver wen per container," Duyi sputtered, his voice shaky. "How did I not win? You’ve made a deal with the Zhu Clan already and called us here to humiliate us!"
Chen Ren’s eyes remained unbothered. His expression didn’t shift as he met the man’s gaze. “I have no such intention. I chose the Zhu Alehouse because they gave the best offer.”
Deshun, seated quietly at the back, let out a low sigh and leaned forward. “Can we know what the Zhu Clan offered?”
Chen Ren turned his gaze to Zhu Yuan, who smiled proudly, thoroughly enjoying the attention. He leaned back in his chair with exaggerated ease, before answering in a voice that boomed with authority. “I just gave an offer that can’t be surpassed. Forty silver wen per container.”
Luo Duyi’s jaw dropped, but before he could protest, Zhu Yuan wasn’t done. He raised a hand, signaling for silence, and continued, “And 25 percent profit on every sale of moonshine.”
Gasps rippled through the inn, the man on the table turning to each other, eyes wide in disbelief. Even Gujam, who had clearly seen many deals in his time, couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow. "With such rates," he started, his voice tinged with incredulity, "how are you even going to make a profit?"
Zhu Yuan waved his hand dismissively, his grin unwavering. “You don’t need to worry about that, old man. Now that my bar has the contract, I’ll handle the rest.” He leaned back in his chair, eyes locking with Chen Ren’s. “I hope we’ll be good business partners, Daoist Chen.”
Chen Ren offered a polite nod, his fingers brushing together in the subtle gesture of respect. “Certainly, Young Master Zhu Yuan.”
The tension in the room seemed to diffuse as the deal was sealed, the murmurs turning into whispers. But Chen Ren didn't care about any of it. The important part was that he had finally secured a deal for the moonshine.
***
Once the final decision was made, confirming that the Zhu Clan had secured the exclusive contract for moonshine, the atmosphere in the inn shifted dramatically. The men, who had been seated at the table moments ago, quickly gathered their things, eager to leave. They barely cast a glance toward Zhu Yuan or Chen Ren. He could sense the mix of frustration and resignation when they left. It was clear they were desperate to be anywhere else.
Still, to Chen Ren’s surprise, none of them overtly showed their displeasure. They bid Zhu Yuan and him farewell with polite smiles, maintaining an outward calm. Luo Duyi, on the other hand, had trouble hiding his discontent, his mood souring as he muttered under his breath.
But Chen Ren couldn’t help but respect the restraint shown by the other bar owners. It spoke volumes about their professionalism. He appreciated their ability to control their emotions and avoid making enemies. In this world, knowing how to handle business and keep one's pride in check was just as important as any deal. After all, the exclusive contract wasn’t permanent—it only lasted for two years. If a better deal came his way in the future, Chen Ren wouldn’t hesitate to consider it.
Once the last of them had left, Zhu Yuan looked at Chen Ren with a grin. "I’m glad this is all settled," he said, his voice cheerful. "I’d like to have you as a guest at our estate while you’re in the city."
Chen Ren didn’t hesitate before accepting. He had no intention of staying in the inn any longer—its comfort was lacking, and he knew it would be more beneficial to stay in the Zhu Clan's estate, especially considering it would give him a good chance to bolster better relationship between his sect and the Zhu clan.
“I’d be happy to,” he replied, with a smile that was just as measured as ever.
Without wasting time, they began to shift everything and moved to the Zhu Clan estate where they decided to store every bit of moonshine they had brought in the carriage.
As the Zhu Clan workers began moving the moonshine into the warehouse—Zi Han, Hong Yi, and Anji made sure nothing was broken in the process—Zhu Yuan led Chen Ren to a tour of the estate. The grandness of the place made it clear that he was in a clan that has a history of hundreds of years. Just the architecture looked regal yet sturdy.
As they walked, Zhu Yuan turned to Chen Ren with a more serious expression. “I know we didn’t start off on the best footing,” he said, “but I’m genuinely excited to have good business with the Divine Coin Sect. We’ll make this work.”
Chen Ren nodded. “What happened in the past isn’t important. As long as we’re good business partners and make profits, I believe we’ll both be happy.” He glanced at Zhu Yuan, his eyes steady. "That’s the nature of this business."
Zhu Yuan’s grin widened at the words, a flicker of understanding passing between them. “Exactly,” he agreed, pausing before adding, “With the way moonshine’s been gaining fame, I’m confident the business will be booming. Honestly, I was almost scared I wasn’t going to get my hands on it.”
Chen Ren smiled. “I can understand. I myself didn't expect such interest in my product,” he said before adding. “Though, I expected you to get the deal.”
At Chen Ren’s words, Zhu Yuan’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “You expected me to get it?” he asked.
Chen Ren nodded. “Yes. Out of all the bar owners, you needed it the most.” He paused for a moment, letting his words sink in before continuing. “First of all, you’re really young, Young Master Zhu Yuan. From what I’ve gathered, you’ve only recently taken over the alcohol business from your father. It’s obvious you want to prove yourself to him. If you had let the moonshine slip through your fingers, and some other tavern made a success of it, your position within the clan might’ve been in jeopardy.”
Zhu Yuan’s expression shifted as he intently listened to Chen Ren’s analysis. His posture straightened slightly and he flinched, as if he recognized the truth in what Chen Ren was saying. That was enough for Chen Ren to know he had hit the mark.
“Moreover,” Chen Ren added, raising his third finger, “the Zhu Clan has been trying to forge more connections with sects, sending their young members there to explore the wider world and become better cultivators. A brand of alcohol catering primarily to cultivators could help with that. Even if higher realm cultivators might not be interested, it could open doors with the lower realm cultivators in the sects. A connection with even an outer disciple in the sect can be vital after all.”
When he had arrived in the city first, Chen Ren had searched for every bit of information he could find from various sources— other merchants in the inn, servants of the large clans and even by giving away a bit of moonshine to some establishments and then he had pieced it all together. It was almost unbelievable how much could be learned from just keeping an ear open.
“The larger the clan,” Chen Ren continued, “the more likely they are to leak information. There are always weak points.”
Zhu Yuan didn’t respond immediately, his expression unreadable. Finally, he nodded, his lips curling into a small smile. “I see you’ve done your research,” he said, acknowledging Chen Ren’s information. But he didn’t confirm or deny any of the points raised.
Before Chen Ren could say anything further, his gaze shifted to the side. Something caught his eye—a faint glow of heat rising from a forge. His attention snapped to it, his focus sharpening as he saw a man standing in the center, hammering a piece of armor. The heat from the forge was intense, and the air shimmered around it, but what truly caught Chen Ren’s attention wasn’t the fire or the steel.
It was the subtle pulse of qi that flowed from the man’s hammer with each strike, rippling through the air like a hidden current. Chen Ren’s eyes widened.
The man’s movements were smooth, his control over the hammer and the forge seemingly infused with internal energy. Every strike sent a faint but distinct wave of qi into the metal. This wasn’t just someone with an impressive skill for forging, or someone who’s trying their best to be skilled in their craft.
That man was a cultivator.
2025-02-23 14:47:59 +0000 UTC
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Chapter 74
Shen Bao, the leader of the Black Fang Hunting Party and a peak Qi Refinement realm cultivator, scowled as he leaned forward. His nose scrunched up in frustration as he locked his eyes with the Phoenix Tear Tavern's owner, Luo Duyi. He scoffed. He was a man that was used to getting what he wanted, and the response that came from the tavern owner was something that definitely displeased him.
"What do you mean you don't have moonshine?" he demanded, his index finger nail scratching the outer surface of the table with an ‘eek’. "I was informed a man was here with a container of it just three days back. Did it already get sold out?"
Across from him, Luo Duyi kept his head lowered. He lifted his head just enough to catch the annoyed face of the cultivator.
"I'm sorry, Master Shen, but we didn’t buy it," he said carefully. He hesitated, then added, "But may I ask how you came to know of it?"
Shen Bao narrowed his eyes. "Someone delivered a bottle of it to my estate yesterday," he said, voice thick with displeasure. "My subordinates thought it was poison at first, but when one of them dared to try it, they realized it wasn’t just safe—it was damn good. They brought it to me, and I have to say, it's a fine drink. Not as refined as spirit wine, but it has a kick. A real, satisfying burn. Unlike the watered-down swill you all sell in this town."
His lips curled slightly, whether in amusement or disdain was unclear. "So tell me, why don’t you have it?"
Luo Duyi clenched his jaw, lowering his gaze. A frown etched deep into his forehead, his mind racing. He hadn’t expected this—hadn’t thought much at all when he rejected the young man who had come to sell the moonshine. But now, under Shen Bao’s scrutiny, he realized his mistake.
"Some people did try to sell it to me three days ago," he admitted reluctantly. "And I won’t lie, I liked it. But we couldn’t agree on a price, so they left. That’s the reason your people saw someone with moonshine entering the tavern. There’s nothing more to it. Please, believe me."
Shen Bao studied him for a long moment, his sharp, wolf-like eyes measuring the truth in his words. Then he leaned back and let out a low grunt.
"Fine. Then tell me, where are these people? I’ll find them myself and buy the moonshine from them." His voice turned harsh, a flicker of impatience threading through it. "You need to understand, I don’t like something every day. But when I do, I make sure I get my hands on it."
Luo Duyi straightened hurriedly, nodding with forced enthusiasm. "Of course, Master Shen! The whole city knows you don't give up on things easily. There's no way I wouldn't be aware of that."
Then, a crease formed between his brows.
"But... I actually don’t know where they are. They just left after saying they wouldn’t sell for the price I was offering. They didn’t give an address." He hesitated, rubbing his chin. "But if they sent you a bottle as a gift, they should still be in the city."
Shen Bao’s fingers stilled against the table. A slow grin spread across his face, though there was nothing pleasant about it.
"Then we’ll just have to find them, won’t we?"
Luo Duyi wiped his hands on his apron, forcing a smile as he gestured toward the door. “Why don’t you try some other pub, Master Shen? Maybe someone else has what you’re looking for.”
Across the table, Shen Bao’s expression didn’t change. His wrinkled hands rested on the worn wood scraping the wood until little parts were stuck in his nails. Then, he shook his head. “I already did.”
Luo Duyi stiffened. “You… already did?”
Shen Bao nodded. “Yes. The ones who came to sell you moonshine tried every pub in the city. Not a single one of you offered them a good enough price.” He leaned forward, his lips curling into a slow smile. “If I hadn’t gone around myself and heard the same story from every other tavern, I wouldn’t have believed you so easily.” The corners of his lips curled up. “I would’ve taken my time getting the truth out of you.”
A cold sweat broke across Luo Duyi’s brow. He swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. “I… I’m glad then,” he stammered, forcing out an uneasy laugh. But as the silence stretched, an idea struck him. He straightened, his expression turning earnest. “Don’t worry, Master Shen. I’ll make sure I get the moonshine in stock next time you visit.”
Shen Bao’s smirk deepened. “I hope you do,” he said, his voice smooth. “Because from what I hear, a lot of people have suddenly started looking for this alcohol.”
Luo Duyi’s brows furrowed. “Where did you hear that from?”
Shen Bao chuckled, shaking his head. “I wasn’t the only one who received it out of nowhere. A lot of places where cultivators gather—inns, gambling dens, even brothels—have mysteriously acquired bottles of moonshine. And quite a few people found a gift waiting at their doorstep.” His eyes gleamed. “You’re not an idiot, Luo Duyi. You must have some idea of what’s going on.”
A flicker of realization dawned on the tavern owner’s face. His fingers tightened around the edge of the table as he connected the pieces.
Shen Bao continued, his voice almost casual. “Soon, demand will soar as these people search for more. If any pub manages to secure a steady supply, their business will boom overnight.” He paused, letting his words sink in. “Right now, the Zhu Clan controls the biggest share of the market—not just in the city, but in nearby towns and villages. But this is an opportunity.” His gaze sharpened. “A chance for another pub to close the gap.”
Luo Duyi exhaled slowly, then nodded. “I understand.” His face grew serious, determination setting into his features. He straightened his back. “Don’t worry, Master Shen. I, Luo Duyi of the Phoenix Tear Tavern, will make sure we have a batch of moonshine ready when you return.”
***
Even though Chen Ren had expected his plan to work, he had never imagined it would unfold this smoothly—or to this degree.
Not only had he managed to slip his moonshine into the hands of some of the most influential people in the city, but he had also spread it into public venues where cultivators gathered in large numbers—courtesan houses, training halls, gambling dens, and even some prominent inns. It wasn’t difficult. A few well-placed bribes ensured that the right hands carried the bottles to the right places.
From the start, he had known his alcohol would be a hit. Cultivators had stronger bodies, faster metabolisms—regular liquor barely scratched the surface of their tolerance. They needed something potent, something that could burn its way through their enhanced systems. And moonshine? It did the job better than anything else.
What he hadn’t expected, however, was just how much cultivators in this city loved their alcohol.
The reports from Zi Han and Hong Yi painted a clear picture—demand was rising faster than expected.
The first bottles had barely made their rounds, yet already, cultivators were searching for more. Their first stop? The bars and taverns scattered across the city. But none of them had any moonshine to sell.
Chen Ren smirked. He could already imagine the panic spreading among the pub owners. Right now, they had to be scrambling, kicking themselves for turning away his sellers. Some were probably already making desperate attempts to source a new supply.
The Zhu Clan, in particular, had moved fast. One of their men had come to the inn, requesting a meeting on behalf of their master. Chen Ren had ignored it.
The timing wasn’t right yet.
If he caved too early, he’d lose leverage. No—he had to let them stew a little longer, let the demand climb higher. The game was still at halftime, and he had no intention of ending it prematurely.
A knock sounded at his door.
Chen Ren leaned back, exhaling slowly before speaking. “Come in.”
The door opened, and Hong Yi stepped inside. The moment the door shut behind him, he reached up, pulling away the mask that concealed his true face. His features shifted, revealing the familiar face that immediately locked onto Chen Ren.
“I just returned from the Black Lotus Tavern and the Dragon’s Fang Bar,” Hong Yi reported. “As you suspected, the rumors are starting to spread. Even regular folks are talking about our moonshine now.”
Chen Ren's smile widened. "Is that so?"
Hong Yi nodded. "Yeah. Just like you said, rumors spread without us having to do anything. Now, even the mortals know that the city's cultivators are interested in moonshine, and they want to try it themselves. There’s always someone in the bars asking for it, and the owners are going crazy."
He paused for a moment before continuing. "Zi Han also told me that we've received a lot of invitations—from both bars and individual cultivators—ever since they found out we were staying here."
Chen Ren chuckled. "Yes, but I'm stalling for now. Fortunately, Ashen City has strict laws, so I don’t have to worry about cultivators barging in uninvited. Just their servants, and they’ve been pretty amiable after learning that I’m a qi refinement cultivator."
In Ashen City, Qi Refinement cultivators were considered heavyweights. The highest-ranking figures—the heads of stronger families and powerful hunting groups—were usually in the early stars of the foundation establishment realm, but they wouldn't show their faces out a lot, and would be busy trying to advance their cultivation for more lifespan, being old men with a time limit.
Anyone with better talent in the young generation would have left for a sect long ago. That meant that as far as the city's residents were concerned, a qi refinement cultivator like Chen Ren was someone to be treated with respect, if not outright caution.
That gave him all the time he needed to let the rumors about moonshine spread.
Another reason he had been left alone was the fact he had fed the bar owners—that he was part of a sect. Even if the city's cultivators wanted to get their hands on his product, none of them were reckless enough to offend a sect, even one they hadn’t heard of before. Not over a mere drink, at least.
"So what are we going to do next?" Hong Yi asked. "How long are we stalling for?"
Chen Ren's gaze sharpened. "Not much longer. Just one more day. After that, we’ll start hearing out the bar owners and see who’s willing to give us the best price."
Hong Yi tilted his head. "Do you want me to go with Zi Han to the bars and see how much they’re willing to pay now?"
Chen Ren shook his head. "No. We’re far beyond the point of going to them. We have a product that’s becoming a hit among the city's cultivators, and they want it. Let them come to us. Not separately, but all at the same time."
Hong Yi raised an eyebrow. "I see that you already have a plan, Sect Leader Chen?"
Chen Ren smirked. "I do. And it’s something businesses often do when they’re trying to secure a partnership."
Hong Yi’s eyes narrowed. "And what’s that?"
"It’s simple," Chen Ren said. "It’s called a tender document." He paused. "Let me explain it to you."
***
Zhu Yuan scratched the beard that had slowly grown along his jaw, his frown deepening as he leaned against his desk. He reached for the half-full mug of beer beside him and downed it in one gulp, but the bitterness only added to the headache brewing behind his eyes.
He exhaled sharply, rubbing his temples. "It’s only been a year since I took over the tavern… but why am I already so close to losing it?"
Slumping back in his chair, he cursed his rotten luck. He knew that in business, there were opportunities that could make or break you—golden chances that, if seized, could secure wealth for years to come. But if ignored, someone else would take them and leave you in the dust. And recently… he had let one such opportunity slip through his fingers.
Just a few days ago, that man—Chen Ren—
had come to him, offering to sell his alcohol.
At the time, Zhu Yuan had turned him down. Not because the product was bad. No, far from it. He had been drinking since he was thirteen, sneaking sips from his father’s stash, and by eighteen, he was a regular at every bar in the city. He knew good alcohol when he tasted it, and that moonshine had been something else. Strong, smooth, and with a kick that would even affect a cultivator.
But still, he had refused to pay the price Chen Ren was asking. It was a product the city had never seen before, brought in by an outsider, no matter what sect he claimed to be from.
Zhu Yuan had been sure that his decision was the right one—that Chen Ren would come crawling back, desperate to make a sale. Then, he could have forced him to sell for a fraction of the price.
Yet, instead of things going his way, demand for moonshine had exploded almost overnight. Now, even his uncles—the ones who usually left the bar matters to him—were asking about it.
The old men of the Zhu family held considerable power, each carrying decades of favors and influence. If they found out that he had turned down the contract for moonshine,
Zhu Yuan was certain he wouldn’t just be scolded—he’d be taken down a notch, maybe even have some of his authority stripped. But that wasn’t even the worst part.
If another bar managed to secure the contract instead, then his Alehouse was doomed. That thought alone made his stomach churn, an unbearable emptiness gnawing at him no matter how much he drank or ate.
"All because of that damn man, Chen Ren," he muttered under his breath, rubbing his face in frustration.
It wasn’t even like the fame of moonshine had started out of nowhere. Zhu Yuan knew Chen Ren was behind it and was pulling strings from the background.
He and his people had believed in their product enough to push it directly into the hands of the city’s big shots. Zhu Yuan didn’t know how they had managed to do it, but somehow, they had made all the influential figures in Ashen City taste moonshine.
And once those bottles ran dry, those same big shots had started looking for more. With each inquiry, rumors spread like wildfire. Every drunkard and alcoholic in the city had heard about moonshine by now.
Yet, despite the growing demand, Chen Ren refused to meet with him. In fact, he wasn’t meeting with any of the bar owners. He was keeping them all in the dark.
Zhu Yuan could only hope that this was just a negotiation tactic and not something worse. Because the only thing he truly feared now… was Chen Ren opening his own bar.
More competition was the last thing he needed—especially when the product in question catered directly to cultivators, a market that was already rare and highly profitable.
He exhaled sharply, tapping his fingers against the wooden desk as his mind spun in circles, weighing his options.
Then, a knock on the door.
"Come in," he barked.
The door opened, and one of the receptionists entered, bowing slightly. In his hands was a parchment, the edges sealed with an unfamiliar mark.
Zhu Yuan frowned. "What now?"
The receptionist straightened, clearing his throat. "Young Master Yuan, one of Chen Ren's men, just came by. He wanted to discuss the sales of moonshine."
Zhu Yuan jumped to his feet, his chair screeching against the floor. "Is he still outside? Let me go meet him!"
The receptionist paled and shook his head hurriedly. "No, he already left… but he left this." He stepped forward, placing the parchment on the desk.
Zhu Yuan narrowed his eyes and snatched it
up, tearing open the seal. His gaze ran from the top of the document to the bottom, his expression shifting from confusion to shock.
Then, he let out a harsh breath and muttered under his breath—
"What the hell is this… tender?"
2025-02-21 16:22:48 +0000 UTC
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Chapter 183
Killian. Intruder on the rooftop. Prepare the soldiers on the wall. Enemy forces may be moving.
Killian’s pulse pounded in his ears. He felt his heartbeat thrumming against his ribs like war drums as he froze.
Had he imagined it? Because the sooner the voice came, the sooner it went. But—it couldn’t be an imagination. The voice had been clear, almost as if Lord Arzan was right next to him.
He exhaled loudly, his fingers curling into a fist. No time to hesitate. Especially not when intruders managed to move past their tight formation. The warning of incoming enemies made him turn on his heel, his boots grinding against the stone overseeing an inspection.
The men around him—soldiers stationed at their posts—glanced at him with confusion as he stood still, caught in his own thoughts for that brief, dangerous second.
“Knight Killian?”
Killian snapped his gaze to the man, his jaw tight. “Get the troops ready. Now. I want every single soldier on the walls. Protect the mana cannons. Position the golems accordingly. We are going to see the end of the fief war tonight.”
His voice didn’t betray the urgency he felt. The knowledge of the incoming enemies brought a chill to his spine, but spiked his adrenaline almost instantly.
But regardless of his immediate command, a beat of silence followed. Not what he envisioned; the men exchanged uneasy glances.
An older man from the line walked forward. “What do you mean, Knight Killian?”
Killian’s eyebrows knitted together. “I meant exactly what I said!” he looked between confused soldiers. “Lord Arzan just informed me—Lucian’s army is moving. The Watchers should return with confirmation any moment now. We prepare now, or we die unprepared.”
The man stiffened, the weight of Killian’s words sinking in. Killian pressed on. “Send word to every Enforcer still within the city. Have them reinforce the eastern wall. I’ll be heading to the castle. Lord Arzan is probably fighting a blood drinker on the rooftop.”
For the first time, true understanding flickered in their eyes. The front line soldier who asked the question nodded stiffly, turned, and ran, barking orders as he went.
Killian didn’t wait to see the men fall into motion—he trusted them to do their duty. Instead, he moved. Fast. Taking long strides, he sprinted down the battlements and into the city streets, towards the castle. Every soldier he passed received the same command—spread the news, prepare the defense.
“The enemies are incoming!”
The words started spreading almost instantly.
But before he could move closer, his ears rang.
The world shook.
The ground beneath him trembled violently as an explosion ripped through the air. The sky flashed red. Killian skidded to a halt, his breath catching as his head snapped toward the castle.
He saw a large chunk of the grand structure collapse inward, flames licking the edges of it as smoke curled into the night sky.
His stomach dropped.
The streets around him erupted into panic. People screamed, running in every direction. The guards, trained but startled, clutched their weapons tighter.
Killian barely registered them. His gaze was locked onto the two figures—one monstrous and one familiar silhouettes—flying through the smoke.
They were clashing in midair. His fingers twitched at his side, instinctively wishing he could leap into the fray. The sight that was in front of them made him stop dead in his tracks. Whips of wind curled around Lord Arzan’s legs, keeping him in the air. And it was quite the difference from his opponent.
The damned monster was cloaked in a river of writhing crimson. He could smell the blood and iron from yards away. The creature was lashing out at Lord Arzan, sending waves of blood slicing through the sky in bladed crescents, but Lord Arzan dodged every time. The attacks missed him by a hair’s breadth.
Killian’s jaw tightened. He had fought monsters, had cut down men twice his size, but this—this was something else. Every exchange between the two combatants sent shockwaves rippling outwards. The impact shook the very foundation of the city.
Then, for a brief moment, Lord Arzan’s gaze flickered toward him before he veered left.
Killian understood immediately. The Count was leading the battle away from the heart of the city, minimizing casualties—trusting Killian to do his part.
He turned on his heel, sprinting back toward the walls. If Lord Arzan was handling the blood drinker, that meant Killian had a different battlefield to manage. The city’s defenses, the soldiers, the Enforcers—they needed to be ready.
By the time he reached the fortifications, the troops were already in position. Lines of armored men stood at the ready, gripping their weapons with white-knuckled hands. The mana cannons were being wheeled into place, their arcane cores pulsing with restrained power.
Enforcers stood among them, their presence a steadying force. At the center of it all was Gareth, his sharp gaze scanning the battlefield.
The moment he spotted Killian, he strode forward. “Knight Killian! Duke Lucian’s army is here!”
Killian exhaled sharply. So it begins.
“The blood drinkers seem to have learned of the druidic bonds,” Gareth continued. “They’ve been hunting them down—it slowed our intelligence gathering. But we finally confirmed their movements. They’re advancing.”
“How many?”
“Three thousand with the mercenaries involved. We don’t have exact numbers on the blood drinkers, but at least two to three dozen of them. They won’t be easy opponents.”
No, they wouldn’t be.
He looked over the men, some gripping their weapons too tightly, and others standing straight with their shoulders squared despite the fear curling at the edges of their expressions.
They were outnumbered, and their enemy wasn’t just human.
“Neither are we.” He met Gareth’s eyes. “We need to prove that we aren’t easy opponents either.”
Gareth gave a firm nod, and Killian turned, his eyes sweeping toward the horizon as if willing the army to reveal itself. The wind howled against the stone, carrying the distant sound of marching boots.
A moment passed before Gareth spoke again. “Knight Killian… I saw Lord Arzan fighting something. Will he be okay?”
Killian hesitated, but only for a breath. “Yes, he will be.”
He didn’t need to say more—but he did.
“Lord Arzan is the strongest of us all,” Killian said. “He’ll take down that foul creature for sure.”
His statement reached the ears of the remaining Enforcers; the ones who hadn’t gone to capture castles, and were ordered to stay back with Lord Arzan.
The Enforcers around him visibly steadied, their grips tightening not out of fear but resolve. Lord Arzan wasn’t just their leader—he was their hope.
Then—
A shout came from the watchtower.
“I see movement!”
Every head snapped toward the horizon.
Dust rose in thick, curling waves, swallowing the sky in a murky haze. And through it—an army marched.
Killian’s eyes locked onto the front lines, and his stomach twisted. Duke Lucian rode at the head, his armor glinting beneath the dying light. There were no blood drinkers in sight, but Killian wasn’t naive. They were there. Watching. Waiting. One command, and they’d come rushing like trained hounds.
He inhaled deeply, pressing the weight of his responsibility down into his core. He had done this before. Stood before an army knowing that by dawn, some of these men—his men—would not be standing beside him.
The reality of war was cruel. He knew that. And he couldn’t linger and wallow in regret or the deaths he knew would happen.
Because, he knew one thing, that tonight, it was his battlefield.
Killian tightened his grip on his sword. The leather of the hilt pressed against his palm, grounding him. His responsibility in this battle was greater, but he didn’t let it bow his back. He would lead from the front.
Lord Arzan was locked in his own battle above, fighting a monster that should not exist, leaving the battlefield below in Killian’s hands. And that meant one thing—he could not afford hesitation.
A hundred eyes were on him.
He hadn’t noticed at first, too caught up in his own thoughts, but now he felt it. The expectation. The silent demand for his words. The men needed direction. They needed belief.
So he stepped forward, raising his sword high. And he gave them both.
“Everyone! The battle we have waited for is here.” His voice rang out, steady, unyielding. “This fief war wasn’t started by us, but today—we end it. And we end it in blood.”
A roar erupted from the ranks, boots shifting, weapons raised. Killian let the fire spread before continuing, his voice cutting through the night.
“We don’t face common men alone! We stand against Mages, against monsters—against the blood drinkers, creatures of blood and death.”
A murmur rippled through them, the weight of those words settling in. Fear clawed at the edges of their resolve. He couldn’t allow that.
“But!” Killian’s voice was a blade, slicing through doubt. “Lord Arzan has armed us with weapons that can strike them down! He has given us armor that will not yield, forces that make us more than men!”
He turned, meeting the gaze of his soldiers, each one waiting for his final command.
“Today, we prove that his faith in us is not misplaced. Are you ready? Ready to tear through their lines, to fight for Veralt and Verdis? For your homes? For your families? For your kids who are waiting behind? Are you reading to fight for glory?!”
The walls shook with their roar.
Killian felt the fire burning inside him, feeding on their energy. He turned back toward the horizon, toward the army surging forward in a storm of steel and dust.
His jaw clenched. His grip tightened.
I will win this battle for you, Lord Arzan.
***
Kai soared through the night sky, wind swirling around his legs as he dodged another crimson blade. The sheer force of the attack sliced through the air where he had been a moment before, leaving behind a faint trace of blood-red mist.
This fight was different.
Since his reincarnation, he had fought his fair share of battles, but none had come close to this. It reminded him of his first life, back when he had battled fiends every week, when every fight had been a dance with death. Back then, he was a Magus, a true force of destruction. Now, he was merely a peak Third Circle Mage.
And for the first time since his return, he wasn’t sure if that would be enough.
Shakran was fast. His control over blood was like an extension of his body, sending out blade after blade in a relentless barrage. Kai’s [Wind shield] flickered to life, blocking the attacks before they could reach him. In return, he trailed his fingers through the air, conjuring flames that shot toward the blood drinker like falling stars.
Shakran sneered. His monstrous face twisted as if mocking the attempt. With a flick of his wrist, a crimson wall rose to meet the fire, dissolving it before it could reach him. And then he retaliated.
The sky became their battlefield as they ascended, each one twisting through the air, searching for an opening. Kai's spells clashed against waves of blood, neither gaining the upper hand.
Then, Shakran chuckled, his voice carrying through the night.
"I thought you were an honorable man," he taunted, launching another barrage of blood spikes. "Why do you run?"
Kai twisted his body, dodging each strike with precision. His expression remained cold as he shot back, “Shut up.”
And then he breathed in.
The air around him shimmered with heat. Mana surged through his veins, igniting his core. With a sharp exhale, a roaring inferno burst from his hand—a [Dragon’s Breath], pure and searing.
The flames chased Shakran, winding through the air like a serpent seeking prey. The blood drinker darted away, weaving through the night in a desperate attempt to outrun the fire. At the last second, he conjured a knight of blood to shield himself, the figure stepping forward to meet the flames.
But Kai wasn’t finished.
Even as the dragon’s breath dissipated, embers remained. They hung in the air for a brief moment before raining down like a fiery storm.
Shakran hissed. He recoiled as the flames licked his flesh, the stench of burning blood filling the air.
"You’ll pay for that," he snarled, his crimson eyes flashing with rage.
Kai ignored him. His gaze was already locked onto the wounds forming on Shakran’s body. They were healing. Slowly, but too fast for his liking.
A Lord’s regeneration.
He clenched his fists. That was going to be a problem.
He exhaled sharply. He couldn't delay this any longer. His fingers twitched as mana surged through his body, weaving together two spell structures. Fire and ice. Two Third Circle spells at once.
It was already pushing his limits, but with the wind spell still active around his legs, this was triple casting. The sheer strain sent needles of pain through his mind, his control faltering for a fraction of a second—
Shakran noticed.
"As if I’d let you throw more spells at me!" he snarled, surging forward.
A massive axe formed in his grip, its blade dark with condensed blood magic. He swung with brutal force, aiming to cleave through Kai before he could complete his spell.
The latter reacted instantly. With a final push, he released his ice spell. A thick mist exploded outward, frost creeping through the air as the temperature plummeted. Shakran’s charge slowed as ice began to crawl up his limbs, his movement sluggish—
But he didn't stop.
With a guttural growl, Shakran forced himself forward, breaking through the freezing mist and swinging the axe down.
Pain erupted as the blade bit into Kai’s shoulder. The force of the impact sent him hurtling toward the ground, blood splattering in the air as he struggled to keep himself upright.
The world spun.
Gritting his teeth, Kai forced his mana into his wind spell, stabilizing himself in midair. The moment his body steadied, he unleashed his second spell, [Astrum Phoenix].
A roaring fire erupted from his outstretched palm—a phoenix of pure flames, its wings spread wide as it dove toward Shakran.
The blood drinker scowled, his frozen hand barely moving as ice crawled up his arm. His axe shattered into crimson shards, dissipating. But before the phoenix could consume him, he snarled and formed another blade of blood, hacking through the fire construct.
It didn’t work.
The moment his attack connected, the phoenix split into two.
Two flaming beasts now surged toward him, their hungry flames flickering in the night.
Shakran’s eyes widened. "What kind of spell—?!"
Before he could finish, the phoenixes slammed into him.
A scream tore from his throat as he raised his hands, summoning a swirling river of blood around himself. The liquid surged upward, swallowing the fire, suffocating the burning creatures in its depths.
Kai didn’t waste the moment.
Panting, he pulled a potion from his belt, tossing it back in one swift motion. The pain dulled, his wound slowly beginning to mend.
His gaze snapped back to Shakran. The blood drinker had managed to douse the flames, his form barely visible through the dissipating mist. His expression was dark, his breathing heavier than before.
But he was still standing.
Kai barely had time to breathe before a furious scream tore through the air.
Shakran launched himself forward, his body a crimson blur as he closed the distance.
Kai didn’t hesitate—his hand shot into his coat, fingers wrapping around a glass vial.
He flung the explosive potion, its contents igniting midair. The resulting blast expanded in a rush of heat and smoke, engulfing Shakran in its fiery embrace.
For a brief moment, Kai felt a flicker of relief.
Then Shakran vanished.
Kai’s eyes widened.
Where—?
A sudden, bone-chilling sensation crawled up his spine.
He whirled around, instincts screaming, just in time to see a crimson sword slicing toward his throat.
An ice shield materialized between them at the last second. The blood blade bit into the frozen wall, cracking its surface, but the defense held. Shakran’s lips curled into a smirk. And then—he disappeared again.
Kai hovered midair, heart hammering in his chest. His mind raced. The sensation was too familiar—like the battle with the necromancer in Vasper Forest, when he had to fight through the thick fog, unable to see his enemy.
But Shakran was no weak necromancer.
He was stronger. Faster. More terrifying. And definitely, had the brains to kill him right then and there.
Kai clenched his jaw, keeping his ice shield up, anticipating the next strike.
It came instantly.
A sudden impact—harder than before—shattered another layer of the shield.
Then another.
And another.
The incoming strike was more ferocious, more forceful than the previous one, breaking through his defenses piece by piece.
He was losing ground.
Kai braced himself as the next blow struck, and this time, Shakran didn’t stop.
The blood blade dissolved mid-strike.
A fist slammed through the ice, shattering it completely, and crashed into Kai’s chest.
He barely had time to react before the force sent him hurtling toward the ground.
His wind magic flared instinctively, slowing his descent—but not enough.
Through the rushing wind, his gaze locked onto a figure waiting below.
A blood knight.
The armored figure raised its sword, perfectly positioned to cut him in half on impact.
Damn it!
With a sharp twist, Kai yanked another explosive potion from his belt and hurled it downward.
The explosion sent him careening off-course, blasting him back toward the ground. The impact rattled his bones, pain lancing through his body. He coughed, blood staining his lips, but forced himself upright.
The wind had softened the fall—but he wasn’t unharmed.
Standing now in the open grasslands, exposed beneath the night sky, he looked around.
Nothing.
No movement. No sign of Shakran.
Only the eerie silence and the voices that came from far, far away.
Where? Where would he strike from next?
The uncertainty gnawed at him. The next hit could be fatal.
Maybe I should— his thoughts came to an end when a manic laughter came.
"You are dead,” an annoying voice followed as another attack came towards him.
2025-02-21 16:15:40 +0000 UTC
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Chapter 73
Luo Heng's fists crashed against the boulder.
"[Mountain Splitting Strike!]"
A surge of energy coursed through his limbs, filling him with the illusion of boundless strength. His knuckles met stone, the direct impact sent a dull vibration up his arm, and for a small second, he felt as if he could shatter mountains—but when the dust settled, only a minor dent marred the rock’s surface.
He withdrew his hand and unclenched it, feeling the warmth of the power that had just moved inside him.
He grinned at what happened. A week ago, attempting this would have left him with shattered bones. Now, as a cultivator of the Divine Coin Sect, he was more than just mortal and the strength flowing through his veins was proof of that.
He stood up on the hill that overlooked the village, and continued his training.
Below, villagers passed by on the worn dirt path, their baskets heavy with tools and seeds. He recognized many of them—people he had grown up alongside. He waved. Normally, they’d have stopped for a quick conversation, or even made a light joke in the passerby. But things had changed.
They hesitated, offered a quick bow, then hurried on.
Luo Heng sighed, lowering his hand. He was used to it now. Ever since he had stepped into the path of cultivation; and in between the little time that had passed, everything had changed.
It wasn’t the sect’s fault—mortal members were still treated kindly and they had a pretty good reputation in the village. It was the title of ‘cultivator’ that made the difference.
Sect Leader Chen had once told him that many cultivators were arrogant and unapproachable, making mortals wary of them. Luo Heng understood that. He had been a mortal for most of his life.
He just hadn’t expected to be on the receiving end of that distance. It was odd to see such a big difference in such a short time, and he found himself nodding awkwardly more than ten times a day when they bowed so deeply.
Shaking his head, he turned back to the boulder, preparing to strike again—but his gaze drifted toward the sky. The sun hung low, streaking the horizon with gold. He suddenly realised that the time to practice was over and he had to give his attention to a different type of training than just trying to smash boulders.
He exhaled through his nose, letting out the frustration. "I need to think," he murmured.
Turning away from his training, he made his way down the hills toward his farmlands.
As he arrived, his mind calmed—relief flooded. The scars of the locust infestation were healing. The earth, once barren, was tilled anew. Fresh sprouts pushed through the soil, fragile yet resilient.
Luo Heng smiled, his heart warming with emotions. The next harvest would be a good one. The village would recover.
And maybe, given time, so would he.
He moved toward the large tree overlooking his farmlands, the rough bark a familiar comfort beneath his hand as he sat down. He exhaled deeply, the scent of freshly tilled earth filling his lungs and the golden light rays from the sun warning him.
He reached into his robes and pulled out a book—"Dao: The Path of a Cultivator."
Sect Leader Chen had given it to him, saying it was an essential guide. As he turned it around and admired the ancient parchment, he realised that it hadn’t done him much good—he could barely read it.
Miss Tang Xiulan had helped him decipher the words, but even then, the book made his head hurt. The letters made his insides cry. It was the most philosophical nonsense he had ever read. At times, he even felt like it’d been better if he could just throw it away and never look at it.
Apparently, cultivators weren’t just people who absorbed energy and acted like gods. They had to choose a path—their Dao—and dedicate themselves to it. It was a complex process, but an extremely essential one.
Miss Xiulan had explained that the book mainly focused on the Martial Dao, but Sect Leader Chen had insisted there were many Daos beyond just that.
His Senior Brother Zi Wen was proof of that. He had connected with the Dao of Taming, and somehow—Luo Heng still didn’t understand how—that had made Little Yuze, his wolf, stronger.
Stronger, bigger, and with sharper teeth.
It was scary. Luo Heng frowned. That was exactly why he preferred boulders now. Boulders didn’t have fangs or claws that could accidentally tear him apart.
Chuckling to himself, he flipped open the book.
The words blurred before his eyes—still gibberish. But the illustrations caught his attention. They depicted a cultivator sitting in a meditative stance, seeking to connect with their Dao.
Luo Heng sighed. He knew he was supposed to do the same.
But despite training, despite learning techniques, despite trying to force himself to love martial arts…
He still felt no closer to Martial Dao.
Luo Heng flipped through the pages, eyes scanning the words that Miss Xiulan had patiently helped him decipher. The Martial Dao was said to be the easiest to connect with. It was the foundation of countless cultivation paths, the most direct route to strength.
And yet—he felt nothing.
According to Sect Leader Chen, there were always other paths. Maybe he was meant to be an alchemist, refining herbs into miraculous pills. Or perhaps an array master, manipulating space itself with complex formations. He could always learn and advance if they were meant to be his path. Because the books spoke of such people with reverence, describing their abilities as mysterious and unfathomable.
But Luo Heng had never so much as held a cauldron. And even if the idea of learning alchemy intrigued him, it was curiosity, not a pull.
That was what Senior Brother Zi Wen had described—a pull, an undeniable instinct. When he had found Little Yuze, he had known, deep in his heart, that they were meant to be together. Like something in the universe had clicked into place.
Luo Heng felt none of that.
Martial arts were cool, but that was it. Alchemy sounded fun, but he had never liked fire. Maybe it was because of his Earth-aspected roots. And as for arrays… he wouldn’t even know where to start.
It left him stranded.
He sighed, staring down at the book before smacking it against his forehead.
"Am I just untalented?" he muttered.
He knew his spiritual roots were weak. That much had been clear from the beginning. But Sect Leader Chen had said that a strong Dao could overcome weak roots—if only he could find it.
Luo Heng exhaled, shaking off the creeping doubts. His gaze drifted past the book, past his hands, past his confusion—toward the farmlands below.
The soil had been freshly tilled, dark and rich, the first hints of green peeking through in delicate sprouts. The smell of earth was thick in the air, damp with the promise of growth. The more he focused, the thicker the smell felt, like heaven. He could already imagine it—in a few months, the fields would be full, bursting with life. Stalks of golden wheat swaying in the wind, their heads heavy with grain. Rows of leafy greens stretching toward the sun, their leaves glistening with morning dew.
Over by the lower fields, he pictured a rice paddy, the water shimmering under the sunlight, reflecting the sky like a giant mirror. Further ahead, rows of vegetables—lush cabbages, their leaves curled tightly, bright red chili peppers, standing tall, and bean vines creeping up wooden poles, twirling toward the heavens.
A deep warmth settled in his chest.
And then—something stirred.
It was faint at first, like a ripple in a pond. But as he let his mind wander, as he envisioned the farm flourishing, that ripple turned into a current. A strange energy seeped into him, flowing through his veins like the steady pulse of the earth beneath his feet.
Luo Heng's breath caught.
Qi.
Instinctively, his hand drifted to his chest, feeling the unfamiliar sensation pooling in his dantian. Was this it?
Was this… his Dao?
A memory surfaced—a conversation with Sect Leader Chen.
"When you find your Dao, you'll know. It won’t be forced. It won’t be something you chase. It will come to you, like a seed finally sprouting after the right season of rain."
Luo Heng’s hands clenched into fists.
He turned his gaze back to the fields—not to the past, but to the future.
He saw what could be—not just crops, not just survival, but abundance. A farm unlike any other, a place where the land flourished beyond mortal limitations. A place where he could cultivate, not through battle and bloodshed, but through nurturing life itself.
And as that thought took root, more Qi rushed into his dantian.
It wasn’t violent like a martial technique. It wasn’t blazing like the fire of an alchemist’s cauldron.
It was steady. Grounded. Deep.
Like the earth beneath him, unshakable.
***
Young Master Zhu Renjie of the Zhu Clan strode through the bustling streets of Ashen City, his smug smile on full display for everyone to see.
Today couldn’t be better.
He had finally bested his second cousin in a spar—a feat that had eluded him for far too long. Both of them were body gorging realm cultivators, but his cousin had always been stronger, taller, tougher. Yet today, Zhu Renjie had proven himself superior. He had defeated the guy so badly that it would be spoken in his clan for quite some more time.
And what better way to celebrate than to parade through the streets, soaking in the admiration of the common folk?
As he moved, the people of Ashen City recognized him. Their heads dipped in respectful bows, some murmuring greetings, others keeping their gazes lowered in deference.
This. This was why he preferred walking over taking a carriage.
There was a certain thrill in seeing mortals bow before him. A reminder that he was not just anyone, but Young Master Zhu Renjie of the main branch of the Zhu Clan. A cultivator. A man destined for greatness. A man that should be feared by the many.
And the feeling of being revered was intoxicating.
One of his lackeys, Luo Min, leaned in with an eager smile. “Young Master, are we going to the same place?”
Renjie smirked. “Of course. There’s no better place to celebrate.”
His other lackey, Wu Phan, chuckled knowingly.
And so, the three of them continued their leisurely stroll until they reached their destination—a towering, four-story establishment that gleamed even beneath the dusky sky. The Scarlet Pavilion.
It was the most renowned courtesan house in all of Ashen City. The exterior alone boasted wealth, with red lanterns hanging elegantly from carved eaves and silk drapes shielding the entrance from prying eyes.
Without hesitation, Renjie stepped inside, his lackeys close behind.
The moment he entered, the receptionist, Manager Qiu, straightened and quickly greeted him with a deep bow.
“Young Master Zhu! You honor us with your presence today. The Scarlet Pavilion has missed you.”
Renjie flicked his sleeve with arrogance. “I’ve been occupied with my cultivation. But tonight, I celebrate a victory over my second cousin. I am sure you know what to do.”
Manager Qiu’s expression lit up. “A most worthy occasion, Young Master! Allow me to summon our finest courtesans for you. Please, take a seat—we shall serve you and your esteemed friends at once.”
With that, Renjie strode toward the lavish seating area, already anticipating the indulgence that awaited him. He settled into the center seat, sprawling comfortably as his lackeys took their places on either side. The sweet smell of incense and perfume filled his nostrils, and the faint music blending with the soft laughter of courtesans in the background was just what he needed.
A moment later, servers arrived, setting down a tray of fine porcelain cups and a bottle of unfamiliar liquor.
Renjie lifted his cup, his brows furrowing as he inspected the liquid within. A white coloured drink swirled inside, reflecting the candlelight in an oddly mesmerizing way.
His smirk faded slightly. “I don’t think I’ve seen this before. It’s not what I usually get when I come here.”
Manager Qiu, who had been watching closely, immediately stepped forward. “Ah, Young Master, you have a keen eye! This is moonshine—a special drink, unique in the whole world.” He puffed out his chest, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “We’ve only managed to acquire a single bottle of it. It’s strong—perfect for cultivators. I’m sure you will love it.”
Renjie’s smirk returned. “Hmph. Let me be the judge of that.”
He swirled the moonshine in his cup, inhaling the sharp, potent scent before taking a slow sip.
The burn hit instantly, searing its way down his throat, but instead of coughing, Renjie let the warmth spread through him, his eyes widening in surprise. There was a depth to the taste, a fire that felt almost invigorating, as if it were fueling his qi instead of dulling his senses.
Meanwhile, his lackeys, Luo Min and Wu Phan, had taken cautious sips of their own—only to cough violently, their faces scrunching up as they struggled to handle the burn.
Renjie let out a low chuckle, finishing the rest of his cup in one smooth motion before slamming it down on the table. “Now this is good. Strong. Just how I like it.”
Luo Min wiped his mouth, still wheezing. “Y-Young Master, do you truly like this stuff?”
Renjie shot him a sharp look. “What would you know? This is real liquor. It can satisfy a cultivator like me.”
Then, without hesitation, he eyed their still-full cups and snatched them both up before they could protest.
“If you’re not drinking it, I will.”
And just like that, he downed both their drinks in a few gulps, the burn intensifying but only making him crave more.
Turning back to Manager Qiu, he set his cup down with a loud clunk, eyes gleaming. “Bring me more.”
The receptionist hesitated for a second, but seeing Renjie’s expression, he quickly nodded and signaled for another serving.
One after another, Renjie drained each new cup, his head growing light, a pleasant buzz settling in his mind. Yet instead of dulling his senses, the moonshine made him feel alive, his qi subtly humming in response to his good mood.
After finishing yet another glass, he leaned back and exhaled. “Good stuff.”
Then, as if struck by a sudden thought, he turned to Manager Qiu, waving lazily. “Send a crate of this to my estate.”
Manager Qiu’s eyes widened. “A… a crate?”
“Yes.” Zhu Renjie leaned forward, propping his elbow on the armrest as he gazed lazily at Manager Qiu. “Make it a full crate.”
The manager, who had been about to instruct the servers, suddenly froze. A flicker of hesitation crossed his face before he forced a polite smile. “Ah… I can’t, Young Master.”
Renjie’s expression darkened instantly. “What?”
Manager Qiu’s fingers twitched, clearly regretting his words. “W-What I mean is… we don’t have a full crate.”
Renjie’s eyes narrowed. “Then bring me whatever you have.”
“That’s just it, Young Master.” Manager Qiu hesitated, then spoke quickly, trying to appease him. “We… only had one bottle. There’s no more stock.”
A beat of silence.
Then, a sharp crack echoed through the hall as Renjie slammed his hand against the table. His Qi flared just enough to make the nearby cups tremble.
“What do you mean?” he demanded, his voice sharp with irritation. “Where did you get it from?”
The manager paled but quickly shook his head. “I don’t know, Young Master! A man came here yesterday, selling moonshine. He claimed it was made for cultivators, and I thought I’d buy a bottle to see if our esteemed guests would enjoy it… But I don’t know who he is or where he came from.”
Renjie clicked his tongue, glaring. “Useless.”
Manager Qiu swallowed hard, lowering his head as Renjie shoved himself up from his seat.
“I’ll find more of this alcohol myself.” His robes flared as he turned toward the door.
Behind him, Manager Qiu called out hastily, “Young Master! What about the courtesans?”
Renjie didn’t even glance back. “I don’t care about them right now. I need more moonshine until I’m satisfied.”
His voice was filled with genuine hunger, his pulse quickening at the thought of tasting that burn again. It had been so long since he’d found a drink that could actually make his qi stir and mind dizzy–in a good way. He needed to find this.
Leaving his stunned lackeys behind, he strode swiftly into the streets, his feet automatically taking him toward the only place he thought might have it.
The Alehouse.
It wasn’t the most dignified establishment out of everything his clan owned, but if anyone in this wretched city had rare liquor, it would be there. Pushing through the heavy wooden doors, he stepped inside, his presence commanding attention. His gaze landed immediately on a man and woman behind the counter.
Without hesitation, he took a step forward, voice booming loud across the room.
“I, Zhu Renjie, Young Master of the Zhu Clan, need moonshine!”
2025-02-19 14:19:42 +0000 UTC
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Chapter 182
Even on the cusp of victory, things felt too quiet for Kai as he remained within Dorn Castle, preparing for the final battle that would mark the end of this fief war.
Everything was moving as he had planned in the war council. Dorn Castle had fallen with minimal casualties, and according to the reports he’d received, the Enforcers had done their job well. They had hunted down the remnants of noble forces, crushing them with carefully planned tactics and the new
Lightwood armors—a game-changer in battle.
The Lightwood’s enchantment-friendly properties had allowed him to outfit his troops with defensive and offensive enhancements, making them a formidable force capable of turning the tide of battle.
What had begun as a desperate uphill battle, where he was astronomically outnumbered, had now narrowed to just Kai versus Lucian’s remaining forces.
But that didn’t mean victory would come easily.
Lucian still had his own soldiers, battle-hardened mercenaries, and the support of the Archine Tower’s Mages and blood drinkers. If their forces clashed head-on, Kai knew that the cost would be high. This was going to be a brutal fight.
Because in war, nothing was ever truly simple.
From an outside perspective, it might seem as if each battle had been won decisively. But victory wasn’t just about winning the fight—it was about what came after. Seizing a castle, defeating armies, and capturing nobles was one thing. Dealing with the aftermath was another.
There were complications.
What to do with the local population? How to make them understand that his forces weren’t there to loot, pillage, or slaughter them? It was always a delicate situation, one that could spiral into rebellion if mismanaged. It was the last thing he wanted, especially when so many things could go wrong in the heat of a moment.
At least here, in Dorn, they had the bulk of their forces. Control was easier.
But in the noble territories where his Enforcers had seized power, things were far more complicated. They didn’t have the numbers to maintain order, so once the nobles were captured, the only choice was to withdraw and return to Dorn Castle with the captured nobles, letting the locals deal with the governance.
It wasn’t a perfect solution, but in war, there were no perfect solutions. Only calculated risks.
And now, with the final battle approaching, Kai knew one thing for certain.
The hardest part was yet to come.
In all honesty, Kai just wanted to get it over with since feeding a large army and taking care of a population that wasn't his weren't easy. Keeping up morale everyday was another problem.
The longer this dragged on, the worse it would get. He needed to end it fast. But for some reason, everything had stalled.
According to the Watchers, Lucian’s forces had reached Castle Cragfort, just as expected, preparing to merge with the other noble forces. By now, his brother should have received word of what had happened to them. And yet—there was no movement.
It wasn’t as if Lucian had been completely idle. He had already tried poisoning the nearby river. But that plan had amounted to nothing, thanks to the kraken guarding it. A druidic bond that Kai had put to good use.
But aside from that? Nothing.
Lucian’s forces were simply waiting inside the castle, refusing to venture out. Maybe he was banking on Kai attacking first, confident in his ability to defend a siege.
Kai didn’t want to drag this war out longer than necessary, but storming Cragfort wasn’t an easy option either. By now, they would have countermeasures against his drones. If he launched an attack, the fortifications would hold long enough to make it a grueling battle.
The waiting made him uneasy. Something was coming. He just didn’t know what. But he knew for certain that—something was coming.
But worrying about it wouldn’t solve anything. Kai knew better than to let anxiety rule his decisions. Right now, he needed to keep his forces ready.
He gave Killian orders to keep morale high, reminding the men that only one battle remained. He had Balen’s team of apprentice blacksmiths repairing equipment, the craftsmen building more golems, and most importantly, he waited for the Enforcers to return to Dorn Castle.
Fortunately, he had capable subordinates. Everything was being handled. And that left Kai with one task of his own.
That night, after yet another strategy meeting, he moved through the former Viscount’s manor.
Dorn Castle was larger than the one in Veralt, and now, it was fully under his control. The Viscount was locked in a cell, his family quarantined in their chambers. The halls were quiet. Kai walked up the stone staircase leading to the rooftop, passing the guards who were on duty.
Once he reached the top, he felt the night wind on his face, took a deep breath, and sat down.
It was time to clear his mind. He let go of all his thoughts regarding Lucian and his forces in an instant and he exhaled slowly and began to circulate mana through his body, drawing it in from the surroundings.
Soon, mana flowed into him in waves. He felt the difference. Ever since he unlocked the vault in his legs, his control had grown sharper—he could sense it effortlessly now. But his focus wasn’t on that.
Instead, he worked on his fourth circle.
After being healed, he had devoted every night to it, refining his control. He had even used materials from Sylvastra to brew potions, hastening his progress. A part of him wondered if he was rushing, if he should be more patient with his foundation—but the final battle was looming. Breaking through before then would be a massive advantage.
His first three circles were stable, their foundations strong. But the fourth? It was trickier. He had to expand the space inside his Mana heart while constructing the circle at the same time. He had to balance both the processes so that his internal organs wouldn’t get harmed by the excess mana he was drawing in to store.
He exhaled, letting go of all the air in his lungs and paused… three… two… one… he inhaled deeply again. His focus sharpened, guiding his mana toward his heart, enveloping it in his power, and slowly pushing outward.
The sensation was strange—like pulling an invisible rubber band, stretching it further and further. It wasn’t something tangible. He couldn’t see it. Couldn’t touch it.
Only feel it.
At the core of his being, he sensed the fourth circle taking shape. The structure of it was almost complete, pressing against the expanding boundaries of his Mana heart. But it still lacked the final surge of power to solidify. Right now, it was just a half-formed ring.
Kai continued. He drew more mana from the air, feeding it into his body, channeling it relentlessly into the forming circle.
Suddenly, Kai’s eyes snapped open as a sound passed by his ears.
His body moved before thought could catch up—smooth, instinctive, silent. His feet found the cold stone of the rooftop as he straightened, his breath steady despite the sudden jolt of awareness flooding his system and his eyes looked around.
Only the whisper of the night breeze greeted him. The slow rustling of banners far below. And the silence in the distance that had no idea about predators who waited to attack.
But he knew better. Silence never meant comfort or safety. And his instincts—he trusted them.
There had been movement. Calculated. Precise. Too subtle for an accident, too measured for a mistake. Whoever was out there wanted him to hear it.
Kai remained still, his heartbeat slow, his senses expanding as his mana looked around everywhere.
He waited. His eyes swept the rooftop. His ears strained for the shift in the wind, the faintest of breaths, the misplaced weight of a footstep.
A full minute passed. Nothing. Whoever it was had even concealed mana.
His frown deepened. A quiet exhale left his lips.
"Reveal yourself."
Silence.
Then—a ripple.
Not of sound, but of something else.
A presence.
A weight pressed against his senses, creeping into the air like mist, thick and cloying. The very shadows twisted, writhing like something alive, something breathing.
Then—it took shape.
A figure stepped forward from the darkness, emerging as if the night itself had birthed him.
Tall. Incredibly tall. Lean, yet the way he moved—the sheer, predatory grace of it—spoke of something inhuman. His body, though lightly dressed, carried the promise of unrestrained power. A simple black vest clung to his form, tailored like a noble’s, yet without the pretension of armor.
And then, there were the fangs. Gleaming. Sharp. Made for tearing and sucking blood out of whatever that passed it.
His eyes—slitted, crimson—did not just look at Kai. They smiled.
Kai’s expression remained unreadable, but his mind sharpened, turning like a well-oiled machine. Blood drinker.
And not just any.
This one was not hiding his presence.
Kai felt it—the sheer weight of his aura, thick as a thunderstorm waiting to break. It pushed against him, not with brute force, but with an oppressive certainty. A presence that had no doubt of its own superiority.
A Lord.
One of the highest-ranked in the blood drinker hierarchy. Kai had read of them. Few lived to speak of meeting one. The blood drinker studied him with unhurried amusement, as if indulging a lesser being.
Then, at last, he spoke—his voice a smooth drawl, rich with something dangerous.
“It’s nice to meet you, Arzan Kellius.”
He took a step forward.
The way he moved was wrong. Too fluid, too silent. Like his feet had never needed the ground to walk. His head tilted, just slightly.
“Let me introduce myself.”
He gave off a predator’s smile, fangs glinting under the moonlight.
"I am Shakran. Rank—Lord among the mighty blood drinkers. And I’m here to take your life.”
Kai didn’t react at first. Then, he smiled.
“So… Lucian sent you to kill me,” he said. “I suppose he isn’t confident in defeating my forces after all.”
Shakran chuckled, shaking his head. “No. Your brother has no command over me.”
Kai’s eyes narrowed slightly.
“It’s someone else who wants you dead.”
Kai immediately pieced it together. His voice was certain as he said the name. “Regina.”
Shakran’s grin widened. “Right answer.”
He studied Kai, eyes gleaming with amusement. “So, you’re already aware of Mistress Regina and the legions she commands.”
Kai let out a short scoff. “Mistress?” His tone was mocking. “Never thought a blood drinker would swear fealty to a human. Especially when you lot consider us beneath you.”
Shakran laughed maniacally out loud.
"You humans are so blind!” His voice dripped with haughtiness. His eyes looked down on Kai as if he was just another prey. But Kai didn’t falter, he maintained his eye contact with the blood drinker. "So pitifully tied to your fleeting existence. Mistress Regina is nothing like your kind. She transcends your feeble mortality, guided by the same faith that I serve. She swears by it, and so do I! And soon, the world will bow to the fate that awaits it."
Kai didn’t react to the speech. He let the words wash over him, a meaningless tide of devotion and zealotry. It wasn’t the first time he’d heard self-righteous declarations from fanatics, and it wouldn’t be the last. Instead, his fingers twitched subtly inside his robe pocket, weaving an unseen spell.
A thread of mana pulsed at his fingertips, thin as a whisper, as he shaped it into a message spell. Killian. Intruder on the rooftop. Prepare the soldiers on the wall. Enemy forces may be moving.
The magic flickered away, silent and swift, vanishing into the air to find its recipient.
Kai exhaled slowly, his gaze remaining locked onto Shakran. If the blood drinker was here, then Lucian’s forces were already mobilizing. They couldn’t afford to be caught off guard.
Yet, for all his caution, a smirk tugged at the corner of his lips as he tilted his head slightly.
"I’d love to hear more about Regina from you," Kai said, unbothered. "But I have a feeling you didn’t come all this way just to lecture me on your mistress’s grand ideals. No—" He narrowed his eyes. "You’re here to kill me. To drain me dry."
Shakran chuckled. "Ah, you understand so quickly." He spread his arms, a mockery of hospitality. "You’re strong for a human, I’ll grant you that. But against superior strength like mine? You’ll be a corpse before you even realize it."
The air thickened suddenly.
A low hum resonated from the blood drinker’s body, and the shadows beneath him trembled.
Dark crimson droplets lifted into the air around him, swirling and twisting unnaturally, forming jagged edges and wickedly sharp points. The liquid molded itself into weapons—blades, spears, tendrils of slicing death—all hovering in anticipation, waiting for his command.
At the same time, mana surged around Kai, responding to his will. He didn’t need theatrics to show his power. The air crackled, the temperature around him shifting ever so slightly. His body remained still, but his presence grew heavier, a storm coiling beneath the surface.
His heartbeat slowed, his breathing steady.
Finally. The battle he had been waiting for was about to begin.
***
The drumming of hooves echoed through the valley, a relentless rhythm that matched the hammering in Lucian’s chest. His breath came slow but his fingers clenched tighter around the reins. His black warhorse, sensing the tension in its rider, snorted and tossed its head, but Lucian barely noticed.
The march to Dorn Castle had been swift. He had forced it so—if he gave his soldiers too much time to think, to wonder, they might see the same cracks in their fate that he did.
His gaze swept over the ranks. Rows upon rows of men moved in unison, their armor catching the dim light of the moon, their banners fluttering in the breeze. From a distance, it was an impressive sight—a tide of steel and blood, rolling toward war.
But Lucian knew better.
He could see the tension in their shoulders, the stiffness in their strides. Soldiers who should have marched with confidence instead gripped their weapons a little too tightly. Their silence was suffocating. No songs, no idle chatter—just the relentless clank of armor, the rustle of worn banners, the uneasy shifting of warhorses.
They were thinking about it too.
The reports had come in like knives to his pride. The noble forces under him—annihilated. Not scattered, not defeated—wiped out. The blood drinkers had spoken of Arzan’s Knights like monsters, claiming no formation, no battle-hardened troops could hold against them.
It had been absurd. Impossible.
And yet, it had happened.
Just like the kraken.
His jaw tightened at the thought. His poison plan should have worked. It should have crippled the enemy's supply lines, left them starving, desperate, easy prey. But then, from the depths of the very river he meant to poison, the kraken had risen. Not only it had gotten the blood drinkers he had sent, even the ordinary men he had sent after that were devoured with only one of them surviving to tell the tale of what had happened.
It was as if the gods themselves were laughing at him.
Lucian sucked in a slow breath, exhaling through his nose.
There had been no strategy against it, no counter. He had lost soldiers, resources, and time. He had sent for reinforcements—Mages from Archine Tower, noble battalions from outside the Sylvan Enclave—but they were still too far.
Time was something he didn’t have.
His gaze flickered toward the distant stone walls of Dorn Castle, now rising into view over the horizon. He could not stall any longer. His army would not last. Rations were running low. Morale was thinner than parchment.
Arzan could attack at any moment.
Lucian pressed his lips into a thin line. He had gambled.
Shakran had proposed a cleaner end—take Arzan’s head himself and then Arzan’s forces would fall on its own. Lucian hadn’t trusted it. Things always went wrong, and if they do—what would happen?
Shakran and his kind were beasts, not men. Creatures of hunger and darkness that followed their own whims. The blood drinkers did not fight for loyalty, or honor, or even wealth. They fought for the thrill of the hunt, for the taste of war and blood.
But he needed them. He had agreed, even as unease slithered through his gut. Now, as Dorn Castle stood before him, the weight of his choice settled on his shoulders.
The old fortress loomed, its walls jagged and unyielding, banners snapping against the wind. The moonlight bathed the stone in a silver hue, but Lucian felt no warmth from it. His horse slowed, and his army followed suit.
He turned his head slightly, his gaze settling on Garrik.
The old Knight sat straight in the saddle. A deep scar carved down his left cheek. Near his jaw, the burned skin twisted, giving his already fearsome face an even harsher edge. The first time most men saw him, they flinched. Garrik did not fear battle. That was why Lucian had kept him close.
“This is the end, Garrik.”
The old Knight did not hesitate. “Don’t worry, my lord.” His voice was rough, firm—the voice of a man who had seen battlefields drenched in blood and still stood. “The victory will be ours soon.”
Lucian turned to him fully now, his eyes cold, sharp. “I hope your words are correct.”
His gaze swept over the soldiers behind him.
“Because you and the troops can either die in battle—” he let the words settle, his grip tightening on the reins, “or die by my hands if we lose.”
Even the wind seemed to still at those words.
Garrik met his gaze. Then, after a beat, he gave a single nod.
Lucian exhaled, turning back to the castle.
The siege would begin soon.
2025-02-19 14:18:13 +0000 UTC
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Chapter 72
Their whole party took a day to get accustomed to Ashen City.
It was far bigger than any place most of them had ever visited. Even Cloud Mist City, which had once seemed massive, paled in comparison. After all, Ashen City was the third largest city in the entire empire, rich with life, trade, and power.
While they stayed at an inn, Chen Ren wasted no time. He sent his people out to gather every bit of information they could about the local bars, taverns, and clans. In a city this large, specifics were hard to come by, but after a night of careful but precise inquiries and subtle negotiations, he had a decent grasp of the major powers and how best to approach them.
As his subordinates moved through the streets, collecting details and rumors, he once again felt grateful that he had worked on recruitment. Having more people under him wasn’t just convenient—it was a necessity. It made everything smoother, faster, and more efficient. Once he secured a proper contract for his supply chain, he planned to hand the entire distribution process over to Zi Han. The man was the most enthusiastic about this venture, and he would thrive handling the logistics.
With the information he needed in hand, Chen Ren didn’t waste another moment.
He gave out commands to his people, setting their roles in motion, and then personally made his way toward the largest bar in Ashen City— The Alehouse, one of the main establishments of the Zhu Family.
The building was a large three-story wooden structure, its wide entrance marked with the Zhu Family’s distinct crest. Even from outside, Chen Ren could hear the dull murmur of voices, the occasional burst of laughter, and the clatter of mugs.
Despite it being morning, a quarter of the bar was still filled with patrons. Some sat nursing their drinks, either still awake from the previous night or starting early for the day. A few were sprawled across the large tables, clearly having passed out sometime before dawn.
Anji, who had accompanied him, shuddered slightly at the atmosphere but didn’t complain.
Together, they walked toward the main counter, where two people—a man and a woman—sat at a polished wooden desk. Both bore the Zhu Family’s insignia on their chests, marking them as members of the clan.
As Chen Ren took a seat, the woman leaned forward with a professional yet somewhat disinterested smile.
"What type of drink would you like? We also serve light snacks to go with them."
The woman gestured to the board behind her, where the prices of the alcohol were listed. The cheapest drink started at 50 copper wen per glass, while the higher-end ones went for 100 copper wen.
He resisted the urge to raise an eyebrow.
Considering how people had complained about his 5 copper wen noodles being expensive, these prices were on an entirely different level. But he understood why—alcohol was still a luxury in the continent.
Most common folk didn’t drink it daily, and when they did, they usually settled for cheap liquor rather than the high-quality brews offered in establishments like this.
Ignoring the prices, he turned back to the woman and smiled.
"I’m sorry, but I’m not here to drink or try snacks. Instead, I’d like to meet the manager of this place—I have a new drink for him to try."
At his words, the woman blinked in confusion, clearly not expecting that answer. Before she could respond, the man sitting beside her, who had overheard the conversation, glanced over and approached them.
He crossed his arms. "I’m sorry, but Manager Zhu Yuan doesn’t meet just anyone. He’s a busy man."
Chen Ren’s smile didn’t waver. "I know. He only meets reputable people."
The man nodded. "Then you should understand that if you don’t—"
"And I would like to tell you that I’m one such person," Chen Ren interrupted smoothly, pulling something out of his robes.
The two employees tensed slightly, but their expressions shifted as he placed his sect crest on the counter, sliding it toward them.
A small but unmistakable emblem with the dragon gleamed under the lamp, its design distinct—the crest of the Divine Coin Sect.
The man and woman exchanged glances, now looking at him with a mix of curiosity and caution.
The woman hesitated before asking, "You’re from a sect?"
Chen Ren nodded. "Not just any sect. The Divine Coin Sect. And not only that—I was born into the Chen Clan that controls Red Peak City. I’m sure you’ve heard of them."
Their eyes widened slightly. Even if they hadn’t personally dealt with the Chen Clan, it was a well-known name, being one of the more famous clans in the empire.
He leaned forward slightly. "My name is Chen Ren, and I can tell you this—the opportunity my sect wants to discuss with the Zhu Clan is something you won’t regret."
A pause followed, just as he had expected. They weren’t foolish enough to immediately believe him, but they also couldn’t outright dismiss someone from a sect and an influential clan.
After a moment, the man nodded toward the woman, and she disappeared into the back. Likely to fetch the manager.
As they waited, Chen Ren turned to Anji, who seemed more relaxed now.
He smirked. "See? This is something you should learn if you’re going to take part in business."
She raised an eyebrow. "What? How to interrupt people?"
"No," he chuckled. "Background is everything. If I were just a normal merchant, they’d have thrown me out. But being from a reputable
clan and sect makes them reconsider."
Anji shrugged. "I still think they would’ve let you in if you just told them you’re a Cultivator."
"Maybe," Chen Ren admitted with a shrug. "But most members of our sect aren’t
Cultivators. Even you aren’t."
At that, he noticed a slight twitch in Anji’s expression, something brief but telling.
He chose to ignore it and continued, "That’s why you need to learn how to throw your background around. And even if you don’t have a background—make one."
Anji shot him an unimpressed look, but before she could respond, he smirked. "You look good enough for them to believe you come from a reputable clan."
A faint flush dusted her cheeks.
Before anything else could be said, the door to the back swung open. The female worker from before stepped out, followed by a bigger man—broad-shouldered and round-faced, with a three-day-old beard that made him look slightly unkempt. His clothes were well-tailored, but there was no hiding the slight bloat in his features or the lingering scent of alcohol that clung to him.
Chen Ren instantly pegged him as someone who enjoyed his own stock a little too much.
Yet, despite that, the man wasn’t old—he was around Chen Ren’s age, maybe a year or two older.
The man approached the counter, placing a large palm on the wooden surface as his gaze settled neutrally on Chen Ren. "I heard you’re from a sect and wish to discuss a business opportunity with the Zhu Clan."
Chen Ren smiled, unfazed. "For Zhu Alehouse, mostly."
A single brow lifted, but there was a subtle shift in the man’s posture, an indicator that he was taking this more seriously now.
"So, what’s the deal?"
Chen Ren chuckled. "Why don’t you try it for yourself?"
At that, he glanced at Anji, who swiftly pulled out a small container she had been carrying. The moment Chen Ren uncorked it, a rich, potent aroma of distilled spirits filled the air.
The fat manager and the two workers instinctively leaned forward, eyes drawn to the swirling liquid inside.
It was clear, almost too clear, yet had a subtle shimmer. Unlike the thick, golden-brown ales they were used to, this drink looked deceptively light—but the scent told an entirely different story.
Zhu Yuan narrowed his eyes. "You’re trying to sell alcohol to the best bar in town?"
Chen Ren grinned. "No. I’m selling the best alcohol."
A slight silence followed before the manager let out a sigh and grabbed a glass. He poured himself a small amount, lifting it to eye level before finally taking a sip.
The moment it touched his tongue, his face changed instantly.
Chen Ren knew what the man was experiencing. A sharp burn, across his mouth and down his throat—like fire igniting every nerve. His face contorted in surprise, and he coughed silently before blinking at Chen Ren in shock.
"My tongue feels like it’s burning. What the hell is this?"
Chen Ren leaned against the counter, smirking. "The strongest drink you’ll ever try. Gives a nice little kick, doesn’t it?"
The man didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he took another sip, slower this time—trying to savor the burn. It wasn’t just fire; underneath the intensity, there was a smoothness, a depth that cheap grain alcohol didn’t have.
Visibly, he let the drink roll over his tongue, exhaling slightly as he finally admitted, "It does… yeah, it really does."
Then he paused, looking at Chen Ren more seriously now.
"I haven’t tried anything like this before. Where did you get it?"
Chen Ren smiled easily. "My sect has an elder who's interested in spirit-making. He ended up creating this, and now we're trying to ensure his work reaches the rest of the Kalian Empire."
A blatant lie.
But talking about elders would make the manager think their sect was bigger and more influential than he had originally assumed—worth forming connections with.
Just as Chen Ren had expected, the fat man stroked his chin, looking thoughtful. "What was the name of your sect again?"
"Divine Coin Sect," Chen Ren answered smoothly.
The man frowned. "Never heard of it."
Chen Ren chuckled. "We like to stay low-key. But our new sect leader is trying to change that—he wants our name to spread across the continent. And what better way than through our creations?"
Zhu Yuan hummed, his lips twitching. He looked interested, at the very least.
Chen Ren took the chance to press further. "So, what do you think? Would you be interested in a supply contract?"
The manager leaned back slightly, considering. "I can consider it."
Then came the real test.
"How much will you be selling it for?"
Chen Ren glanced at the container Anji had placed on the counter, then turned back to the man. "That depends on how much you can shell out."
He wasn't going to name a price first. He wanted to see what kind of offer the manager would make.
The fat man rubbed his chin, then finally said, "Thirty silver wen per container."
Chen Ren’s smile didn’t waver, but internally, he scoffed. As expected, the man was trying to shortchange him.
With everything required to make moonshine—high-quality grains, fermentation agents, distillation materials—his total cost of production already sat at twenty-five silver wen per container.
And that wasn’t even counting the labor costs.
Zhu Yuan knew the value of a product like this. Clearly, he’d been in this business for a long time. A single container held enough alcohol for 20 to 30 glasses, and considering the prices listed earlier, the tavern could easily sell each glass for 2 to 5 silver wen.
If they marketed it as a luxury drink or something suited for cultivators, the price could soar even higher.
Yet, despite that, the manager was offering a measly 30 silver wen?
Chen Ren’s neutral expression didn’t change. But in his mind, he was already deciding on his counteroffer.
Chen Ren had come here expecting this kind of back-and-forth, so he didn't seem the least bit fazed.
"I'm sorry," he said. "That's not a price I'm willing to sell it for."
Zhu Yuan frowned but quickly responded. "Fine. 35 silver wen. I won’t go beyond that."
His voice carried absolute certainty, like he thought he was making a generous offer. "You know our bar is the best in the city. You won’t get better rates anywhere else."
Chen Ren’s lips curled into a relaxed smile. "I’ll see about that."
The manager narrowed his eyes. "You’re planning to sell it to other establishments?" His voice carried a more serious weight now. "The Zhu Clan might not like that."
Chen Ren met his gaze straight and raised his eyebrow. "Are you trying to threaten me?"
Zhu Yuan shook his head quickly. "No, but I think you should understand that we're the biggest clan in Ashen City. If you get into business with another pub, we might take offense." He leaned forward slightly. "I believe you already know that—otherwise, you wouldn’t have come here first.
Chen Ren’s smile widened. "I don’t think so."
The manager blinked. "What do you mean?"
Chen Ren chuckled. "Right now, my men are in every other pub in town—showing off this creation."
A flicker of displeasure crossed the fat man’s face.
"The Zhu Clan won’t like that," he warned.
Chen Ren’s expression darkened slightly, and his voice carried a dangerous undertone. "I don’t know if you understand, but you’re standing in front of a cultivator."
The manager visibly tensed, his confidence cracking for the first time.
Chen Ren let the silence hang for a moment before adding, "Moreover, the Zhu Clan might be the biggest in the city, but do you really want to offend a sect like ours?"
Silence.
Zhu Yuan clearly didn’t know how big the
Divine Coin Sect actually was, and that uncertainty worked in Chen Ren’s favor. Even if the manager had never heard of it, going against a sect was never a wise move.
Seeing that he had made his point, Chen Ren turned away.
"I’ll be staying at the Heavenly Sleep Inn if you change your mind," he said casually. Then, without sparing the manager another glance, he walked out of the tavern with Anji following
close behind.
***
Chen Ren sat cross-legged on the bed. He looked around at the small room in Heavenly Sleep Inn.
Across from him, Zi Han and Hong Yi sat with straight backs, their faces composed but expectant. Anji, still getting used to these kinds of discussions, leaned slightly against the bedpost, listening carefully. On the far side of the bed, Whiskey was curled up, peacefully napping. As for Yalan, she was out, likely gathering information or exploring the city.
Chen Ren finally broke the silence.
"Yes? So what happened?."
Zi Han and Hong Yi exchanged glances before Zi Han took the lead.
"It was as you predicted, Sect Leader," he said. "The bars liked the product. Both places, Shuang Guan and Phoenix Tear Tavern agreed to meet us after we mentioned our sect and let them try the moonshine. They enjoyed it, but..." He hesitated. "They were only willing to pay 20 silver wen per container."
Hong Yi picked up from there. "After some negotiation, we got them to raise the price to 35 and 40, but they refused to go higher. We tried a few other places, but it was the same story."
Chen Ren nodded thoughtfully. 40 silver wen wasn’t bad, and he could turn a solid profit at that rate. But he also knew moonshine was worth far more. With its high concentration, Cultivators in the city would go crazy for it, and those kinds of customers wouldn’t blink before dropping 5 to 6 silver wen for a single glass.
That meant there was still a lot of room to push the price up.
He looked at the people gathered around him and smirked. "Sounds like things are going according to plan."
Anji raised an eyebrow. "Does it? I thought you wanted a higher price?"
Chen Ren chuckled. "I do. But right now, they only know our product is good—they haven't seen its full potential."
Zi Han’s eyes sharpened. "You mean…?"
Chen Ren leaned forward slightly. "We need to raise its demand in the city. Once the demand is high enough, these establishments won’t have a choice. They’ll be pushing each other out of the way just to get a supply deal with us, no matter what price we set."
The room fell silent for a moment before
Hong Yi asked, "And how do we do that, Sect Leader?"
Chen Ren’s smirk widened. "I already have a plan for that."
2025-02-17 16:18:38 +0000 UTC
View Post
Chapter 181
Shakran looked down at the man crouching on the floor, his eyes wide with terror as he stared up at him. His breath came in ragged gasps, his chest rising and falling with each trembling exhale. The blood drinker tilted his head, curious.
What are you thinking right now?
Was he afraid for himself? Regretful of something he had done? Perhaps thoughts of his family crossed his mind, the realization that he would never see them again? Or had he not yet grasped the gravity of the situation? That death was right in front of him—not as a soldier on the battlefield, but as a meal.
Slowly, Shakran crouched, his hollow, hungry gaze locking onto the man's. The mortal flinched, his pupils shaking, and Shakran found himself enjoying that look of despair. His voice was smooth when he finally spoke.
“Are you wondering why you were sent here, to my camp?”
The man’s head bobbed in a shaky nod, his lips pressed tight as though holding back a plea.
Shakran chuckled. “Well, it’s because you are an unlucky human.” His fingers tapped against his knee as he continued. “You look good, perhaps even fight well by mortal standards. But you have ruffled some feathers. Someone above you doesn’t like you, so they sent you to me… as my dinner.”
The man’s breathing quickened.
“You know,” Shakran mused, “when I asked for living men to feast upon each day, your lord didn’t even hesitate before agreeing. He didn’t flinch, not even once. Do you
understand what that means?” His lips curled into a smirk. “He doesn’t care about you. Not your life, not your service, not your loyalty. He doesn’t care. He sent you here without a second thought.
“But me?” Shakran tapped his chest. “I’m just a creature having his dinner. You eat goats and chickens, don’t you? It’s the same here.” His voice softened, though his eyes glowed with hunger. “The real evil is your lord.”
The man trembled violently now. His lips parted, barely able to form words before a desperate whisper escaped—
“Please… spare—”
Shakran was already moving.
His hand clamped around the man's neck, his fangs sinking deep into the soft flesh. A choked whimper left the man’s throat, his fingers twitching before the strength bled out of them. Shakran drank, savoring every drop of the rich, warm taste as it flowed over his tongue. The man’s body convulsed once… twice… and then his skin grew pallid, his veins drained of every last drop.
The body crumpled to the ground—pale, lifeless, hollow.
Shakran wiped the blood from his lips with the back of his hand, exhaling in satisfaction.
“That wasn’t a bad meal.”
Footsteps echoed outside the tent. He turned his head just as one of his servants entered, dropping to one knee in practiced submission.
“I greet Lord Shakran,” the blood drinker intoned.
Shakran studied him for a moment before leaning back, his hunger sated. “What news do you bring?”
The servant remained on one knee, his head bowed as he spoke.
“As you expected, my lord, I and the others followed Arzan’s knights after we saw them lead a small force out a few hours after the Battle of Dorn ended. We trailed them to the three noble houses that are in support of Duke Lucian.”
Shakran leaned back after sitting in a chair, tapping a claw against his knee. “So, what came of it?”
The servant’s voice was steady. “Annihilation.”
Shakran raised a brow.
“All three noble houses lost their major forces,” the servant continued. “Their armies were slaughtered, and their lords taken prisoner.”
For the first time in a long while, genuine surprise flickered through Shakran’s mind. He ran his tongue over his teeth, tasting the lingering remnants of his last meal. He studied his servant’s composure, searching for any sign of exaggeration—but there was none.
His voice came out as a single word.
“How?”
The servant lowered his head slightly. “They used tricks, my lord. It was all a trap. The noble armies expected an easy victory, believing Arzan’s forces too few to pose a threat. But their Knights had unique armor—armor that blinded the enemy with bursts of light, that burned with fire and crackled with lightning.” He paused. “When they charged, they could not be stopped. The noble forces were overwhelmed before they even had the chance to retreat.”
Shakran narrowed his eyes. “A special enchanted armour, then. Ordinary ones won't be able to take enchantments such as the ones you are describing without breaking down.”
“We believe so,” the servant confirmed. “Not just that—while the noble armies were distracted, those small forces led by Knights also moved to capture their cities.”
Shakran exhaled slowly, watching his servant with growing interest. For the second time, he wondered if the man was bluffing—but no. The weight in his words spoke of something witnessed firsthand.
“Just how strong are these knights they call Enforcers?” He voiced the question aloud.
The servant hesitated before answering. “I do not know, my lord. This battle was won through trickery and deception. But if we take the Battle of Verdis into account… They are at least as strong as us. Especially if they are prepared.”
Shakran chuckled, his sharp nails tapping against the armrest of his seat. “This is turning out to be far more interesting than I initially expected.” His eyes sharpened. “Keep an eye on their armor and weapons. We need to bring samples to Queen Regina. She would be very pleased to see them.”
The servant nodded. “Yes, my lord. There is one more thing.”
Shakran lifted a brow. “Oh?”
“It’s a small matter, but we noticed something… unusual.”
Shakran’s lips curled into a smirk. “And what is that?”
The servant met his gaze. “Birds, my lord.”
Shakran tilted his head slightly, urging him to continue.
“Normally, when we fly, birds scatter away from us. They recognize a stronger creature and flee.” The servant’s voice grew thoughtful. “But during the entire watch, my lord, we saw the same birds circling above the battlefield. They did not move away—not once.”
Shakran’s smirk widened, understanding dawning in his eyes. “And you suspect Arzan is controlling them.”
The servant nodded. “Yes, my lord.”
Shakran leaned forward, amusement glinting in his eyes. “Druidic magic. Now that is interesting. I never thought I would see it in the hands of a human, when even the Maleficia have no knowledge of it.” He
exhaled, this had certainly taken a very interesting turn. “We need to find the source of this power. If Arzan has access to it… then we must take it from him.”
He leaned back, his fingers tapping once more against the wood. “Deliver this information to Queen Regina. She will want to know.”
The servant hesitated for a moment before speaking again.
“So… should I inform Duke Lucian about this, my lord?”
Shakran looked at him, then let out a slow, amused chuckle. His fangs gleamed as he grinned.
“No,” he said smoothly. “Lucian doesn’t need to know anything.” He leaned forward slightly, his crimson eyes glinting. “I initially thought this war would be an easy victory for him. But no. He’s going to lose. And even if, by some miracle, he wins, it’ll be a pyrrhic victory at best.”
The servant gave a slow nod. “Then… what are your next orders, my lord?”
Shakran’s smile remained, but it sharpened at the edges. “Don’t tell Lucian anything. He can’t do anything about it at this point. With no reinforcements coming, he’s done for. We will hold the end of the bargain by helping him in the battle, but not more than that.”
The servant bowed his head. “Understood, my lord.”
Shakran stood from his seat, his gaze flickering toward the dead, pale corpse at his feet. “What we need to do,” he continued, “is follow Mistress Regina’s orders.” His voice deepened. “She wants Arzan’s head.” His fingers twitched, as if already imagining them closing around his target’s throat. “And I will make sure to get it.”
He turned his gaze back to his servant. “While I battle him, your job will be to move into Veralt and find me this knowledge. The armor, the drones, and—” his lips curled slightly, “—the druidic magic.”
The servant gave an affirmative nod. “Yes, my lord.”
Shakran’s smirk widened in approval. “Good.”
His gaze drifted once more to the lifeless human at his feet, and he tilted his head, amusement dancing in his blood-red eyes.
“Oh, Arzan…” he murmured.
His foot nudged the corpse slightly, watching as it lay still—pale, lifeless, empty.
“I can’t wait to make you exactly that.”
***
In the dead of night, two figures soared through the sky, their forms blending seamlessly into the darkness. The night was their ally, cloaking them in its shadowy embrace as they glided silently toward the great river that bordered House Dorn’s lands.
Each carried a large sack under their arm, their burden heavy, yet their flight unhindered. Below them, the land stretched vast and quiet, unaware of the destruction about to unfold.
They had heard of this place—the great river that wound through much of the Sylvan Enclave, one of the largest sources of water in the region. A lifeline to the humans.
What they were about to do would corrupt that lifeline, poisoning it for years to come.
But to the two blood drinkers, it meant nothing. Orders had been given, and they would be carried out. The lives of humans were no more valuable to them than those of livestock. If this act would cripple Count
Arzan and his forces, then it was necessary.
One of them touched down on the riverbank, boots sinking slightly into the damp earth. He glanced around before nodding.
“I believe this spot should be good,” he murmured. “Let’s do it and get back. Lord
Shakran seems to be growing impatient, and new orders could come at any time.”
The other blood drinker grinned, baring fangs that gleamed in the moonlight. “Yes. I can’t wait for those humans in the castle to come fetch their precious water… only to drink their deaths.” His eyes gleamed with wicked
amusement. “Do you think they’ll be tasty?”
His companion gave a slight shrug. “I wouldn’t know. I’ve long since lost my taste for mortal blood.” He paused, then smirked. “Now, Mage blood… that’s a different story.”
His gaze shifted downward, watching the river rush past them, oblivious to its fate.
“Anyway,” he said, shaking the bag loose, “let’s get this poison in the water and fly off.”
With that, they knelt.
The other blood drinker nodded, adjusting his grip as they prepared to empty their sacks into the river. They moved in unison, lifting the heavy bags, ready to dump the poison into the flowing water—
One of them suddenly froze.
The other noticed immediately, frowning.
“What is it?”
“I saw something move,” the first one murmured, his red eyes narrowing as he scanned the dark waters.
The second scoffed. “A lowly fish, no doubt.
It’ll meet its end the moment we dissolve this into the river. Don’t let it distract you.”
The first hesitated for only a moment before nodding, shifting the bag again. But—
This time, the river trembled. A deep vibration rippled through the ground beneath them.
Both blood drinkers stiffened. Their instincts sharpened, their bodies tensing as they instinctively stepped back, ready to flee if necessary.
Then—
The water erupted.
Something massive surged from beneath, sending a wave crashing over the shore. One of them cursed and instantly shot into the air, abandoning the bag entirely—
But before he could get far, a thick, glistening tentacle lashed out and seized his leg.
A startled snarl tore from his throat as he struggled, clawing at the appendage, but the grip was like iron. His companion’s eyes widened in horror as he watched, and then—more tentacles rose from the depths.
His breath hitched as a monstrous form emerged from the river. An enormous creature loomed over them, its slick, chitinous skin reflecting the moonlight, its many eyes glinting with an unnatural intelligence.
A kraken.
“Damn it!” The second blood drinker snarled, hands flashing as he unleashed a flurry of crimson attacks. Blades of condensed blood, sharp as razors, sliced through the air, striking the writhing limbs—
—and did nothing.
Whatever wounds his attacks inflicted vanished in an instant. Healing almost instantly.
His stomach dropped.
Meanwhile, his companion was hauled violently downward. A sickening crack echoed through the night as the kraken smashed him into the riverbank, sending dirt and debris flying.
“Shiran!” the second one shouted, lunging forward—
But more tentacles lashed out. Too many to count.
They wrapped around his arms, legs, and torso, pulling him toward the beast’s gaping maw.
For the first time in centuries, a cold, primal fear slithered through him. He had become prey out of nowhere.
The kraken’s countless eyes bore into him, unblinking.
And then—
It fucking smiled.
A slow, creeping grin that stretched wide, exposing rows upon rows of jagged fangs.
The blood drinker thrashed, trying to summon more power, but the grip around him tightened—
And then, with horrifying ease, the kraken’s mouth opened, and the darkness of its throat engulfed him.
The last thing he saw was his companion’s
mangled body being lifted toward the same fate.
The kraken bit down.
The night was silent once more.
Only the river remained, flowing undisturbed, as if nothing had happened.
2025-02-17 12:56:03 +0000 UTC
View Post
Chapter 71
After being in this world for a while, Chen Ren had realized that despite there being a royal family at the center of the Empire, the distribution of power in every big city and its nearby region was different, depending on the clans and sects that dominated them. For example, even though Cloud Mist City had a city lord, there was no denying that the Soaring Sword Sect held a much stronger claim to power, being the Guardian sect of the region.
Like Cloud Mist City, many other cities either had dominant clans or nearby sects sitting at the true center of power. Even when a city lord bore a noble title and officially governed, they could rarely act without considering these clans—organizations that had spent centuries cultivating generations of powerful individuals. Their deep-rooted history made them a force that couldn't be ignored.
Now that he thought about it, Red Peak City—
Chen Ren’s home—was much the same. The
Chen Clan controlled most aspects of
governance, despite the presence of an appointed city lord. It wasn’t that city lords held no power; in some cities, their influence far outweighed that of sects or clans. But in most, it was either a delicate balance—a 50-50 symbiotic relationship—or the clans remained the real heavyweights in the region. Unfortunately, Ashen City fell into the latter category, with a few dominant clans holding the reins of power.
It wasn’t necessarily bad for Chen Ren—except for one issue. These clans were used to having their way. With their wealth and their cultivators, they had established a near-monopoly on businesses in the city and surrounding settlements. Even during his journey toward Ashen City, he had noticed numerous small towns and trade hubs where businesses were clearly owned by these clans—particularly the Zhu Clan.
The Zhu Clan was, without a doubt, the most powerful faction in Ashen City. More importantly, they owned a staggering number of pubs and taverns. If he could strike a business deal with them, he would have a constant market for his alcohol. But before he could dream of making a fortune and advancing his cultivation, he had to figure out a way to get their attention.
“What are you thinking, Sect Leader Chen?”
Chen Ren blinked, pulled from his thoughts by
Anji’s voice. He turned to her, briefly considering his words before speaking. “Just thinking about this place—and the powers that occupy it.”
As he spoke, he swept his gaze outside the carriage window, taking in the sight of Ashen City. They had entered the city a while back, and through the carriage’s wooden frame, he could see just how bustling the streets were.
Merchant stalls lined the roads, people weaved between buildings, and the energy of trade and power warmed the air. If he wanted to carve a place for himself here, he needed to act carefully.
Yet, beneath the lively facade, something darker clung to the air.
A thin layer of black soot floated through the city, barely perceptible unless one truly focused. It did not choke the lungs nor cloud the vision, but it was there—settling on rooftops, streaking the edges of signboards, dulling the once-bright hues of banners. Even the occasional cultivator who sped past through the streets at full speed left behind a faint swirl of black.
Chen Ren sat within the carriage, one hand idly brushing against the wooden armrest. His gaze flickered toward the sky, where the sun’s light strained to cut through the lingering haze. It was the mark of Ashen City’s namesake—the legacy of a volcano that had erupted centuries ago. Though dormant, its breath still reached out, carried on the wind.
A voice pulled him from his thoughts.
"Are you worried that the Zhu Clan won’t buy our alcohol?" Zi Han leaned forward and asked.
Chen Ren chuckled, shaking his head. "They’ll be interested. Their establishments cater to more than just mortals. Look around—this city teems with cultivators, and not the kind who shut themselves away in caves seeking enlightenment." His fingers tapped against his knee as he observed the crowd outside.
"Most of them chase after beasts near the volcano, delve into caves for treasures, then return to spend their earnings on indulgence. They want fine food, warm company, and strong liquor. Ours will be exactly what they’re looking for."
He paused, his gaze sharpening. "The problem isn’t demand. It’s price. A clan like the Zhu won’t pay fair coin if they can twist our arms into selling cheap. If we let them dictate the terms, we’ll be left with crumbs while they feast."
Zi Han frowned slightly, crossing his arms. "So what’s your plan, Sect Master Chen? They have power, influence, and from what you are saying, they don’t play fair."
Anji, who had been silent until now, finally spoke. "Do we even have leverage? If they decide to force us, what then?"
Chen Ren smirked. "Clans are never monolithic. Rivalries exist—both within and outside. We just need to play them against each other."
His fingers traced a slow circle on the wooden surface beside him, mind already running through possibilities. "The first step is a demonstration. Not just to them, but to the city itself. We need to make them feel like they need our product, like they’ll lose something if they don’t act fast. The moment we turn the tables, it’ll be them chasing us."
Zi Han’s expression eased into a
comprehending smile. Anji gave a slow nod, understanding dawning in her eyes. Chen Ren turned to look outside; outside the carriage window, Ashen City sprawled before them.
***
While Chen Ren and the others were away, Meadow Village was anything but quiet. Activity buzzed through its streets and courtyards, the air thick with the sounds of construction, training, and murmured conversations. And as Zi Wen made his way through the sect’s compound, he bore witness to it all.
He still wasn’t sure if he should even call it a sect yet. Not in the way true sects were—where towering halls loomed over vast training fields, where disciples practiced in neat ranks under the watchful eyes of elders, and where the weight of centuries settled into every stone and pillar. No, this wasn’t that.
But it would be.
Somewhere deep in his chest, an unshakable certainty had taken root. He couldn’t explain it, but as he walked past the bustling activity, watching the pieces come together, he knew that the Divine Coin Sect was going to become something great.
Through a window, he caught sight of the mortal members seated inside a modest hall, practicing their numbers on wooden slates, their faces scrunched in concentration. Numbers. Not sword techniques or spell incantations, but calculations.
To anyone else, it might seem absurd, but Zi Wen had begun to understand the strange logic of his sect leader. A strong foundation wasn’t just about physical power—it was about knowledge, control, and mastery over more than just one’s fists.
Further ahead, Miss Tang Xiulan was hard at work, speaking with the builders as they fitted massive tubes into place and dug trenches along the sect grounds. Zi Wen frowned, watching as sweat glistened on their brows. Plumbing, they had called it.
Another one of Sect Leader Chen’s strange ideas.
Zi Wen didn’t understand it fully, but he had long since learned that when a sect leader spoke, it was better to listen. And although he still wasn't fully sure of Chen Ren, he knew he was capable and at least had good ideas in that big brain of his.
And the sect leader's words and actions with
the locust weren't the only reason to believe in him.
There was also Yalan, a white furred cat that rarely left Sect Leader's Chen's side, acting like an ordinary pet.
But Zi Wen knew the truth.
That was not a mere pet. Yalan was a master of the Meridian Expansion realm, a being whose strength dwarfed most cultivators who walked the land. And yet, she had willingly chosen to remain by Sect Leader
Chen’s side.
The day he had found out still sent a chill through him. He had always felt something unusual about that cat—an instinct, a whisper at the back of his mind. A spirit beast of that caliber lending its strength to the sect? The weight of that revelation had only cemented his belief.
The Divine Coin Sect would not remain unknown for long.
And as if that thought had summoned fate itself, he recalled Chen Ren’s words before leaving.
"Zi Wen, if the sect is to grow, you will have a role to play."
Not just as a disciple, not just as another follower. But as a cultivator who would help shape its future.
And so, as he walked the paths of the sect, watching the pieces fall into place, Zi Wen exhaled slowly.
For now, his task was clear. He had to train. He had to connect with his Dao. That was his sole goal.
Connecting to his Dao was proving more difficult than he had expected. It wasn’t as though he lacked hard work—he had cultivated diligently, followed Sect Leader Chen’s advice, and even meditated beneath the old sycamore tree that overlooked the village. But clarity continued to elude him, like mist slipping through his fingers.
Which was why he now found himself searching for Little Yuze.
If he couldn’t grasp his Dao on his own, then perhaps he could find inspiration elsewhere. The spirit wolf despite seeming like a harmless pet was strong and someone he had tamed. If he truly had Dao of Taming, then being near Little Yuze was definitely going to help.
It didn’t take long to find him.
The distant sounds of movement and soft laughter drew Zi Wen’s gaze toward the space that had become the training grounds. There, beneath the late afternoon sun, Luo Heng danced back and forth, his body shifting through clumsy yet determined steps.
Opposite him, Little Yuze crouched low, tail wagging as he darted forward with swift but controlled strikes.
Zi Wen’s eyes narrowed slightly. A movement technique?
Luo Heng’s breath came in ragged bursts as he leapt back from a claw swipe, his foot digging into the dirt. His brows furrowed in focus, and just as he landed, he shouted—
"[Drifting Cloud Steps!]"
His form blurred ever so slightly, but before he could fully evade, his foot caught on uneven ground, and he stumbled.
Little Yuze paused, his teal eyes blinking in amusement, clearly holding back.
Luo Heng groaned, brushing dust from his clothes. “Still not right…”
Before he could try again, he heard the approaching footsteps and turned to see Zi Wen striding toward them.
The boy straightened, wiping sweat from his forehead. “Senior Brother Wen! What are you doing here?”
Zi Wen smiled at the title. It was still unfamiliar, but… pleasant.
“I’m here to take Little Yuze for a walk.”
Luo Heng nodded, rubbing the back of his head. “That’s fine. We’ve been practicing for an hour anyway. But… I’m still not getting used to these techniques.” He looked down, his eyes proof of frustration.
Zi Wen folded his arms. “Take your time with it. They’re only mortal-grade techniques—if you rush, you’ll trip over yourself more than you’ll progress. Enjoy the process. You’re still a new cultivator.”
Luo Heng’s eyes flickered with understanding before he gave a determined nod. “Yes, I will, Senior Brother. I’ll think on them while I tend to my field.”
Zi Wen raised an eyebrow. “You’re still keeping up with your farm?”
Luo Heng straightened his back with a hint of pride. “Of course. Sect Leader Chen said I could, and now that the locusts are gone, I can finally care for my crops properly. Besides…” His voice softened slightly. “I inherited it from my father. He passed away last year. I don’t want to let it go.”
Zi Wen studied the boy for a moment before nodding in understanding. “Then keep at it.”
Luo Heng grinned before bidding his farewell, jogging off toward the fields, his steps a little steadier than before.
Zi Wen turned to Little Yuze, who watched him expectantly, tail flicking.
“Come,” he said, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Let’s take a walk.”
Little Yuze let out a small huff before lowering himself to the ground. Zi Wen instinctively moved, and before he could think twice, he found himself atop the wolf’s broad back.
The forest stretched before them, dappled sunlight filtering through the thick canopy.
The familiar path they took wound through towering trees, their roots twisting across the ground like the veins of the earth itself. The rustling of leaves accompanied their journey, but no wild beast dared approach them.
Zi Wen sat upright, letting the wind brush against his face. The soft fur beneath his hands was warm, and the steady rhythm of Little Yuze’s movements lulled him into a quiet calm.
For the first time in days, his thoughts settled.
His mind calmed and his always raising heartbeat was at pace. The frustration of failing to connect with his Dao faded into the background, carried away by the wind. A long, slow sigh left his lips, and he closed his eyes, letting himself sink into the moment.
Before he knew it, they had arrived.
The hilltop was in front of them. The air was fresher here, the scent of damp earth and wildflowers mixing together in a way that felt… grounding.
Little Yuze came to a stop and gently lowered him to the ground before stepping forward and pressing his head against Zi Wen’s chest.
A small laugh escaped him, and he ran his fingers through the wolf’s fur, rubbing and scratching at all the familiar spots. The way
Little Yuze leaned into his touch made his heart feel a little lighter.
But then, his hands stilled.
The wolf looked up at him, teal eyes twinkling with curiosity. What’s wrong? they seemed to ask.
Zi Wen exhaled softly and shook his head.
“Nothing much,” he murmured. “I was just wondering… am I really someone who can be a Beastmaster?”
Little Yuze blinked at him.
“The Dao of Taming exists, but I never thought it would be my path,” Zi Wen continued. His voice was calm, but a hint of hesitation lingered. “Sect Leader Chen fully believes it is, but… I don’t know. I feel like I’m stuck.”
For a moment, there was only silence. Then, without warning, a wet tongue dragged across his face.
Zi Wen recoiled. “Ugh—!”
Little Yuze let out a series of short, excited woofs, his tail wagging as if to say, Stop overthinking. Just trust yourself.
Zi Wen wiped at his face, but a reluctant smile
tugged at his lips. “…Yeah. You’re right. I should stop overthinking. Just because I haven’t connected to my Dao yet doesn’t mean I should be anxious about it.”
Still, a thought lingered in his mind.
“I just…” His fingers curled slightly. “I don’t think I can fully give up on the Martial Dao.”
Little Yuze tilted his head.
“I used to love training,” Zi Wen admitted, his voice softer now, as if he were speaking more to himself than to his companion. “I thought I’d become an immortal cultivator one day—slaying demons, fighting powerful enemies, becoming someone worthy of legends—”
He paused.
A thought entered his mind, quiet but undeniable.
His eyes drifted to Little Yuze.
Did I truly enjoy training as much as I enjoy this?
The memory of those long days resurfaced—the endless hours of striking dummies, the exhaustion of drilling techniques over and over again, the aching limbs and bruised knuckles. He remembered the initial rush of excitement whenever he learned something new, the thrill of growing stronger… but that feeling always faded, replaced by repetition.
It had been rewarding, yes. But had it been fun?
Right now, as he sat beside Little Yuze,
scratching behind his ears, the warmth of the afternoon sun on his skin… he couldn’t deny it.
This moment, this feeling—this was happiness.
Even playing with that mischievous squirrel, Whis Ke, had been fun.
But had he ever felt this way about his martial training?
Zi Wen lowered his gaze, lost in thought.
Perhaps… he had been walking the wrong path all along.
Zi Wen stared at the sky, watching as the clouds drifted by, his fingers idly running through the wolf’s fur.
He exhaled.
The realization settled over him like a quiet tide.
His past wasn’t a mistake—it had been good in its own way. But had he been truly happy?
No.
It was nostalgia that had clouded his thoughts.
Back then, he had walked the path of the Martial Dao because it had been his childhood dream. He had believed himself to be chosen—a favored son of the heavens, destined for greatness. But that had been nothing more than a story he told himself, a fantasy spun from the arrogance of youth.
Reality had been different.
But this…
Zi Wen glanced at Little Yuze, the steady rise and fall of his breathing, the warmth of his presence.
This felt different.
The connection he had with the wolf wasn’t something written in fate or dictated by the heavens. It was something real, something forged through time, care, and trust.
Maybe he hadn’t been chosen by the heavens.
But he had been chosen to meet Little Yuze, to take care of him, to befriend him.
And that—
That was enough.
Just then, a strange sensation pulsed through him, a warmth curling in his chest, unfamiliar yet natural. His breath hitched, his fingers twitching against Little Yuze’s fur.
His eyes widened.
He turned sharply to the wolf. “Did you feel that?”
Little Yuze blinked at him before tilting his head, a picture of pure confusion.
Zi Wen’s pulse quickened.
Was this… what i thought it was?
Without another word, he shifted into a meditative position, his breathing steadying.
If this was what he thought it was—if this was the moment where he finally shed his Martial Dao and stepped onto a new path—then he couldn’t let it slip away.
He closed his eyes and let the world around him fade. And then, as he focused inward, he found himself in his Star Space—that vast, endless expanse within him. A place where the echoes of his Dao awaited. And for the first time, he reached forward, not toward the path he had once believed in—
But toward the path that had already been waiting for him.
2025-02-15 11:28:45 +0000 UTC
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Chapter 180
Feroy felt a rush of power spread through him and his men. It was too bright and powerful.
The aethum core in his chestplate hummed
violently as the Blinding Seals activated. A bright white light exploded across the battlefield, covering everything in its glow.
In the next second, panicked shouts filled the air. Not just that, triggered horses neighed wildly, rearing up as their riders cried out in confusion. Blinded by the sudden light, many soldiers covered their eyes or waved their weapons uselessly.
On the other hand, Feroy and his forces were prepared. Their helmets had special visors—Dusk Shields—that let them see through the blinding glow. Balen even had managed to create a similar kind for each and every horse—to avoid any sort of unnecessary trouble.
Feroy immediately took the chance of the enemy being blinded.
“Charge!” he shouted.
His men stormed forward, cutting down enemies who couldn’t even see them coming. Spears pierced through armor, swords slashed through flesh, and the battlefield turned into chaos.
“I can’t see!” an enemy soldier screamed.
“Help me!” another shouted before being struck down.
Feroy tore through the carnage, his spear a blur of death. Each strike hammered into flesh, cutting men down ruthlessly—nothing held him back. His men were no different—there was no mercy in their eyes. Spears, shields, swords, arrows, and daggers all joined in the bloodbath, painting the ground red. Everywhere Feroy looked, men were falling, horses crashing, and the desperate screams of those begging for their lives filled the air.
It happened too fast—too violently. In the span of moments, a force of two thousand men and horses had been driven back, and the slaughter began. His men didn’t hesitate.
They ripped through the enemy with a savagery that could only be born from the certainty of victory.
Afterall, a blinded enemy was nothing more than a corpse waiting to happen.
Feroy didn’t even need his powers as an Enforcer. His spear sliced through blood-soaked air, carving through bone, flesh, and beating hearts, leaving a trail of mangled bodies right after.
His fingers gripped the reins of his horse, pulling it around as he watched the chaos unfold—men screaming, dying, blood splattering against the earth. Then, he caught sight of some enemy soldiers who’d managed to escape the worst of it. They were turning, fleeing.
Feroy’s eyes locked onto Bord, his sword sinking deep into a man’s throat, earning a loud scream. Blood splurged from the fallen guy’s mouth, and even eyes.
“Bord! Hunt them down!”
Bord’s eyes flicked up, his eyes hard and wild. With a loud grunt, he gathered a few men and shot off after the retreating cowards.
Feroy didn’t slow down. He pressed on, cutting down the men who begged for mercy or a quick death, their pleas lost in the beautiful sound of the battle. One after another, they crumpled to the earth, lifeless.
Is that...?
His gaze snapped to the ground, catching sight of someone through the blood-soaked chaos. A man, sprawled beneath fallen horses, crushed by their weight and the bodies of the wounded. Blood stained his armor, dark and thick, and a spear jutted from his stomach, the point glistening with crimson.
The Viscount.
Feroy hadn’t even seen him during the battle. He must have fallen early. From the way his eyes were closed with his body sprawled like that—Feroy wondered if he was dead. But, Lord Arzan had ordered him to be captured, not killed. Even though every cell of his body would have liked to leave him to die, orders were orders.
Urging his horse forward, he dodged past swinging blades and rearing horses until he reached the fallen man. With a single motion, he pulled the Viscount up onto his saddle. The man groaned weakly, still alive but badly hurt.
Feroy grabbed a small vial from his belt, uncorked it, and forced a few drops into the viscount’s mouth. The potion would keep him alive long enough to be tied up.
Glancing back at the battlefield, Feroy saw that the enemy was slowly recovering. But it was too late for them. Less than a quarter of their army remained, and Feroy’s forces hadn’t lost a single man.
Victory was already theirs.
As Feroy sat on his horse, surveying the battlefield, two men suddenly charged at him. Their eyes burned with fury as they shouted, “Give us back our lord!”
Feroy barely spared them a glance. With a swift movement, he blocked their attack with his spear, then shoved them back with enough force to unseat them. Their horses reared in panic, but before they could recover, Feroy struck their mounts down, sending both men crashing to the ground. Without hesitation, he urged his own horse forward, its heavy hooves stomping down on the fallen enemies.
The battlefield was almost silent now, save for the groans of the wounded and the ones who still fought with all their might.
Feroy scanned the field and then raised his voice for all to hear.
“Anyone who surrenders now will be spared! You will be taken as political prisoners until the fief war is over. Any resistance will lead to your death—just like your comrades!”
That earned more silence than before as the enemy soldiers clad in crimson plates hesitated, looking back and forth between the men who were still alive. Feroy saw how their hands tightened around their weapons, a silent conversation passed between them wondering whether to give up or continue.
But they soon came to the right decision.
The last three hundred of them dropped their weapons to the ground in unison, and raised their hands in surrender.
Feroy smirked and lifted his spear high. “We have won!”
A loud triumphant cheer erupted from his men. They had fought without losing a single soldier, and their victory was absolute.
“We did it!”
“It was fucking easy! Look at them bow now!”
“Long live Lord Arzan!!”
The men shouted, one after another.
Just then, Feroy spotted Bord riding back with a few of his men. Their weapons dripped with fresh blood. Even before Bord spoke, Feroy knew his task had been completed.
Bord stopped beside him and grinned. “I killed all the fleeing men.” his grin expanded as he showed around. “I have to say, I’ve never seen or heard a battle end this quickly. The bards will have a good year with their stories after this fief war.”
Feroy nodded. “For sure. But it’s not over yet.”
Bord tilted his head. “What’s next?”
Feroy paused for a moment, then smiled. “We move to raid House Xandhir. The Viscount and his forces are done, but they might still have reinforcements left. Lord Arzan doesn’t want any loose ends. We’ll make sure the whole Sylvan Enclave is under our lord’s control.”
Bord smirked. “Sounds like a plan to me.”
***
A small army of men rode swiftly across the open plains, heading toward the fortified city at the edge of the Sylvan Enclave. Their horses galloped hard, kicking up clouds of dust that trailed behind them like a storm. The soldiers wore battered green armor, its once-proud metal now cracked and broken.
The crest of House Dyerich was barely visible through the dirt and blood that stained their plates.
They were in a hurry. Their horses’ hooves thundered against the earth as they raced toward the city's towering walls. But as they neared the entrance, the archers stationed above quickly took aim.
"Halt, or you will be shot down!" one of the guards shouted.
The riders pulled on their reins, their horses slowing to a stop just outside the gates. One man stepped forward, his voice urgent and shaky as he called out, "We need to meet Baron Kairnso immediately!"
The archers exchanged wary glances before the same guard called back, "Why? State your business!"
The soldier took a deep breath and shouted, "We were ambushed on our way to join Duke Lucian’s forces! Count Arzan’s men attacked us. We barely escaped with our lives!"
Immediately murmurs spread among the men on the wall. The tension in the air grew thick, the archers gripping their bows tighter.
Finally, the guard at the front narrowed his eyes and asked, "Where is Knight Serian? He was leading your force."
The soldier’s expression darkened. "He’s dead," he said grimly and wiped his nose from the back of hishand. He marched forward. "He fell in battle, along with the rest of our men. We weren’t even able to recover their bodies. Please, let us in!"
The guard hesitated, glancing at his fellow soldiers. A heavy silence filled the space between them. Then, after a long pause, he nodded. "Wait here."
A moment later, the heavy wooden gates groaned open, allowing the weary riders to pass through. As they entered the city, the archers climbed down from their posts, their eyes scanning the wounded men. Blood stained their armor, and some of them looked pale, barely able to stay upright on their horses.
The soldier at the front turned to the guard. "Please, my men need healing. They won’t last much longer."
The guard took in the sight of their injuries and gave a short nod. "We’ll call for the healers. My men will take care of them." He then gestured toward the castle in the distance. "But first, you need to go with me.
Baron Kairnso must hear about this immediately."
The soldier nodded. "Of course."
Without wasting another second, the guard led him through the city streets, past rows of stone buildings and bustling city folks who paused to watch the bloodied warrior pass. They made their way toward a small castle at the city’s center, its stone walls sturdy and imposing.
The guard exchanged a few words with a butler at the entrance, who then guided them through a series of barely lit up corridors. The castle smelled of burning candles and parchment, the faint scent of wine lingering in the air.
Finally, they reached a heavy wooden door, and the butler knocked twice before pushing it open.
Inside, Baron Kairnso sat at a polished table, his pudgy fingers wrapped around a goblet of wine. His face twisted into an annoyed scowl as he looked up. "What is it now?” His gaze shifted from the butler, to the guard and finally, to the bloodied soldier standing before him. He frowned. "Are you one of the men I sent to aid Duke Lucian?"
The soldier stepped forward and bowed. "Yes, my lord. Knight Serian led us, but…" He clenched his fists, his voice lowering. "We were attacked. Count Arzan’s forces ambushed us on the way. Our men… were annihilated."
Baron Kairnso’s frown deepened. His fingers tightened around the goblet as he leaned forward. “What exactly happened?”
The soldier took a slow, shuddering breath, his face pale with exhaustion. He kneeled on the floor unable to keep up his body. “We were on our way to join Duke Lucian’s forces when we spotted a cavalry unit approaching—Count Arzan’s men. There weren’t many of them, so we engaged, thinking we had a chance.”
He hesitated, eyes shadowed with something close to fear. “But just before we clashed… they started burning.”
Baron Kairnso’s brows shot up. “Burning?”
The soldier gave a stiff nod. “As if they were demons from hell itself. Flames erupted over them, swallowing their armor, their horses… but they didn’t scream. They didn’t fall. They just kept charging at us, wreathed in fire, untouched by their own flames.”
A shiver ran through the room. The guard and the butler standing nearby exchanged uneasy glances. The scent of burnt leather and flesh still clung to the scorched soldier’s armor, the metal blackened and warped from the heat.
Baron Kairnso slammed his goblet onto the
table. “What do you mean, a burning cavalry? Didn’t they burn themselves?”
The soldier shook his head, his jaw tightening. “No, my lord. They seemed… unaffected. Their armor didn’t even seem to get heated.”
Baron Kairnso cursed under his breath, his face twisting with frustration and he stood up.
“What the fuck is going on here?” He ran a hand through his thinning hair, pacing across the room. Then, turning sharply, he fixed the soldier with a hard stare. “Are you sure they didn’t chase you?”
The soldier shook his head again. “No, my lord. We took a different route, curved around the main roads, and hid in caves to avoid them. They didn’t follow.”
Kairnso nodded, but the worry on his face did not fade. He started pacing again, his boots clicking against the stone floor. He felt the tension of the room increase by a few degrees.
The guard finally spoke. “What are we going to do now, my lord? Do we still prepare the reinforcements we were sending after Knight Serian?”
Kairnso stopped mid-step, exhaling sharply. Then, with a sudden snap, he turned on the man. “Hell if I know!”
The room fell silent. His scowl deepened as he gestured sharply, his frustration spilling out. “Do your insignificant peasant brain even realize what’s happening here? A Duke and a Count are fighting—using their ancestral forces, their magical powers—to crush each other! And in the middle of it all, I’m getting ground into dust like a damn pebble!”
His words echoed through the chamber. The air was heavy with an unspoken truth—one none of them wanted to face.
Then, from the other side of the room, the scorched soldier spoke up, his voice hoarse but steady. “Then why did you agree to join the fief war, Baron Kairnso?”
Kairnso scoffed, a dry, humorless laugh escaping him. “Do you think I had a choice?” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “Do you fucking think I had a choice?!” he repeated himself as if no one heard him before. “House Kellius has ruled the Sylvan Enclave for centuries.”
The soldier hesitated before speaking again. “But House Redmont chose to stay neutral.”
The tension in the air was palpable as Kairnso sneered at the scorched man, his voice dripping with disdain. "What do you know? I choose the best possible way, and I don't need to hear anything from a soldier who ran away from battle! Arzan’s forces might not have killed you, but I will if you use that tongue too much."
The scorched man’s lips twitched, his face twisted in amusement. Without a word, he threw his head back and let out a low, eerie chuckle. Baron Kairnso froze on the spot, furrowing his brow in confusion, wondering why the man was laughing. As he did, the scorched man suddenly removed his helmet with one swift motion.
Kairnso’s eyes widened as a sharp, handsome face with a scar running down his neck came into view, framed by dark hair, blue eyes and a bright, unsettling smile. The tremor that was before—gone. This man looked borderline crazy with a grin on his face.
Kairnso instinctively took a step back, his instincts telling him that something was wrong.
“Are you really one of my soldiers?” He asked, voice trembling.
The man caught Kairnso’s confused expression and chuckled again. “I’m sorry. I forgot, a nobleman like you would never be able to remember the faces of his own soldiers. I guess it was easier to get in here due to that.”
The words hit Kairnso like a dagger to the chest, draining the color from his face as his jaw went slack. His mind raced as he struggled to process the implications of the man’s words.
“Who… who are you?” Kairnso stammered, his heart hammering in his chest.
The scorched man’s grin widened, and with a flourish, he replied, “Knight Talon, serving Count Arzan. It’s nice to meet you, Baron Kairnso.”
Kairnso’s face looked like he had eaten shit. A cold sweat broke out on his brow as he stumbled backward, his eyes darting toward the guard and butler, who were now both visibly tense.
Before Kairnso could make another sound, Talon moved. In an instant, two short swords whistled through the air. One struck the guard in the neck, the other embedding itself in the butler’s chest. He dragged the short sword from the guard and held it in his hands as the two men fell lifeless to the ground, blood splattering across Talon and Kairnso.
Talon wiped the blood that was on his forehead and it smudged all over his face. He didn’t care.
Kairnso, now utterly paralyzed by fear, found himself on the floor, the window looming just behind him. His mouth moved in vain, no words escaping as he gasped for breath, his body trembling uncontrollably.
Talon took slow steps toward him, his boots silent on the cold stone floor. “You’re much more of a coward than what Ansel reported.”
Kairnso, now frantic, scooted back across the floor, wanting to put as much distance as he could from the lunatic man, his hands bracing himself against the cold stone as he scrambled. His breath came in ragged gasps, his body trembling with panic. “You won’t get away with this,” he spat. “I’ll have you killed. My men will tear you apart and save me. You’ll never make it out of the city.”
Talon’s laughter was low and mocking, the sound of it echoing in Kairnso’s ears. He stepped closer. “I really don’t think so,” Talon replied smoothly. “You know why?”
Kairnso’s eyes narrowed, defiance flickering in them, but he said nothing. His mind raced, struggling to piece together what Talon was saying, but the words didn’t make sense.
Talon didn’t seem worried in the slightest.
“Because I didn’t come here alone,” Talon continued, his voice almost playful. “And those who I came here with? Led by a woman named Lyra. She’s icy cold, silver hair—ah, scary to look at when she’s in the mood for blood. And she… She is someone who will complete her job no matter what. And do you know what job I gave her?”
Before Kairnso could respond, a faint glow caught his eye through the window. His eyes widened as he turned to look outside, his heart dropping into his stomach. Cold icy mist was rising high into the sky, a terrifying icy inferno consuming the city he had once controlled. His breath caught in his throat, a mixture of disbelief and horror flooding through him.
“What the….”
Talon’s smile deepened, the satisfaction in his eyes unmistakable. “It seems like you’ve already lost before you even began properly.”
Kairnso’s face paled further, his mind spiraling in panic, but Talon wasn’t finished. “Thank you for making this easy by not going with your main force. You were too much of a coward to think that far ahead. Now, let me wrap you up nicely, so I can present my lord with a nice gift. Afterall, I owe him the best.”
His voice was a chilling whisper as he crouched down to Kairnso’s level. The Baron opened his mouth, about to beg or curse, but before any words could escape, Talon’s fist landed squarely on his face, cutting off the sound as Kairnso crumpled to the ground, unconscious.
Talon straightened, wiping his bloodied knuckles with a casual gesture as he looked down at the fallen Baron. “My job’s over,” he murmured to himself with a satisfied smile, then turned on his heel and walked toward the door, leaving the chaos of the frozen city in the distance.
2025-02-15 11:24:45 +0000 UTC
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Chapter 70
Chen Ren had thought long and hard about how to free Hong Yi from the grasp of the Blood Iron Sect. There were few options available to him.
He could openly poach the young cultivator without a care in the world, daring the Blood Iron Sect to challenge him—an act of arrogance that only someone far stronger could afford. And he very well knew that wasn't going to work. He could attempt to negotiate with Ma Tianhai, pleading his case like a merchant haggling over a prized treasure. Which had a higher chance of failing than working. Or he could take the most direct approach—forcing them to let go, one way or another.
But all of these paths had one glaring flaw—he wasn’t strong enough.
Power dictated the rules in the cultivation world, and right now, he didn’t have enough of it to impose his will and stand against a well-known sect. So, he had settled on a different plan, one built on a single, simple thought,
The sect couldn’t look for Hong Yi if he was already dead.
Of course, it was a lie. But a lie only mattered if it was exposed, if he was caught. But this was better than all the other options he came up with.
The real challenge lay in making them believe it.
Now, as he sat in the heart of the Blood Iron Sect, facing Ma Tianhai himself, he felt the weight of his gamble pressing down on him. The man before him, Sect Leader Ma Tianhai, was a figure of quiet menace, his aura coiling through the hall like an unseen serpent.
“Why should I believe you, Rin Ho?”
A formless pressure settled over Chen Ren’s shoulders, threatening to drive him into the floor. His muscles stiffened, his breath hitching for just a moment before another force pushed back against the pressure. Yalan.
The tension in his chest eased as her qi wrapped around him like an invisible shield, steadying his mind. He couldn’t let the man know he was affected. He took a breath, lifting his gaze to meet Ma Tianhai’s eyes. Then, in a calm, neutral tone, he spoke,
“Sect Leader Ma, I am not here to convince you. I am merely delivering the news of one of your disciples' deaths because it is a righteous act and my responsibility as the one who confirmed it.” He forced his vocals to remain even. “If I were lying, do you think I would be sitting here, in the very heart of your sect? Are you truly willing to offend me when I am doing your sect a favor?”
As he said the last words, a silence fell over. Both Elder Kang and Sect leader Ma exchanged glances, their expressions shifting subtly. The oppressive force in the room did not dissipate entirely, but it loosened, just enough for Chen Ren to know his words had landed.
Ma Tianhai’s eyes turned towards him, dark and unreadable. Then, slowly, he exhaled and lowered his gaze just a fraction.
“You misunderstand me, fellow Daoist,” he said.
His fingers curled slightly against the armrest of his chair before relaxing. His gaze flickered downward, and for the first time, a trace of something almost human appeared in his expression.
“Hong Yi was one of our most important disciples. Hearing of his death like this… is difficult to accept.”
The chamber remained silent for a long moment. Then, Sect Leader Ma’s voice cut through the air.
“Can you give us more details on his death?” he asked. “Where did you find him? And… What did you do with his corpse?”
Chen Ren nodded slightly, as if he had expected the question. He exhaled, keeping his expression neutral as he leaned back just a fraction.
“Well,” he began, “I can say for sure that he died to a beast. From the tracks, it was clear that he had been chased for quite a while before the end.” He let that information hang in the air before adding, “I believe it happened about a year ago.”
Ma Tianhai’s expression did not shift, but Chen Ren caught the slight tightening of Elder Kang’s jaw.
“Unfortunately,” he continued, “I don’t know what he was doing there. As for the location, it was west of the heart of the Blein forest. I had ventured deeper myself, looking for certain herbs for a concoction I was brewing.”
A lie that the Iron Blood Sect had no way of knowing.
“And his corpse?” Ma Tianhai asked, his gaze sharpening.
Chen Ren met his eyes without hesitation. “I burned it.”
A sharp intake of breath came from Elder Kang. The man paled visibly, his fingers twitching against his robes. Sect Leader Ma’s eyes narrowed for a split second before his expression smoothed once more.
“You burned it?”
Chen Ren nodded. “Yes. By the time I found him, only bits of his flesh remained. According to cultivation customs, cremation was the proper choice.” His voice remained steady, as if the decision had been entirely reasonable. “I had no artifacts capable of preserving his body long enough to bring him here, so I did what was necessary.”
A slow exhale came from Ma Tianhai. He did not speak immediately, but there was a subtle stiffness in his posture, a tightness at the corner of his mouth.
“…That is really, really unfortunate,” he said at last.
Before the weight of those words could settle, Elder Kang from behind suddenly spoke.
“Daoist…” The man paused, then continued, his voice holding an unmistakable edge. “May I ask you something?”
Chen Ren inclined his head slightly. “Of course, Elder.”
Elder Kang studied him for a moment, then leaned forward. “Why did it take a full year for you to bring this news to us?” His eyes gleamed with something sharp—an unspoken suspicion, perhaps. “Our Blood Iron Sect might not be as grand as a Guardian Sect, but it is hardly obscure. It wouldn’t have been difficult for someone as esteemed and powerful as yourself to find us.”
At that, even Ma Tianhai turned his gaze back to Chen Ren, waiting for his answer.
Chen Ren did not hesitate. He had expected this. His lips curled into an easy smile, his eyes remaining relaxed as he replied,
“As I mentioned, I was searching for rare materials in the forest at the time. Afterward, I entered secluded cultivation. I only emerged last week, and as soon as I did, I made my way here to inform you.” He let his expression turn just a fraction apologetic, but his voice held firm resolve. “I understand the delay may be frustrating, but I trust you understand—my personal cultivation will always be my highest priority.”
Elder Kang squinted at him, but Ma Tianhai only exhaled through his nose, nodding once. “That is fair.”
Another voice, soft as silk, brushed against Chen Ren’s mind.
You’re doing well.
Yalan’s tone carried amusement, but he ignored her, keeping his posture steady. The moment required his full focus.
Ma Tianhai glanced at Elder Kang beside him, then turned back to Chen Ren.
“Wait here for a moment.”
Chen Ren remained silent as Elder Kang stood, stepping away from his seat and exiting through one of the side doors. A brief hush filled the hall. When Elder Kang returned, he carried something in his hands.
A map.
Chen Ren’s gaze flickered over it as Elder Kang unfurled it carefully, revealing the details of a vast, sprawling forest.
Elder Kang’s finger tapped against a specific area.
“The Blein Forest.”
Ma Tianhai’s gaze swept over the unfurled map, then shifted back to Chen Ren.
“Daoist,” he said evenly, “can you point to the location where you found Hong Yi’s corpse? And where did you encounter the beast?”
Chen Ren gave a slow nod, stepping forward to study the map. He didn’t hesitate—hesitation would only breed suspicion. Instead, he moved his finger with confidence, tapping a particular area within the Forest.
“Around here.” His voice was steady, his tone matter-of-fact. “As for the beast that killed him… I don’t know its exact den, but it was a green fang direwolf—a very powerful creature.”
Both Ma Tianhai and Elder Kang exchanged a look before nodding.
The following half-hour passed with them pressing for more details. They asked about the beast—whatever it had left as proof when it was gone. They inquired about the forest—dangerous paths, notable landmarks, known settlements near the area. Each question was answered smoothly, effortlessly. Chen Ren had already constructed the entire narrative in his mind before even stepping foot in the sect. He was careful to provide just enough detail to make it believable while avoiding anything that could be easily disproved.
When their questions finally dwindled, he glanced up, offering them a polite smile.
“I believe you now have a solid idea of where you can find the beast,” he said. “I would love to stay longer, but I have other commitments to attend to.”
He fully expected them to try to detain him—either out of lingering suspicion or a desire to leverage his strength—but to his mild surprise, Sect Leader Ma only gave a slight nod.
“Thank you, Daoist,” he said sincerely. “You have done a great service to my sect today. Please return anytime. The Blood Iron Sect will do its utmost to accommodate all your needs.”
Chen Ren’s lips curled into a gentle smile. “Thank you for your hospitality, Sect Leader Ma Tianhai. Now, I should take my leave.”
Elder Kang beside Ma Tianhai stepped forward. “Allow me to escort you.”
Chen Ren inclined his head in acknowledgment but remained alert as they walked together through the sect grounds. He observed everything—the disciples training in courtyards, the neatly maintained pathways, the defensive formations embedded into the walls. Yet, throughout the entire escort, nothing seemed amiss. No hushed conversations. No discreet gestures signaling hidden intent.
Still, he maintained his composure, answering Elder Kang’s occasional small talk with casual politeness until they reached the sect’s barrier.
At the boundary, Elder Kang came to a halt, bowing slightly.
“Thank you, Daoist. Safe travels.”
Chen Ren returned the bow with the appropriate level of respect, then stepped through the barrier. Only once he had put some distance between himself and the sect did he exhale deeply—the breath he hadn’t even realized he had been holding.
He was calm, but his mind was already working through the next steps.
They’ll check the locations I pointed out.
That was inevitable. The Blood Iron Sect would send people to verify his claims, to look for any traces that the incident had truly occurred as he described. But he wasn’t concerned. He had accounted for this from the beginning.
Hong Yi himself had told me he passed by the edge of the Blein Forest while fleeing. He hid in a cave near the entrance for a week.
If the sect conducted an investigation, they would find villages and towns near that region. Some of the locals might vaguely recall seeing a cultivator in Blood Iron Sect robes heading into the forest. That alone would lend credibility to his words.
And if they searched for the beast?
They might find it. Beasts of that level do inhabit the area.
But what could they even do with it?
Hong Yi’s metaphorical remains had long been digested, his tracks erased by time. Even if the sect suspected that verifying the full truth was futile, they would still go through the motions. It was their last ditch attempt to confirm that Hong Yi was dead and they would never get their hands on the inheritance.
Now, only one major problem left.
As Chen Ren walked deeper into the forest, he slipped a hand into his robe and pulled out Yalan. He looked at the small kitten and fought the urge to pet it once again before he whispered.
“You think they’re following us?”
The little kitten stretched in her palm, her amber eyes searching behind.
“Yes,” she replied without hesitation. “But I’ll deal with them. They won’t send anyone too strong, so it’ll be easy. They won’t even know what hit them.”
Chen Ren gave a slight nod. He didn’t need to say more—Yalan already knew what to do. With a flicker of movement, she crawled down his arm and disappeared into the underbrush. While moving away, he saw how her size increased to normal.
He continued walking, his ears tuned for anything out of place. Minutes passed. Then ten. Then twenty. By the time thirty minutes had gone by, a faint sense of unease began to creep in.
Did something go wrong?
Just as the thought took root, a rustling in the trees made him pause. His muscles tensed instinctively, but before he could react, a familiar figure dropped soundlessly in front of him.
Yalan had returned without a scratch.
“They sent three disciples,” she reported casually. “All at the qi refinement realm. The last one was a bit tricky—probably had some kind of stealth technique—but I disposed of him. When they wake up, they won’t even know what hit them.”
She stretched lazily on the ground. “Ma Tianhai will probably assume you noticed them and handled it yourself. And if he has half a brain, he won’t bother with you any further.”
Chen Ren exhaled quietly and nodded. “Let’s keep moving.”
They continued their way out of the forest. Even though Yalan had assured him there was no one tailing them, Chen Ren found himself glancing over his shoulder more than once, a habit born of caution rather than fear. Only when they finally stepped into the outskirts of the small town did he let his shoulders relax.
This time, instead of slipping into an alley, he walked straight toward the inn they had booked earlier. Moving with purpose, he headed for their room, pushing the door open before stepping inside. Only then did he reach up, remove his mask, and let out a long breath.
“I felt stuffed in that. Fuck, it was horrible,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair, and his face, and then he straightened. “Anyway, we should get to the carriage. They’re probably worrying by now.”
Yalan smirked. “Then let’s not keep them waiting.”
He nodded, and with that, they made their way out of the town. The road stretched before them, quiet under the waning moonlight. Chen Ren ran for an hour, his movements swift yet steady, conserving energy as he covered the distance. Eventually, the familiar outline of a slow-moving carriage came into view.
As he neared, Zi Han caught sight of him first, a knowing smile tugging at her lips as he looked back from driving the carriage. Chen Ren merely nodded and signalled for it to stop and stood right besides it.
The doors creaked open, and one by one, the others stepped out. Hong Yi was the first to approach him, his gaze wary, yet undeniably hopeful.
“So?” Hong Yi asked, moving from one foot to another. The man was clearly eager to know what had gone down with his previous sect. He knew how dangerous it had been for Chen Ren to go alone, considering that one little, subtle mistake could cost him his life.
Chen Ren met his eyes evenly, and licked his lips that had been dried due to the wind. “Well, what do you think, considering I’m standing here?”
For a moment, Hong Yi’s face twisted with disbelief. He didn’t want to trust the words, but the proof was undeniable—Chen Ren was right in front of him, alive and well.
“It took some time, but I sold the story. They’ll probably head to Blein Forest to verify it, but we’ll be far gone by then. If you stay careful and keep a low profile for a while, you won’t have any problems.”
A sharp breath escaped Hong Yi. His shoulders slackened, and for the first time since their escape, the tension in his body truly faded. Chen Ren caught the subtle tremble in his hands, the way his eyes glistened as emotion welled up. Then, suddenly, Hong Yi dropped into a deep bow.
“You don’t–”
He stayed there.
“Thank you, Sect Leader Chen,” he said while his voice quivered with emotions. “I, Hong Yi, won’t disappoint you.”
Chen Ren smiled faintly, shaking his head. “I hope you don’t,” he replied and placed his hand on top of Hong Yi’s shoulder. “Because I took a real risk for you.”
Hong Yi straightened, clenching his fists and nodding. “I’ll make sure to prove my usefulness.”
Chen Ren’s smirk widened. “You will. After all, we’ll have plenty of opportunities where we’ll need your puppets.”
“Yes, sect leader Chen Ren. Anything you say, I will do. You’ve saved my life!”
“Well, as long as you stay out of trouble that is.” He let the words hang for a moment before exhaling and stretching his arms. “But first of all… we have alcohol to sell.”
2025-02-13 06:36:19 +0000 UTC
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Chapter 179
Yafgar stood in the middle of the carnage, his broad chest rising and falling in slow breaths. Around him, bodies lay sprawled across the dirt, limbs twisted at unnatural angles, their blood soaking into the earth like a final offering to the battlefield. Some had died cleanly—one precise cut, one swift strike—but others had been less fortunate, their bodies bearing the brutal evidence of the Lombards' fury.
Pride swelled his chest, but his mind was occupied. He lifted his battle-axe and ran a calloused hand along its edge, wiping away the thick, crimson coating that still clung to the blade. The weapon groaned under his grip, still warm from the slaughter. He exhaled through his nose, watching as the blood dripped onto the broken ground beneath him, mixing with the ashes of burning homes.
Too easy.
The noble’s forces had barely put up a fight. Yafgar had expected resistance, had hoped for warriors worthy of his steel, but what he had found instead were men too soft, too unprepared for true battle. A disappointing display.
They had been caught off guard, yes—his warriors had struck swiftly, tearing through their defenses before they had a chance to react—but a true soldier, a true leader, was always prepared for war. This noble had been weak, complacent, too reliant on his title to shield him from the blade.
And so, he had been defeated.
Another stain wiped clean from the land.
Yafgar tightened his grip around his axe and glanced toward the burning remains of the village. Their attack had sent the villagers scattering, their terrified cries piercing through the battle before vanishing into the shadows. Some had fled beyond the fields, others had barricaded themselves inside their homes, praying for mercy. He wondered how many of them had ever lifted a blade before today—how many had spent their lives under the noble’s rule, blind to the harsh truths of the world.
Fools. A lot of them. But no matter what he thought of them, Yafgar had promised to keep them safe.
A faint sound reached his ears—footsteps cutting through the crackle of fire and the distant groans of the dying. Yafgar turned his head, his gaze falling upon a familiar figure approaching him.
Ragnar.
His son strode forward with purpose, his eyes narrowed in determination, though there was an edge of something else beneath it—fatigue, perhaps. A part of his armor had been burned, the darkened metal scorched from fire. It did not slow him.
The boy was strong. Resilient. And he had done everything to prove himself back to Lombards. Another pang of pride swelled his chest, but he remained neutral. Yafgar did not speak immediately, waiting as Ragnar came to a stop before him. His son’s voice was steady when he finally spoke.
"We were able to deal with all the enemies, chieftain," Ragnar reported. "Those who surrendered have been taken as captives. The rest, those who refused, have been sent to the cycle of reincarnation."
A clean way of saying they had been cut down where they stood.
Ragnar hesitated only briefly before continuing. "What are your orders regarding the villagers? Many ran when the attack began, but there are others still hiding in their homes, afraid of us."
Yafgar did not answer at once. Instead, his sharp gaze trailed over Ragnar’s form, settling on the burn marks marring his armor. The edges of the plate were still blackened, the metal warped in places. His lips pressed into a thin line.
"Are you hurt?"
The question seemed to catch Ragnar off guard. He blinked once, his lips pressing together as if to keep himself from showing any weakness. Then, after a brief pause, he bit his lip and shook his head.
"No," he said firmly. "The potions Lord Arzan’s men provided healed my burns."
Yafgar studied him for a moment longer, searching for any sign of falsehood, but found none. Ragnar would not lie about such a thing. If he said he was fine, then he was fine.
Still, the fact that he had needed healing at all left a sour taste in Yafgar’s mouth.
Arzan’s men had provided them with potions, yes, but that did not mean his warriors should grow reliant on them. A true Lombard fought through the pain, embraced it, let it fuel them. If Ragnar had suffered burns, he should have worn them as a mark of honor—not erased them with alchemy.
But Yafgar held his tongue. This was not the time for such lessons. He looked at the sky where dark flames still scorched.
“They had a nasty Blessed One among them,” Ragnar said, groaning with frustration. “A fire-wielder. Me and my men took him on, but he didn’t fall easily. It took time—he kept slinging flames at us, setting the ground ablaze, forcing us to split up. His magic made the battlefield a living inferno, but we cut him down in the end.”
Yafgar’s eyes darkened slightly. He turned his gaze back to Ragnar. “Any casualties?”
Ragnar exhaled sharply. “Not many. Only three.” His fingers curled into fists before he forced them to relax. “Most of us survived—even while taking on a Blessed One. And not just survived, Father. We fought like never before.” He hesitated, his expression troubled. “I haven’t seen our men like this… ever. They had no restraint. Like something inside them had been unshackled.”
Yafgar studied his son, the faint flicker of unease in his voice. He understood what Ragnar meant. The Lombards had always been fierce, but what they displayed tonight was beyond raw battle lust.
“They have unlocked a new depth of power,” Yafgar said, nodding. “Something potent, something that was always inside them, but buried beneath doubt and chains they didn’t even know existed. Now, that restraint is gone.” He glanced toward the remnants of the battlefield, the bodies of the noble’s warriors littering the ground. “Though they have not unlocked the elements as I have, they possess a reservoir of strength. A raw, untapped force that will only grow as this fief war continues.”
Ragnar remained silent, his lips pressing into a thin line. Yafgar narrowed his eyes slightly before continuing.
“But power without control is a blade without a handle. A weapon that cuts its own master.” He leveled a steady gaze at his son. “You must ensure they do not go out of bounds. Strength means nothing if it turns into arrogance. And there are always stronger men out there.”
Ragnar’s eyes hardened, understanding dawning in his eyes. He inclined his head. “I understand.”
Yafgar nodded once, satisfied. Then, his gaze flickered toward the ruined village, toward the homes where frightened eyes watched from behind cracked shutters and trembling fingers clutched at rusted knives.
“Speak with the villagers,” he commanded. “Make it clear we are not here to plunder or slaughter them. If they resist, just slap them up. But if they submit, they will be left unharmed.” He turned back to Ragnar. “We will be moving at dawn to join Lord Arzan. Let them know that by morning, they will no longer have to fear us.”
Ragnar gave a firm nod, stepping back, ready to carry out the order. But before he could turn away, Yafgar’s voice cut through the space between them once more.
“Also,” the chieftain added, making Ragnar turn around, “fetch the noble we captured. Have him brought by a horse.”
Ragnar frowned slightly but did not question. “You want him alive?”
“We are soon to meet the man under whom the Lombards will march,” Yafgar said, a knowing glint in his eyes. “And it would be rude to arrive empty-handed. A gift is in order.”
For a brief moment, Ragnar said nothing. Then, his lips curled into the ghost of a smirk.
“I understand,” he said simply.
With that, he turned, his steps carrying him into the darkness, leaving Yafgar alone amidst the wreckage.
The chieftain exhaled, looking one last time at the bodies around him. Weak men. But they had served their purpose. They had tested the Lombards.
And the Lombards had passed.
***
Feroy rode at the head of his column, the constant thrum of hooves against the earth echoing behind him. Three hundred warriors followed in disciplined formation, their ranks unbroken as they went through fields, rocky outcrops, and dense patches of woodland. They moved like a tide rolling across the land, sweeping toward their destination—House Xandhir. Out of the four houses that’d sworn their loyalty to Lucian since the very beginning.
His orders were clear. After the decisive battle of Verdis, he had been tasked with leading a formidable force to crush the noble house before it could merge with Lucian’s army. A tall order by any means, but Feroy did not feel even the slightest twinge of doubt. If anything, anticipation thrummed in his veins. Adrenaline rushed to every part of his body.
Victory was only a matter of time.
It wasn’t just his own certainty that fueled him. His men, too, carried themselves with the same confidence of warriors who knew they would not break. This was not arrogance. They had all been briefed on the strategy, they knew their roles, and they bore the latest innovation of Balen’s genius—Lightwood armor. The finely crafted set, enchanted and reinforced, was lighter than steel yet offered the same protection. It moved with them, rather than against them. Feroy had no doubt that their preparation, their strength, and their equipment would see them through.
As they crossed a wide stretch of plains, the wind shifted, carrying with it the scent of churned earth. Feroy narrowed his eyes as a dust cloud swirled into the sky ahead. Instinct clenched his gut.
An army.
Only an army could raise such a vast plume of dust.
He reined in his horse sharply, the beast skidding slightly before coming to a halt. Behind him, his men obeyed immediately, the entire column slowing in perfect unison.
Silence stretched for a heartbeat as Feroy’s gaze sharpened, his enhanced senses locking onto the figures emerging from the dust. His eyes traced the gleaming armor, the banners fluttering against the wind. And then, there it was—the crest emblazoned on their tabards, standing bold against the steel.
House Xandhir.
A sigil of a roaring wyvern, its wings outstretched as if poised to strike, surrounded by a wreath of golden laurels. The noble house's pride was evident in the embroidery, the deep crimson of the banner standing bold against the pale backdrop of dust and sky.
Feroy felt a grin tug at his lips.
He turned his horse, facing his men.
“The moment we’ve been waiting for has arrived,” he declared. “The enemy stands before us.” His gaze swept over the warriors—faces set, hands gripping weapons, bodies thrumming with restrained energy. “You all know what must be done.”
He unsheathed his blade, the steel catching the fading light.
“Now, let’s remind them why House Xandhir made the wrong choice.”
Feroy’s grin widened as he raised his voice once more.
"We need to show them that we are the best cavalry in the entire kingdom! Do you understand?"
A thunderous roar of affirmation rang out.
"Yes, Knight Feroy!"
The energy was palpable as it was contagious, a wave of fervor rippling through the ranks. Feroy’s gaze flickered to Bord, his second-in-command, standing ready at his side.
"Get everyone in formation," Feroy commanded. "We’ll be clashing soon."
Bord nodded sharply, spurring his horse into motion as he rode down the line, barking orders. The cavalry shifted seamlessly into position, lances and blades at the ready.
Feroy turned his attention back to the approaching army. The dust had settled enough to see them more clearly now—rows upon rows of cavalry standing beneath House Xandhir’s crimson banners. As their forces ground to a halt, he nudged his horse forward, bridging the distance between them.
"State your allegiance and your purpose here!" The man who was at the front yelled loud enough for even the people at the back to hear.
Feroy smiled at that. “I’m Knight Feroy Derone, serving Count Arzan of Veralt. I have come here with my forces to annihilate House Xandhir if they don’t surrender right now! This shall be considered as the final warning!”
As he gave them the warning, he stood and waited for their response. A chuckle rippled through the enemy ranks. Then came outright laughter, some soldiers exchanging amused glances as if they had just heard the most ridiculous joke.
Feroy showed no surprise, watching as a lone figure broke from their formation and rode forward.
The man had a gleaming crimson plate, he could say that it was a deadly set of armor. The elegant craftsmanship was undeniable, the embellishments hinting at both wealth and power. His presence alone commanded respect, his bearing that of a noble warrior—or just a noble, he couldn’t say yet.
The man raised a gauntleted hand, silencing his troops with nothing but the gesture. Then, he turned his gaze upon Feroy, a sneer twisting his lips.
"I had not expected Count Arzan to be so foolish," he said, his voice rich with condescension. "To send his men to their deaths so carelessly... What a waste." He tilted his head slightly, as if studying a child playing at war. "Do you truly believe your meager forces can survive a clash against my thousands?"
He let the words hang for a moment, letting them sink in before continuing.
"I will give you one opportunity—surrender now, and I shall only take your head. Your men, I will spare." His sneer deepened. "I swear it on my name, Viscount Malyr the second of House Xandhir."
Silence stretched for a moment, the only sound the rustling of banners in the wind. The viscount sat there expectantly, as if fully expecting Feroy to dismount, bend the knee, and accept his fate.
Instead, Feroy let out a short, sharp scoff.
"Very well, Viscount Malyr the second," he said. "You’ve chosen death—for yourself and your men."
He turned his horse slightly, just enough to glance over his shoulder at his warriors. Their gazes burned with anticipation, waiting for the signal.
"Are you ready?"
"YES!" The response came like a hammer striking an anvil, their voices roaring in unison.
Feroy smirked. "Good."
As he turned back to face the enemy, he caught sight of the viscount issuing commands of his own, his men shifting into formation for an inevitable charge.
Unfortunately for him, he had no idea what was coming.
Feroy tightened his grip on the reins, feeling the weight of his enchanted Lightwood armor—the sturdy craftsmanship, the perfectly balanced blend of mobility and protection. A marvel of Balen’s genius.
He exhaled, a quiet promise slipping from his lips.
"I’ll get you another victory, Lord Arzan."
***
A sudden gust of wind swept across the battlefield, rustling the banners and carrying a sharp chill through the air. Viscount Malyr shuddered—just for a moment—before shaking his head. His green eyes narrowed as he scrutinized the sorry excuse of a force that stood a good pace away from his own.
No matter how he turned it over in his mind, he couldn’t understand why Count Arzan had sent these men here to die.
More importantly, why hadn’t they fled?
They had eyes, didn’t they? They could see his army—two thousand strong, a force that could crush them underfoot like insects. Yet, despite the sheer difference in numbers, they stood their ground. No sign of hesitation. No fear of death in their eyes.
It didn’t make sense.
Was it a trap?
Were they simply suicidal?
The Viscount’s fingers twitched against the reins of his horse as he mulled over the possibilities, but no answer came.
A familiar presence rode up beside him. His trusted knight; Knight Serian, leaned in slightly, voice low.
"Lord Malyr, do you think we’re falling into a trap?"
The Viscount glanced at him, frowning. The same thought had crossed his mind, but…
"I don’t know," he admitted, his upper lip curling into a sneer. "I see no way this could be a trap."
He gestured toward the landscape with a sweeping motion.
"Look around you. We’re on open ground. There’s nowhere for additional forces to hide. And I see no Mages among their ranks." His voice hardened. "Even if they had one or two, they’d need someone on Magus Verdia’s level to pose a real threat to us."
Knight Serian nodded, but his unease didn’t fade. His gaze lowered to the earth beneath them.
"What about the ground?" he muttered. "Could there be a trap beneath us?"
Viscount Malyr cast a wary glance at the ground before shaking his head.
"I don't think so. We saw them moving towards us the entire way. None of them got close enough to dig any trenches or lay traps. No matter how much I think about it, this just seems like pure stupidity."
His knight exhaled loudly before responding. "Yes, but Count Arzan is the opposite of that."
"Maybe," Malyr admitted with a slight scowl. "But not long ago, he was just known as the shadow of his brother. His troops have been racking up victories lately, so perhaps they've grown arrogant—convinced they can handle us. You’ve heard the rumors, haven’t you? Mortal men fighting like Mages, wielding enchanted weapons and armor. Maybe they’re just too confident in that."
Serian hesitated before nodding. "Maybe."
"Either way, we’re not retreating." Malyr straightened in his saddle. "Our numbers are overwhelming. Even if there is a trap, we’ll face it head-on."
With a sharp nod, the Knight turned, barking orders to the men. Soldiers adjusted their grips on weapons, tightened their formations, and prepared to charge.
Malyr swept his gaze over his ranks before raising his sword high.
"Men, we are going to tear through their ranks!" he bellowed. "Get ready!"
“YES!”
A thunderous, earth shattering roar erupted from his army as hooves pounded against the earth, shields locked into place, and spears gleamed in the sunlight. Both the armies moved with the intention to destroy.
For a brief moment, he met Feroy’s gaze across the battlefield.
The knight's helmet obscured most of his face, but his eyes…
His eyes gleamed with something unnatural.
Something sinister.
The Viscount’s grip on his reins tightened as an inexplicable sense of dread clawed at his chest.
Something wasn’t right.
Then Feroy’s voice rang across the battlefield.
"Now!"
The Viscount barely had time to react before it happened.
Suddenly, a brilliant, massive glow erupted from the enemy’s armor. The seals carved into their enchanted plating came to life, pulsing with some otherworldly energy. A wave of light spread like wildfire, jumping from one soldier to the next, engulfing the battlefield in a blinding white radiance.
The Viscount’s breath hitched as the world became nothing but light. Instinctively, he shut his eyes.
And then—
A sharp, searing pain tore through his body. “FUCK!”
His mouth opened in a soundless gasp as something pierced him.
Cold. Deep. Fatal.
He barely had time to comprehend it before the darkness consumed everything.
2025-02-13 06:34:45 +0000 UTC
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Chapter 178
Lucian’s gaze lingered on the dagger resting on the wooden table in his tent. The constantly flickering lantern light drew shadows across its smooth, dark surface. It was made of obsidian, its black blade swallowing the light rather than reflecting it. His eyes lingered a second longer on the hilt of it—the crest of House Kellius—a mighty Rayan eagle with its wings spread wide, its talons gripping nothing but air, ready to strike.
A condescending smile drew on his face while his fingers traced the engraving, and a sigh slipped from his lips.
The memory of his father’s last moments crept into his mind unbidden. The old man had been frail, his voice barely audible when he pressed this very dagger into Lucian’s hands.
"Be a just ruler… and take care of your brothers."
Lucian’s jaw tightened. The words tasted bitter now. He let out a dry chuckle, shaking his head.
"I’m sorry, Father, but I don’t like my brothers enough to take care of them." His grip on the dagger tightened, the edges of his mouth curling up into something that wasn’t quite a smile. "But I would send them to you to do it. Take care of them for me, they do not belong here.”
The tent flap rustled, breaking the moment. His eyes flicked up, irritation flashing across his face. But then recognition settled in. Shakran stepped inside. More blood brinkers followed him blindly.
Lucian exhaled through his nose. "Report."
Shakran bit his lips—clearly disliking the tone of Lucian’s words. Then, without asking, he dropped onto the wooden stool across from
Lucian.
Lucian’s expression darkened. His fingers twitched as if he might rise, his glare sharp enough to cut.
"Stay seated," Shakran said flatly, as if he was already bored by Lucian’s presence. "The news my pawns have brought won’t make you happy."
Lucian narrowed his eyes. "What happened?"
"Heavy losses.” He shrugged. "At the hands of your brother."
Lucian’s fingers drummed against the table.
"Go on."
"You already know how that fool of a human surrendered. You know how I lost my servants in the battle at Verdis." Shakran’s lip curled slightly. "But now, we’ve received more troubling news. Your spy? Dead. Killed." He let that sink in before continuing, "And House Dorn? Gone. Your brother wasted no time. He attacked it, took it for himself."
Lucian’s fingers stilled.
“By the way,” Shakran leaned forward, his smirk returning. "Your brother… aggressive leader. A really powerful Mage, too. Far better than my expectations. My pawns saw it all."
Lucian’s grip on the dagger tightened, his knuckles paling. His mind reeled, thoughts clashing like swords in a chaotic battle. House Dorn… gone. That wretched brother of mine took it. His breath came sharp and slow as he fought to keep his composure. His heartbeat pounded against his ribs, demanding action, demanding blood.
"Describe the battle," he said.
"Your brother is a third-circle Mage. You know that, but he's at the peak of it, a foot already in the next circle going by his power," he said.
"And judging by how fast he moved, he doesn’t just rely on magic. He trains his body too." He rolled his eyes in frustration. "By human standards? He’s good. By magic standards? He’s a worthy opponent."
Lucian’s jaw tensed. That wasn’t unexpected—Arzan’s new found strength was something he was well aware of. But talent alone couldn't take down House Dorn so quickly.
"But," Shakran continued, "your brother isn’t the problem. The forces he led are." He leaned forward, resting an elbow on his knee. "My pawns saw some interesting things."
Lucian remained silent, watching him carefully.
"Contraptions that blasted through entire walls. Knights wielding the power of Mages. And—" Shakran paused, letting the next word hang between them, knowing it would sting.
"A dwarf."
Lucian’s brow rose slightly. "A dwarf?" His
fingers tapped against the obsidian blade. "I already know about his magical Knights, but a dwarf?"
Shakran nodded. "Your brother seems to have enough charm to bring one into his service." He gave a dry chuckle. "And that would explain the contraptions."
Lucian exhaled through his nose, his mind already piecing things together. In addition to leading an army, Arzan seemed to be also building something way more dangerous.
"Now, what will you do, oh great noble man?" The mockery in his tone was unmistakable.
Lucian, to his credit, didn’t react. He simply lifted his gaze and looked at the blood drinker dead in his eyes. "Send your men to the other noble houses with everything we know. Tell them to get here quickly. If we give Arzan too much time…" He let the sentence trail off, the implication clear.
Shakran raised a brow. "Eager to reveal yourself to the other nobles, are we?" His smirk widened. "I thought Idrin was already giving you away, but well—he was under you.
A slave who would lick your cock if you told him to." His eyes glinted with amusement. "But these other nobles? Won't they run to the crown the moment they see what you really are?"
Lucian met his gaze, unimpressed. "I will deal with it," he said simply. "You do as you're ordered."
Shakran chuckled, shaking his head. "And while we wait for the nobles to arrive? You won’t just sit here, I take it?"
Lucian scoffed. "Of course not."
Shakran leaned back. "Then what are you planning?" He waved a hand. "Even with us, your Mages, and your mercenaries, attacking your brother now would be unwise. We have no idea what else he has hidden up his sleeves."
Lucian lifted the dagger and trailed along the edge with his finger. "So now you’re taking him seriously, huh?"
Shakran let out a short chuckle, shaking his head. "He’s turning out to be a good opponent. Not quite worthy yet, but… If we ever cross blades, I might actually enjoy the fight." He tapped his fingers against his thigh. "But this isn’t about just one man, is it? His entire force is alarming. That’s the problem."
Lucian nodded slowly. "I know." His fingers traced the crest on the dagger’s hilt, absentmindedly. "But every force needs certain things." His grip loosened as his mind worked through the details. "Air. Food. And…"
He trailed off, his eyes narrowing slightly. Then, as if a puzzle piece had clicked into place, he exhaled sharply. "Water."
A beat of silence passed before he continued.
"Dorn Castle’s main water source is the nearby river. I know that castle well—it's wells aren’t deep enough to sustain a force for long. They’ll need that river. A force as large as his drinks more than it eats. They might be able to find food, but water?" A slow, knowing smile crept onto his lips. "That’s something we can control."
He turned his head slightly, eyes settling on one of the blood drinkers standing at the back of the tent. "Tell them to go. Poison the river. Make sure it’s done discreetly. If they drink, they die. If they don’t drink…" He shrugged nonchalantly. “They still die.”
Shakran looked back and nodded, giving them the command.
The blood drinker bowed his head and slipped out without a word. Moving smoothly and out of sight.
Lucian leaned back, a satisfied smirk still on his face.
Shakran watched him for a moment before stretching, rolling his shoulders lazily. "Looks like it’s time for me to go as well," he said. "Since your brother’s shaping up to be such fun, I should make sure I’m well-prepared for the battle."
Lucian gave a curt nod, but as Shakran turned to leave, he lifted a hand, stopping him.
"And if you manage to kill him," Lucian said. "His body is yours."
Shakran stilled for a moment before glancing over his shoulder, a sharp grin spreading across his face. "No proper burial?"
"I just want to see him dead. I don’t care anymore."
Shakran nodded slowly, amusement flashing in his crimson eyes. "Then you’ll get your wish, Duke." With that, he disappeared into the night.
***
Lord Vensar swept his gaze across the villagers kneeling before him, their wrists bound tightly with rope. The villagers were battered. Their faces were filled with dirt, some tear-stained and others blank with silent resignation. He stood before his warhorse, his domineering size and sharp eyes enough to make even the most challenging among them lower their heads.
More villagers were dragged forward—those who had cowered in their homes, those foolish enough to attempt escape. His soldiers moved efficiently, yanking them out one by one, throwing them to their knees alongside the others.
The village of Hallowmere had been an easy conquest. Located on the very edge of Arzan’s territory, it was little more than a collection of wooden huts surrounded by a feeble palisade, which had splintered under his men’s assault in mere minutes. After that, the fight had been nothing more than a formality. With their defenses shattered and morale nonexistent, the villagers had surrendered without spilling a drop of his soldiers’ blood.
A small gift for Duke Kellius.
Lord Vensar allowed himself a satisfied smirk. The Duke had called for the noble houses loyal to him to converge on House Dorn’s castle for the coming war. But along the way, Vensar had decided to capture this village as a show of goodwill. A small yet strategic offering—one he was sure the Duke would appreciate.
"We’ll rest here for the night," he declared, his voice moving over the restless murmurs of his men. "Come dawn, we march for the castle."
A crunch of hurried footsteps pulled his attention. A scout dripping with sweat stumbled toward him. The man barely slowed before dropping from his horse and kneeling, his face pale with horror.
"My Lord," he gasped, breathless, "My Lord! A large army is moving toward us from the west!"
Vensar stiffened, eyes narrowing. "What?"
"It’s true, my Lord!" the scout insisted. "I was circling the village, checking for any stragglers, when I heard it—a thundering sound. The earth itself trembled beneath me."
He swallowed, his throat dry, before continuing. "When I crept closer, I saw them—an army of beasts."
Vensar’s grip on his reins tightened. "Beasts?"
"Yes, my Lord! Large men rode atop them, moving fast like horses—heading straight for the village! They weren’t horses my Lord!"
What the fuck? This couldn't be Arzan's forces. They couldn't travel so fast to be here, and by the latest news he had gotten, they seemed to be preparing for a confrontation at
Dorn Cattle. And yet…
Beasts. Large men riding them.
His mind whirred through possibilities before snapping to one conclusion.
Barbarians.
His jaw clenched. They had a known encampment near this region, ond he had left untouched, knowing that without proper forces, an extermination attempt would have been costly. House Kellius had been meant to deal with them, but the fief war had delayed that effort.
So why now? Why were they suddenly charging toward this village?
His eyes flicked back to the terrified scout.
"Rally the men," he ordered sharply. "Now."
Lord Vensar swallowed the unease bubbling in his chest, forcing his shoulders to remain squared as he strode toward the palisade. His heavy boots crunched against the dirt, his soldiers parting before him as he climbed the wooden steps to get a better view.
He reached the top—and his breath hitched.
The scout had not been lying.
Beyond the palisade, hundreds of barbarians loomed in the distance, their massive mounts shifting restlessly beneath them. Their approach had been slow like a noose tightening around the village. The moonlight caught the gleam of their weapons—wicked axes and brutal swords, each one sharp enough to carve through steel.
Vensar had read the reports. He had heard the stories of their brute strength, of their impossible resilience in battle. Even the kingdom’s forces, armed with Archine Tower Mages, had struggled to deal with them. But knowing of their ferocity was one thing—staring it in the face was another.
His pulse quickened.
Some of the barbarians met his gaze from a distance. Their eyes burned with something primal—determination, bloodlust, an unshakable will to fight. It was like looking into the abyss itself.
Still, he was a noble of the kingdom. A man versed in war. He would not let them see his fear.
Squaring his shoulders once again, he raised his voice.
"Barbarians!" His words rang out over the silent field. "You are surrounding a village that I, Lord Vensar, have taken in the name of Duke Kellius during this fief war. You have no stake in this battle. I advise you to turn back now, lest you face the wrath of my army!"
A few chuckles rumbled from the mass of warriors.
Then, one of them spurred his mount forward.
Vensar’s stomach clenched as the largest barbarian of them all emerged from their ranks. A behemoth of a man, his muscles coiled with raw power, his skin marked with war tattoos. Even on top of his beast, he towered over everyone present.
"I am Chieftain Yafgar of the great Lombards!" His words echoed like rolling thunder. "And running away is not in our nature!"
A chorus of cheers erupted from the warriors behind him, their laughter carrying over the wind. Some threw their weapons in the air.
Yafgar’s lips curled into a sharp grin. "The wrath of your army? I would love to see it for myself!"
The barbarians roared in approval, their voices a jagged symphony of bloodlust and anticipation. The night air vibrated with their cries, a primal sound that sent a shiver crawling up Vensar’s spine. Their mounts—hulking, tusked beasts with glowing eyes and bull-like creatures, probably strength too—stomped the earth, nostrils flaring as they picked up the scent of imminent battle.
Vensar’s hands curled into fists, his mind racing. He needed to think. Fast. Could he negotiate? Stall for time? The Lombords were a savage people, but they weren’t mindless beasts. If he could just—
A sudden roar split the air, raw and guttural, like the earth itself was howling in fury.
Vensar’s thoughts shattered as flames erupted from Yafgar’s body as he jumped right in front of his beast.
It wasn’t a trick of the light. It wasn’t a mere battle aura. No—fire, real and all-consuming, coiled around the chieftain’s arms and legs.
The heat rolled off him in waves, warping the air, turning his silhouette into a godlike figure. His weapons—two massive battle-axes, wickedly curved and crusted with old blood—caught the firelight, their edges gleaming like fangs bared in a snarl.
For a brief, foolish moment, Vensar thought that he was simply seeing things. But then the ground around him seemed to blacken, grass burning in an instant.
No trick. No illusion.
Yafgar was wreathed in flame, and the battlefield itself was about to burn.
Then he charged.
The ground trembled. Not metaphorically—literally. The sheer weight of the barbarian’s charge sent vibrations racing through the earth, rattling bones and knocking dust loose
from the wooden barricade.
"Shields up!" Vensar bellowed, though his heart was pounding in his ears. His brain was telling him to run, but he couldn’t. He wouldn’t.
"Mages, fire now!"
The air shifted as bolts of searing fire lanced forward, streaking toward the chieftain like falling stars. Light flared—blinding, scorching. Spells detonated against Yafgar’s body with the force of miniature explosions, sending shockwaves rippling outward.
For a heartbeat, Vensar dared to hope.
Then, through the smoke and flashing light, he saw him still coming.
Yafgar didn’t stop.
Didn’t falter.
Didn’t even slow down.
The spells had struck him, but the flames around his body devoured the fire like kindling, reducing the attacks to mere sparks.
And then—impact.
The world split apart.
Yafgar crashed into the wooden wall like a meteor, his sheer force ripping through the palisade as if it were parchment. The structure didn’t just break—it exploded. Wood splintered into little pieces. The very force of the collision sent Vensar flying backward, his body weightless for a terrifying second before slamming into the ground—he heard his bones break.
For a moment, the world spun. His ears rang. His vision blurred.
Pain. Dirt. Smoke.
He groaned, pushing himself up, his muscles protesting every movement. His head throbbed as he forced his eyes open.
And then his blood ran cold.
A massive hole gaped in the palisade. Smoke curled from the edges, twisting into the night sky like phantom fingers.
And standing in its center—bathed in flames, unscathed, unstoppable—was Yafgar.
“H-h-how—”
His burning gaze locked onto Vensar, the heat radiating off of him in waves. He lifted his axe high, its edges glowing red-hot from the heat.
"You will fall before the might of the Lombards! Right. Now."
Then the ground shook again.
Beyond the burning wreckage, more barbarians surged forward. They didn’t hesitate, didn’t pause. They stepped through the broken wall as if it were nothing more than a doorway. It might as well have been just a doorway.
Vensar’s breath hitched. His heart pounded like a war drum, his mind clawing for a way out.
But the realization slammed into him like a tight slap across his face.
He wasn’t going to make it to Duke Kellius. Hell, he wasn’t going to make it out of here at all.
2025-02-10 21:09:32 +0000 UTC
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After a night's stay in Black Lotus Town, the group finally set off toward their main destination. However, when they reached a fork in the road, Chen Ren and Yalan separated from the carriage, choosing to travel on foot toward the Blood Iron Sect.
None of the others followed.
Anji and Zi Han remained behind, Whiskey looked tempted to tag along, but a single glare from Yalan made the squirrel reconsider. As for Hong Yi—he stayed in the carriage without hesitation. He had no intention of following Chen Ren into a place that could very well be his deathbed. Instead, he just gave directions to the sect, ensuring
Chen Ren knew where to go.
With that, the two of them moved toward the sect alone.
Despite its intimidating name, the Blood Iron Sect was not a faction that specialized in blood arts. Their cultivation method focused primarily on defensive techniques, deriving strength from the resilience of iron itself. According to Hong Yi, the "blood" part of the name had only been added centuries ago, when a blood-aspected cultivator rose to the position of sect leader.
That alone told Chen Ren one thing, this sect was old.
It wasn't a guardian sect like the Soaring Sword Sect, but it had its own history, its own standing, and more importantly, its own reputation. That meant dealing with them would be far trickier.
As they walked, Chen Ren mentally rehearsed his plan over and over again. He couldn't afford to make any mistakes.
The path took them through a small thicket of forest, winding steadily toward the mountains in the distance. Unlike the Soaring Sword Sect, which was built atop a flattened peak, the Blood Iron Sect was located within the mountain itself. Chen Ren didn't know whether that was due to the sect’s cultivation style or simply because they hadn't found a better location.
Either way, it posed a problem.
With a sect carved directly into a mountain, his escape options would be limited. While Hong Yi had provided some information on the exits, Chen Ren wasn’t confident that he’d be able to slip away if things turned south. Especially not as easily as Hong Yi had described.
Still, he pressed on.
The forest was quiet. Too quiet. And they did what anyone would do—keep an eye for any beasts.
As they walked inside, there were no signs of wild beasts or spirit creatures lurking in the shadows. That meant either the sect had eliminated them, or they had long since fled, unwilling to reside near cultivators. Either way, it worked in Chen Ren’s favor—an easier path meant a faster journey.
After trekking for half a day, they finally neared the sect’s entrance.
Chen Ren paused, scanning the area to get his bearings. That was when Yalan’s voice cut through the silence.
“I sense a barrier up ahead.”
Chen Ren turned to her. “A barrier?”
She nodded. “Yes. Probably a defensive formation protecting the sect. Wealthier sects always place protective arrays around their territory in case of a surprise attack. If you try to approach, you’ll be stopped by the barrier, then disciples should be alerted.”
Chen Ren nodded. “Then that means it’s time to start the plan.”
Yalan gave a slow nod, though reluctance crossed her eyes. Still, she didn’t protest. Instead, a soft glow of qi surrounded her body, and her form began to shrink. Within moments, the elegant feline was gone, replaced by what appeared to be an ordinary, but a very cute kitten.
Chen Ren blinked, then instinctively reached out, scratching under her chin.
Swat!
Her claws batted his hand away, and she gave him a sharp glare. It left a light scratch on his hand.
“Don’t waste time,” she said. “Let’s go fast, so we can get out early.”
Chen Ren let out a small chuckle but complied. He carefully picked her up and tucked her inside the inner pocket of his robe, feeling a faint pulse of energy wrap around him as he did. It was warm, reassuring even, and he allowed himself a small smile.
“I can do this,” he muttered to himself.
Then, reaching into his robes, he retrieved the Skin Mask he had taken from Hong Yi.
The item looked like nothing more than a thin, flexible sheet, yet as soon as he pressed it against his skin and activated his qi, it adhered to his face, its magic taking hold. He fed it a command, shaping his appearance into that of a slightly middle-aged man.
There was no immediate sensation of change. His face felt the same—his features familiar. Yet, when he touched his skin, it was rougher, textured like that of an older man. The transformation had worked. He touched his chin, outer corners of his lips and his cheeks—he felt the way his face had changed.
With everything in place, Chen Ren strode forward, heading toward the mountain in the distance.
It only took five minutes for Yalan’s warning to prove true.
Thud!
He struck something unseen—an invisible barrier that rippled slightly upon contact, confirming its presence. He didn’t try to force his way through. Instead, he waited.
Sure enough, it wasn’t long before two figures approached.
Both were young men, clad in black robes that bore the crest of the Blood Iron Sect—a stylized iron hammer, with a faint red streak running through it like a river of blood. Their postures were rigid, their expressions unreadable.
A single glance at their aura told him what they were.
Body forging realm cultivators.
Likely outer disciples, assigned to patrol duty.
As they came to stand before him, Chen Ren didn’t speak immediately. Instead, he observed them closely, waiting for them to address him first.
He stood still, hands tucked into his sleeves. The air around him was cool, the mountain breeze carrying the faint scent of damp stone and pine. He could hear the soft rustle of leaves in the distance, the occasional chirp of a bird, but beyond that, the world was quiet.
Too quiet.
One of them, the taller of the two, let his gaze linger on Chen Ren for a moment before speaking.
“Who are you?” His voice was rough, edged with the confidence of someone used to turning people away. “This is Blood Iron Sect territory. No one other than sect members is allowed here.”
Chen Ren didn’t smile. Instead, his frown deepened. “I’m just a traveling cultivator,” he said. “I have an important matter to discuss with your sect leader.”
The shorter disciple scoffed, folding his arms.
“What sect are you from?”
“I’m a rogue cultivator.” Chen Ren met his gaze without hesitation. “Take me to your sect leader.”
For a moment, silence stretched between them. Then, almost in sync, the two disciples burst into laughter.
“Our sect leader doesn’t meet just any old man, cultivator or not.” The taller one smirked, arms still crossed as if the matter was already settled.
Chen Ren arched a brow. “Old man?” His voice carried no anger, but there was a weight to his words, a sharpness just beneath the surface. “It seems your sect has failed to teach you how to speak to others properly. Especially ones who can kill you without any trouble.”
The taller disciple’s smirk faltered. His eyes narrowed. “What do you mean by that?”
Chen Ren didn’t answer right away. Instead, he exhaled softly, letting his qi pulse outward. It wasn’t much—just a thin ripple, a sliver of the pressure he had learned to control under
Yalan’s guidance.
Instantly, the atmosphere shifted.
The smiles died.
Both disciples stiffened as a crushing force pressed down on them, invisible but undeniable. The air around them grew heavy, like the weight of a mountain had settled on their shoulders. Their feet slid half a step back before they could stop themselves.
Their breathing hitched. Their fingers twitched. Cold sweat formed at their temples.
“This isn’t even one percent of my power.” He looked at the two, lowering his qi flare. “You would be wise to take me to your sect leader.”
The shorter disciple swallowed hard, his previous arrogance cracking. The taller one clenched his jaw, fists tight at his sides, as if debating whether to argue or comply.
Then Chen Ren spoke again, this time dropping the final piece.
“Tell them I’m here because of one of your disciples—Hong Yi.”
Their faces changed instantly.
The shorter one didn’t hesitate—he turned on his heel and sprinted back toward the sect, moving with the urgency of someone who knew this wasn’t a matter to be taken lightly.
The taller one remained, lips pressed into a thin line, his earlier bravado gone.
Chen Ren didn’t bother with him. He simply waited.
Then, from within his robes, Yalan’s voice brushed against his mind.
“You should’ve crippled one of them if you’re acting like a bigshot.”
Chen Ren didn’t react outwardly, only responding through their shared link.
“I don’t know if any of them have a powerful backer. I’m not here to start a war. I’m not stupid—I know how to pick my battles. Let me play the part of a calm but scary rogue cultivator.”
Yalan made a small, unimpressed noise in his mind but didn’t argue.
And so, with nothing left to do, Chen Ren stood at the sect’s doorstep, waiting.
As he waited, the stillness of the mountain path was soon broken by hurried footsteps. The disciple who had run off earlier was returning, and beside him strode a man who looked like an elder.
The man’s robe bore the same deep black as the disciples’, but his was embroidered with shiny silver symbols on the front, giving it an air of authority. His movements were composed, but his sharp gaze flickered over
Chen Ren, assessing him with every step.
Stopping a few feet away, the elder inclined his head in a formal bow. "I am Elder Kang Lhenshi of the Blood Iron Sect." He looked at Chen Ren from top to bottom, and met his eyes again. "I have been told you are here regarding Hong Yi."
Chen Ren nodded. "Yes, I need to speak with your sect leader regarding him. Is he available?"
Elder Kang's eyes barely shifted, but Chen Ren caught the flicker of hesitation in them. The man was trying to sense his cultivation level, carefully deciding whether this was someone he could dismiss or someone that he should be cautious about. It was a smart move, looking to one honed by years of experience with rogue cultivators. Therefore, Chen Ren decided to make things easier for him.
With a subtle movement, he cupped his hands, giving Yalan the signal.
A split second later, a wave of invisible pressure pulsed from his body. It wasn’t his own strength, but Yalan’s, controlled, heavy and precise, just enough to leave an oppressive weight in the air.
Elder Kang’s face went pale instantly. His back stiffened, his nostrils flaring just slightly—small signs of fear he probably thought he was hiding well.
Then, with a quick nod, he forced himself into a more respectful stance. "Yes, the sect leader is available. Please come with me, honored cultivator."
The shift in tone was immediate. Even the way he looked at Chen Ren—it all changed in a millisecond.
Reaching into his sleeve, elder Kang retrieved a small bronze token engraved with a faint, swirling rune. He held it out with both hands.
"Please hold this as you step forward," he instructed.
Chen Ren took the token, its surface cool against his fingers. As soon as he gripped it, he stepped forward, and the once-imperceptible barrier around the sect parted for him, allowing him through without resistance.
The elder gestured for him to follow. "This way."
Chen Ren walked behind him as they approached the mountain, the path growing steeper with every step. A massive arch-shaped entrance yawned before them—a dark, gaping hole in the stone, large enough to accommodate multiple people walking side by side.
Chen Ren eyed the entrance.
Without pausing, Elder Kang stepped inside, and Chen Ren followed.
The moment he crossed the threshold, he realized just how vast the tunnel truly was.
The ceiling stretched high above them, supported by massive stone pillars reinforced with thick iron veins, pulsing and pulsating.
He could tell that the whole place was infused with qi. The air inside was cooler. Maybe because of its location—regardless, he felt chills.
Soon, they were walking down a path that was sloped downward, leading further underground rather than straight into the mountain.
As they walked, Elder Kang finally spoke again.
"Honored cultivator," he began, and looked at Chen Ren, offering a gentle smile that didn’t reach his eyes. "You mentioned you are here to discuss Hong Yi. May I ask what this is about?"
Chen Ren didn’t answer immediately. He let the silence linger, watching how the elder’s hands subtly clenched and unclenched at his sides—a sign that he was trying to keep his composure.
Then, finally, Chen Ren spoke.
"Hong Yi is a very important cultivator of your sect, is he?" he asked.
Elder Kang nodded. "Yes. He has been missing for some time, and we are all deeply concerned for him."
Chen Ren fought back the urge to chuckle at Elder Kang’s blatant lie. Deep concern for Hong Yi? Right. More like they were scrambling to figure out what happened to him, just so they could find him if he was alive.
Still, he didn’t call the elder out on it. Instead, he offered a short nod, appearing to be respectful and polite. "I'll speak directly with your sect leader."
“Ah, yes. Of course,” Elder Kang said, but his lips pressed into a thin line. Chen Ren thought the man would be more keen on arguing, but no. With a gesture, he led Chen further down the sloping tunnel.
***
They walked for what felt like ages, the tunnel stretching endlessly before them. The walls, though rough, bore clear signs of human craftsmanship—chiseling marks still faintly visible on the stone. Here and there, iron sconces held flickering lanterns, their weak yellow glow creating long shadows. And all Chen Ren could smell was damp earth and boiling oil.
Then, the tunnel widened.
Chen Ren stepped forward—and his breath hitched slightly.
Beneath him, an entire underground city stretched out like a hidden world. Wow, it’s an entire city—developed at that.
Buildings, cut straight from the stone, lined the cave—inside of the mountain in neat rows. Some structures were reinforced with dark wood, their rooftops decorated with banners bearing the sect’s insignia. The streets were alive with movement—disciples in black robes hurried about, their hushed voices creating a low murmur that filled the chamber.
Further ahead, bridges of sturdy iron filled across deep crevices, connecting different sections of the city. The faint sound of running water echoed through the area, suggesting an underground river somewhere in the depths.
Chen Ren didn’t have time to take it all in.
Elder Kang barely paused, guiding him toward another tunnel on the far side of the city. They passed rows of tall, robed figures standing guard, their eyes flickering toward him in curiosity but saying nothing.
Finally, after another stretch of walking, they reached a chamber carved into the stone.
The elder pushed open a heavy wooden door, revealing a modestly elegant room inside.
Chen Ren stepped in, his gaze flicking over the space.
The walls were smoothly polished, engraved with faint carvings of flowing clouds and mountain peaks. A dark wooden table sat in the center, surrounded by cushioned chairs. A single lantern hung overhead.
Everything here was designed with subtle refinement, not overly extravagant, but not entirely plain either.
Elder Kang gestured to one of the chairs. "Please, have a seat. The sect leader will be with you shortly."
Chen Ren nodded and sat down.
The former’s lips curled into a polite smile.
"You must have come a long way. Please rest here until I return."
Without waiting for a response, the elder turned and left, closing the door behind him.
Chen Ren leaned back slightly, his eyes sweeping over the room.
Yalan’s voice rang in his mind. "I believe everything is going smoothly so far."
"Yes," he replied mentally, his eyes taking it all in. "But the most important part is still ahead."
As they conversed, the door creaked open
once again.
This time, it wasn’t the elder.
A young disciple, a woman entered, carrying a small lacquered tray. On it sat a delicate porcelain teapot and two matching cups. Without a word, she placed them on the table, bowed low, and silently retreated, closing the door behind him.
Chen Ren’s gaze fell to the steaming cup of tea. He didn’t touch it.
Even though the faint aroma of the tea was tempting, he knew better. For all his posturing as a rogue cultivator, his mind could still be manipulated—and there were poisons and mind-numbing herbs that could affect even someone of his supposed level.
He wasn’t about to take that risk.
Instead, he merely watched the steam curl into the air, waiting patiently for what was to come next.
But as time passed, the quietness of the room expanded. Everything felt too still, even his own heartbeat that was beating heavily in his ears. He had to calm down, therefore, he focused on his breath—inhale and exhale.
Seconds stretched into minutes until, at last, the door creaked open again.
This time, two figures entered.
The first was Elder Kang. He carried himself with stiff authority, but Chen Ren noticed how his shoulders were slightly tense, as if wary of how this meeting would unfold.
But it was the man beside him who truly caught Chen Ren’s attention.
Broad-shouldered and towering, the second figure radiated raw strength. His bald head gleamed under the lantern’s glow, and his thick brows were turned into a frown. Unlike the elder, he wore a heavier, more designed robe, its darker fabric filled with embroidered iron-like patterns, almost as if to mirror the name of the sect itself.
Chen Ren could tell immediately—this man didn’t need weapons. Even through the heavy fabric of his robes, the sheer density of his muscles was apparent. His chest and abdomen were solid as iron, and each step he took made the wooden floor groan slightly beneath his weight. He just knew this man had abs beneath all that robe.
This was someone who had trained his body to the peak of its limits.
The sect leader.
The man gave a small nod in greeting before speaking.
"I am the Sect Leader Ma Tianhai of the Blood Iron Sect. I apologize for not providing you with better hospitality. I did not know such an esteemed cultivator would be visiting our humble sect."
Chen Ren remained seated, nodding in return.
"I am Rin Ho," he said, smoothly offering the fake name he had prepared. "A rogue cultivator with an important matter to discuss."
Sect leader Ma's gaze remained steady, but his interest was clear.
"I assume this is about one of our disciples—Hong Yi?"
Chen Ren gave a slow nod.
Ma Tianhai moved toward a chair across from him and sat down, the wooden frame creaking slightly under his weight. His presence dominated the space, yet his posture remained composed, not aggressive.
Beside him, Elder Kang stiffened slightly. His eyes flickered toward Ma Tianhai before quickly darting away, his expression betraying the barest hint of unease.
Chen Ren caught the silent exchange. A subtle glance. A tightening of the jaw. A slight flinch.
"Can you tell me what happened to him first?" Chen Ren asked. "Elder Kang informed me that he has gone missing."
Chen Ren didn't miss it—the way Ma Tianhai visibly tensed, fingers twitching against his sleeve before quickly masking his reaction.
Then, after a beat, he gave a slow nod and locked eyes with Chen Ren.
"Yes," he finally said. "Hong Yi was on a mission in a nearby city when he disappeared. We have searched extensively for him—after all, he was one of our most talented and promising core disciples."
Then, his gaze sharpened.
"Do you have any further information about him?"
Chen Ren nodded. "Yes, I do have information."
He let the words settle for a moment, giving them weight. Then, with a slight sigh, he added, "Though I doubt you will like it, considering how much you seem to care about him."
He watched them closely as he spoke the next words.
"Hong Yi is dead."
The room, once filled with a quiet but steady tension, shifted in an instant.
The elder’s breath caught. His lips parted as if to say something, but he didn't speak. Ma Tianhai's reaction was more controlled—his shoulders barely tensed, his posture remaining firm—but his eyes...
His eyes sharpened, an almost imperceptible flicker of something deeper flashing through them.
Chen Ren didn't stop.
"I found his corpse in the Blein Forest, far from here." He sighed again. "He was… shredded. Bite marks covered his body—deep gouges of torn flesh and cracked bone. Half of him was already gone, clearly devoured by a Grade 5 beast. I believe it was a green fang direwolf, though I could be wrong. But the teeth marks and the size of the paw prints embedded in the ground matched its kind. It was fresh. Even his head was missing. All that remained was his torso, barely recognizable—his ribs snapped open, his insides hollowed out."
Elder Kang inhaled sharply. Chen Ren’s eyes went to him and immediately saw it—the way the man’s fingers curled into fists at his sides, the slight paling of his skin. It was a natural reaction to hearing about a disciple’s gruesome fate, but he wasn't convinced it was purely grief.
Still, he continued, watching every twitch, every subtle movement.
"I only managed to identify him because I found a sect crest on his remains, with his name engraved on it." He reached into his robes, slowly pulling out the bloodstained metal emblem he had retrieved.
He placed it on the table between them. The soft clink of metal meeting wood was the only sound in the room as no one spoke.
The air grew thick—almost suffocating Chen Ren. Elder Kang turned, locking eyes with Ma Tianhai.
It was quick—just a single glance, but it was enough.
Chen Ren caught it.
The tension in their postures, the way their gazes held for a fraction too long, the silent conversation passing between them. This wasn’t the reaction of a grieving sect leader and elder.
Chen Ren kept his face neutral, but inwardly, he honed in on the exchange. The way Ma Tianhai’s brows furrowed just slightly before smoothing over, the faint twitch in the elder’s fingers, the subtle shift in their auras—as if thinking, adjusting, deciding.
If they believed what Chen Ren was telling them, then his escape would be smooth, effortless. No suspicions, no lingering doubts—just a rogue cultivator delivering unfortunate news before vanishing into the wind. More importantly, Hong Yi would finally be free from the chains that had bound him for years. Dead men carried no burdens.
But if they refused to accept the story… if they questioned him, picked apart his words, dug deeper—then cracks would form. And if they kept digging long enough, they’d find him.
That wasn’t an option.
So he waited.
His breathing was steady, his posture relaxed but not careless. His face remained unreadable, his expression carefully controlled—detached, neutral. If he showed sadness, it would be unnatural. A rogue cultivator mourning a stranger? Suspicious. If he appeared too indifferent, they might think he was hiding something. Dangerous.
So he struck a balance—calm, firm, but with just enough weight in his words to make them believe he had at least some respect for the dead.
A messenger delivering ill tidings.
Nothing more.
All the while, his thoughts churned and churned, and he prayed and prayed.
Then, finally, after what felt like an eternity, Ma Tianhai turned back to him.
His face had changed. Gone was the momentary flicker of shock, replaced by a pointed stare. Chen Ren felt their calculative stares in his bones.
Then, he spoke.
"Why should I believe you, Rin Ho?"
2025-02-10 21:00:21 +0000 UTC
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Chapter 177
Kai's eyes narrowed at the destructive massive hole that was made by the drones they’d created. Flames from the explosion still flickered even in the middle of the grass and rubble.
For a moment, silence covered the entire battlefield. Even his own forces, despite knowing the drones’ purpose, stood frozen, staring in disbelief at the raw destruction.
The short-term offensive drones had worked exactly as planned, their enchanted cores detonating with devastating force. But Kai had no time to stand and celebrate the little success. He could already see movement on the enemy’s side—figures scrambling, regaining their bearings.
He looked around at his own forces. “Don’t just stand there! Charge! Show the enemy our strength!” his voice cut through the stillness.
At that, a thunderous roar erupted from his troops. They finally snapped out of their stupor. The ground shook beneath the charging forces, cavalry leading the way with Killian at the front, his blade shining. The infantry surged forward behind them, moving in perfect coordination. Ahead of them, more drones hovered forward, ready to blast through additional sections of the wall.
But this time, the enemy reacted faster.
A flurry of spells and arrows rained down, targeting the incoming drones. Several exploded mid-air, bursts of flame and shattered metal lighting up the sky. But many still reached their mark, slamming into the castle’s structure with earth-shaking force. Entire sections of the walls groaned and collapsed.
From the corner of his eyes, he caught sight of archers plunging from the ramparts, dying on the spot, their screams lost in the chaos.
Then, the enemy Mages retaliated.
Earth Mages moved fast, their hands glowing white as the ground rumbled beneath them. Stone and soil rose at their command, twisting into new barriers to block Kai’s forces. But his Mages were faster.
A crackling roar filled the battlefield as lightning bolts shot through the air, striking the forming walls before they could harden. The explosions sent chunks of rock flying, the shockwaves rippling through the field. Fire followed in rolling waves, its heat distorting the air as it crashed against stone and mud defenses. Wind-enhanced blades sliced through enemy lines with deadly accuracy, carving deep into armor and flesh. Ice mages hurled jagged spikes, their sharp tips gleaming as they tore through the battlefield.
Painful screams and furious shouts mixed with the clash of steel and the roar of magic.
Through the chaos, Kai’s sharp gaze scanned the battlefield, searching for the blood drinkers. He saw none. But when his eyes flicked upward to the castle walls, something made him pause.
Two enemy Mages stood atop the battlements, their robes billowing in the wind, their hands glowing with power.
One wielded fire. The other water.
The Fire Mage lifted his staff, his eyes gleaming with menace. A ball of molten energy formed above him—[Incendiary Burst], a third circle spell. A heartbeat later, the sphere exploded, sending searing flames crashing into Kai’s frontline. The impact hurled soldiers backward, their armor glowing red-hot before melting against their skin.
Agonized screams filled the air.
Beside him, the Water Mage moved, his fingers tracing symbols in the air. In an instant, dozens of water spears shimmered into existence—[Piercing Torrent]. The sharp, crystalline projectiles shot forward like arrows, slicing clean through armor and flesh. Soldiers gasped and fell, blood pooling beneath them as the spears punched through their bodies.
Kai’s jaw tightened. They were third-circle casters—strong, dangerous. Left unchecked, they could turn the battle against him.
He exhaled slowly, steadying his thoughts.
Even with enchanted weapons and armor, his soldiers were still mortal. They weren’t meant to fight high-tier Mages head-on. That was his job.
Time to test this new body.
Wind gathered around his legs, swirling like a coiled storm. Then—with a single push—he launched himself into the air.
Gasps rang from the enemy as he soared above the battlefield. The archers on the battlements barely had time to react before he landed in a controlled burst of wind, standing tall on the wall. Behind him, fire and smoke curled into the sky, painting the battlefield in a hellish glow.
The two third-circle Mages stiffened. Years of battle had sharpened their instincts, and they recognized the danger immediately. The Fire Mage’s eyes widened as he opened his mouth to say something, but before he could, Kai sensed danger coming towards him from his side.
A barrage of arrows shrieked toward Kai, aimed to take him down before he could act. But his wind magic flared, twisting the air around him. The arrows veered off course, snapping mid-air like nothing. The few that remained on target—he dodged them with inhuman grace, his feet barely skimming the stone as he moved.
Just then, Fire and water surged to life in the Mage's hands, twisting the air around them.
The Fire Mage conjured a molten sphere in his palm, the heat distorting the space around it. Beside him, the Water Mage shaped swirling orbs of razor-thin liquid, their surfaces trembling with compressed force, ready to cut through flesh and steel alike.
With a single breath, they attacked.
Kai moved instantly. His left hand shot forward, fingers spread wide. Ice erupted from his palm, a thick crystalline wall forming in the blink of an eye. The fireball struck first, exploding on impact, sending cracks racing through the frozen barrier. A heartbeat later, the water spheres slammed against the ice, shattering with piercing shrieks.
He rebuilt the ice wall from his left hand and prepared his next move.
A deep crimson glow pulsed beneath his skin, searing through his veins. His right hand ignited.
“Anglo Granda Zakai!” he muttered.
Dark flames erupted from his palm in the form of a deadly dragon, a furious lash of searing heat. It devoured his own ice wall, melting through the structure in an instant and opening a hole—just wide enough for his flames to break through.
In an instant, the large dragon shaped fiery spell caught the enemy Mages off guard.
The Water Mage lunged to the side, but not fast enough. The edges of his robes ignited, embers licking at the fabric. Gritting his teeth, he summoned a flood of water, drenching himself before the flames could spread.
His ally wasn’t so fortunate.
The Fire Mage met Kai’s attack head-on, summoning his own blaze in a desperate attempt to counter. For a moment, the two infernos clashed in midair, swirling together in a storm of burning light. But it didn’t take long to see whose fire was stronger.
Kai’s flames surged forward, swallowing the weaker blaze.
The Mage barely had time to scream before the blast slammed into his chest, sending him flying. His body struck the stone wall with a bone jarring thud before crumpling to the ground. Smoke curled from his scorched robes as he lay motionless.
The Water Mage’s eyes widened. His eyes slowly moved from Kai to his comrade and then back at Kai.
“A dual-casting Mage…” he muttered in a mix of disbelief and awe. Kai couldn’t care less.
Twin spells flared to life in his hands—one wrapped in crackling frost, the other wreathed in searing fire.
He had learned something recently. His fire and ice weren’t opposites, not in the way ordinary magic dictated. Instead, they fed into each other—a cycle of destruction and renewal.
And Kai relished the power in his hands.
With a flick of his wrist, an ice lance shot forward, its sharp tip pointed at the Water Mage; the man reacted instantly, summoning a shimmering blue barrier of water in front of him. The ice slammed against it, spreading frost across the surface. But before the shield could solidify, a wave of fire followed, scorching the moisture and exploding the shield with a blast of scalding steam.
The Water Mage coughed, covered in the mist, stumbling back as the heat clawed at his skin. He barely managed to form another layer of defense before Kai pressed forward with more attacks.
Ice spears shot through the air. Fire bolts zipped toward the Mage with a crackle. A slicing arc of wind-infused magic sliced through the battlefield. Spell after spell rained down in rapid succession, forcing the Water Mage into a constant retreat.
He was good—Kai could feel it. His water shields held for a while, bending and reshaping with each strike. But every clash wore on him, draining his mana faster than he could replenish it.
And Kai could see it.
The Mage scoffed in frustration, his gaze immediately darting towards the battlefield below, as if hoping for any reinforcement–any sort of help. But there were none. And that gave Kai the cue to finish this.
He waved his hand in the air and launched another burst of fire towards the Mage, who gritted his teeth and dodged, rolling to the side at the last moment. As he rose to his feet, he flickered his wrist.
Thin, shiny daggers of water shot towards
Kai, slicing through the air like blades. The wind whistled but Kai didn’t even flinch.
A gust of wind spiraled around him, catching the daggers mid-flight and sending them spiraling off course. Before the Water Mage could even react to his failed attack, Kai struck.
His hand shot forward, creating a fiery whip.
It lashed forward, coiling around the Mage’s torso. Then he yanked.
The Water Mage barely had time to gasp before he was yanked off his feet, crashing into the stone floor with a loud thud. His breath was knocked out of him, and his limbs twitched weakly as he struggled to rise. But
Kai wasn’t about to give him the chance.
With a flick of his wrist, the whip tightened its grip, bringing him down and pinning him to the ground. Then, he yanked him off in the air with his new found strength. A scream echoed out of him as he fell to his death, but soon it faded and Kai took the moment to relish in his victory.
“Not bad. But they were never going to win,” he muttered, taking a breath to stabilise his heartbeat.
Despite them being at the same rank, Kai knew the difference between him and any other third circle Mage was major. He was almost at the peak of the third circle, and had experience alongside superior spells and a lot of training to the point he was even confident in taking on a fourth circle Mage.
He narrowed his eyes and looked at the battle below. No more Mages were left—and just as Kai exhaled, a sudden chill crawled up his spine. His instincts screamed at him to move.
He twisted. A dagger flew past his shoulder, slicing through the air where his throat had been only moments before. His gaze snapped to the source, and standing there, wearing heavy silver armor, was a Knight with a bloodied blade in hand.
"I will kill you for my lord," the Knight growled.
Kai raised an eyebrow, unruffled by the threat. He didn’t raise his hands to cast a spell. Instead, he reached behind him, pulling free the spear strapped to his back. The weapon hummed in his grip.
"Let’s see if you can," Kai said, lowering into a stance. "I won’t even use magic."
The Knight’s pupils dilated with surprise for a moment before his face tightened–devoid of emotions. He roared and charged—with his sword raised high.
Steel flashed as the Knight swung in a vicious downward arc, aiming to cleave Kai in two.
Kai intercepted the strike effortlessly, twisting his wrists just enough to deflect the blade to the side.
The Knight groaned at the money. But soon, he recovered, pulling the sword from Kai’s grasp and lashing out rapidly, his sword moving in brutal slashes and thrusts.
Kai danced around each strike, sidestepping the attacks as if they were nothing more than just wind.
"You're slow," Kai said with an air of nonchalance, dodging yet another heavy swing.
The Knight’s eyebrows knitted together and he snarled in frustration. His fury mounted as he pressed on and every attack became more desperate and reckless than the previous.
Kai moved in defense. Sparks flew as steel collided with steel, but no matter how fast or hard the Knight struck, his sword never once grazed Kai who doubted the man was ever going to be able to touch him.
After all, had opened the vaults in his legs.
He felt the rush of power surging through his muscles, amplifying his speed to inhuman levels. It felt effortless to move, avoid strikes, dodge every hard thrust. Like a shadow.
So this is what it feels to be an Enforcer.
The thought barely had time to settle before
Kai’s instincts kicked in, pushing him onto the offensive. He could let this man slash and thrash until he got fed up and ran out of energy, but Kai had other matters to attend to—basically to overlook an entire field of chaos.
He slipped past another wide swing, pivoted on his heel, and with a fluid motion, slammed his foot into the Knight’s chest. The force sent the man stumbling back, barely managing to keep his footing.
Kai didn’t give him a chance to recover.
The shaft of his spear snapped forward, striking the Knight’s knee, splurging blood out of it. Armor groaned, and the Knight dropped to one knee with a sharp gasp of pain.
Kai’s movements were swift and deadly. In a single motion, he twisted his spear and drove the sharp tip through the Knight’s shoulder, piercing deep into the armor.
The Knight’s howl of agony echoed in the air, but Kai wasn’t finished yet. He yanked the spear free and lunged again, stabbing into the
Knight’s other arm, impaling it. Another cry of pain rang out, but the man couldn’t muster the strength to fight back.
“There you fucking go.” Kai kicked the man sprawling onto his back, his body collapsing with a thud.
Kai stepped back, his breath steady as he surveyed the scene. His legs buzzed with energy, and his body hummed in a way he had never felt before. Even as a Magus, he had never experienced this kind of raw, untethered power. The Enforcer's strength was something entirely different—far beyond what he had imagined. He felt alive—every cell of him.
But before Kai could dwell on the feeling, a sudden wave of shouts filled the air—some filled with pain, others with rage.
The battle wasn’t over and he had to play his part.
***
Killian’s boots squelched against the bloody ground as he looked around. Steel against steel rang through the air. Men shouted with fury? Pain? He didn’t know, nor did he want to know. The only thing he saw was the bodies that fell and the stench of blood, sweat and iron.
But they were winning.
The Enforcers carved through enemy lines like a well-oiled machine, their formations holding strong.
Killian knew that his training for them had paid off. He could see that. Each swing of their blades was precise, each step measured and coordinated. Further back, Mages rained destruction from behind the front lines—bolts of fire streaked through the sky, ice shards impaled enemies where they stood, bursts of wind sent men tumbling like ragdolls, and several Earth Mages were helping the fighters back to back by shifting their enemy's footing, throwing them off balance and even attacking with large chunks of earth particles.
Killian had his doubts about the Mages before. They were from the Archine Tower originally, and he had never trusted them. But so far, they hadn’t failed.
Still, the battle wouldn’t end until they took the enemy Viscount.
Lord Arzan had given the order before the fight had even begun, and now, it was up to Killian to see it through.
Gritting his teeth, he adjusted his grip on his sword and charged toward the stone staircase leading up the wall. The sounds of battle faded behind him, drowned out by his own heartbeat. He focused on the top of the wall, where Lord Arzan fought against enemy Mages and archers, the dark silhouette of his figure outlined by flickering flames and exchanging water attacks.
Killian pressed forward.
Out of nowhere, a spear shot toward him, aimed for the narrow slit in his visor.
He barely saw it in time.
Instinct kicked in, and he dropped low, feeling the sharp rush of air as the weapon whistled past his helmet. It clanged against the stone behind him, sparks flying.
His head snapped up.
Six enemy soldiers blocked the stairs ahead, their weapons drawn, their eyes fixed on him like wolves spotting fresh prey. But he knew who the predator was. Yet, he absorbed their figures.
One of them smirked. Another twirled a short axe in his grip, as if eager to see blood spill.
Killian exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders. His fingers tightened around his sword hilt.
If they wanted to stop him, they would have to try harder than that.
He tightened his grip on his sword and set his stance. Sparks of lightning crackled along the blade’s edge. He exhaled sharply and raised his weapon.
"Come at me.”
The words barely left his lips before he struck.
His sword cut through the air in a wide arc, and bolts of lightning flew from the blade, snapping toward the enemies like creeping vines. The crackling energy slammed into their armor, forcing some to stumble, but there were too many to be attacked with one strike. Moreover, the narrow stairway left little room to maneuver, and their sheer numbers threatened to overwhelm him.
A spear lunged for his chest. He twisted, letting it scrape harmlessly past his side, then brought his sword up just in time to deflect a downward slash from another soldier. Sparks erupted as steel clashed against steel.
The tall man pressed forward, trying to drive him down the steps. Killian’s boots held firm.
He ducked beneath a swinging axe, rolled his shoulder to avoid another spear thrust, then lashed out—grabbing the nearest soldier and smashing his head against the cold stone wall. The man groaned, stumbling back, and Killian wasted no time, his blade slicing cleanly through the second soldier’s chest, lightning surging through the wound.
The third and fourth came at him together, their swords flashing in unison. Killian gritted his teeth and met their assault, his blade a blur as he blocked and parried. He shoved them back, their balance wavering. Before they could recover, a fifth soldier barreled forward, boots crushing down on his fallen allies in his rush to strike.
Killian sidestepped, letting the man’s momentum carry him forward, then hooked his sword beneath his opponent’s guard and sent him reeling down the stairs. The last soldier hesitated, his eyes darting between the injured men and Killian’s crackling blade.
Big fucking mistake.
Killian raised his blade. A surge of lightning burst from it, striking the man square in the chest. The force lifted him off his feet and sent him crashing over the stair’s edge with a strangled scream.
Silence followed, save for the distant clash of battle.
Killian didn’t waste time catching his breath. He turned, sprinting up the remaining steps.
As he reached the top of the wall, his gaze swept over the wide area.
An arrow sliced through the air to come towards him and he dodged, looking at the archer standing right next to the entrance and grinned, dodging more arrows and closing the distance between them.
Killian cut through him effortlessly and shoved him backwards. The man’s screams fell into deaf ears as the force of Killian’s fist threw him off the wall.
Just then, a Knight lunged at him, but Killian barely slowed. He took that opportunity and side stepped the clumsy strike and drove his sword clean through the man’s chest. He yanked it free in one fluid motion, flicking blood onto the stone beneath him.
And then he saw him. The Viscount.
In the middle of all the action and noises, the noble stood with his back straight, hands gripping the hilt of a longsword. His eyes swept over the battlefield—the crumbling walls, the slain soldiers, the flames licking at what was once his castle. There was no fear in his expression, only a grim acceptance.
He turned as Killian approached, his gaze hardening as he took him in.
"I'm not planning to go down without a fight," Viscount Buck said steadily despite the ruin surrounding him.
Killian tilted his head, cracking his neck as he shifted his stance. Lightning curled around his fingers before settling back into his blade.
"That's fine by me."
Viscount Buck surged forward, steel flashing as their weapons clashed. Sparks flew from the impact, the force rattling up Killian’s arms. For a mortal, the noble had impressive strength—his strikes came fast and relentless, fueled not by desperation but by something deeper.
Pride.
Even though his defeat was already decided, he fought with everything he had, refusing to fall without a struggle. And somewhere in that, Killian found a sliver of respect.
But respect didn’t change the outcome of a battle.
Killian shifted his footing and pressed forward, his attacks coming sharper, faster. Buck faltered under the assault, his defenses cracking as Killian’s blade carved through the air. A sudden slash cut toward the noble’s shoulder.
With a grunt, the Viscount raised his arm to block. Steel bit into flesh, and blood splattered across the stone. He let out a pained snarl, staggering back—only for Killian to channel lightning through the wound.
Electricity crackled along Buck’s body, forcing him to retreat even further. His breaths came ragged now, his grip weakening.
Killian didn’t hesitate.
He lunged forward and drove his boot into the noble’s chest, sending him sprawling onto the ground. Before he could even think about getting up, Killian dropped onto him, slamming a fist into his face. The impact echoed against the walls. The noble’s helmet tumbled away, revealing his dazed expression before consciousness slipped from his grasp.
Killian exhaled sharply, wiping his brow as he grabbed the unconscious noble by the collar and hauled him to his feet. His voice rang over the battlefield as he yelled,
"Your lord is down! Put down your weapons!"
The fighting slowed. Warriors turned, bloodied and breathless, to see the fallen Viscount. One by one, swords clattered to the ground. Shields dropped. Hands rose in surrender. Soldiers fell onto their knees.
And just like that—it was over.
Killian stood still, letting the moment sink in. His fingers twitched around his sword’s hilt, and he realized how strange it felt. Victory.
Overpowering their enemy so completely.
He had been so certain, so confident. But now, with the battle won, the weight of it settled in his chest.
Then he heard footsteps.
He turned and saw Lord Arzan approaching. The man had blood on his hands and face—but Killian knew it wasn’t his.
Killian lowered the Viscount’s limp form to the ground, stepping back as his lord knelt beside him.
Lord Arzan glanced at the battered noble, then let out a quiet chuckle. "He’ll need help, but he’s far from death." His gaze flicked to the man’s bruised and bloodied face.
"Though, I doubt he’ll be showing that face in public anytime soon."
Killian exhaled, adjusting his grip on his sword before turning to Lord Arzan. "What’s the next order?"
Lord Arzan didn’t hesitate. "Seize the castle. Tend to the injured—both ours and theirs. Patch them up, then throw them in the dungeons. We’ll interrogate them later." He gestured by his hand. "Get the common folk under control. Let them know we’re not here to slaughter them, or they might do something foolish. And send the Enforcers to deal with the othet nobles before they cause trouble."
Killian nodded, knowing the work wasn’t over yet.
But just as he turned to leave, Lord Arzan’s gaze flicked to the sky, his expression shifting into something colder.
"...Though," he murmured, almost to himself, "I don’t think the battle is over yet."
A chill slithered down Killian’s spine. He frowned. "What do you mean?"
Kai’s jaw tightened. "I saw no blood drinkers in this fight."
The words hung heavy between them, sinking into Killian like a weight in his chest. It was true. He himself hadn’t seen a single blood drinker. Not when the entire castle was being reduced to shambles.
"We need to question the Viscount about it,"
Kai continued, eyes scanning the ruined battlefield. "But I’m afraid they’re just hiding, waiting for the right moment. Their stealth abilities are beyond what I expected." He let out a slow breath, then finally looked at Killian.
"This is just the start."
Killian’s fingers curled around his hilt, his instincts sharpening.
"Yes, Lord Arzan" he agreed. "The start of many battles. We are prepared."
2025-02-08 02:44:53 +0000 UTC
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Chapter 68
Chen Ren didn’t particularly enjoy traveling in this world—at least, not by carriage.
The world itself was great. The air was thick with qi, filling his lungs with a refreshing energy that never left him feeling truly exhausted. Towering trees lined the roads, their canopies swaying lazily in the breeze. Rivers cut through fields like silver threads, their waters clear enough to reflect the sky.
Everything looked like it had been plucked straight out of a painting.
But none of that changed the fact that the roads were terrible.
The carriage rattled and shook with every pothole, the wooden wheels groaned under the uneven road. And every bump sent a jolt through his spine, and no matter how he adjusted his posture, there was no such thing as comfort. The seats were stiff, the air inside stuffy, and the constant swaying made even resting a chore.
He figured this was mostly a mortal problem. The real cultivators—those who had stepped beyond these struggles—soared through the skies on flying swords, rode atop spirit beasts, or, if they were truly powerful, summoned floating boats like the one Elder
Yan Xiu had used. Compared to that, his carriage might as well have been a wooden box strapped to a herd of drunk oxen.
Unfortunately, he wasn’t at that level yet.
The only upside was the frequent stops. Small villages dotted their path, giving the horses and travelers a chance to rest. Chen Ren took these breaks as an opportunity to stretch his legs—literally. While others stretched their backs or loosened their stiff limbs, he ran.
His body moved effortlessly, his feet barely touching the ground before propelling him forward again. The wind rushed past his face, and the pounding of hooves beside him was nothing but a background rhythm. Even when the carriage started rolling again, he kept up easily, the horses unable to leave him behind.
It was better than sitting.
Of course, he didn’t spend the entire journey running meaninglessly. He had long since shed his laziness in this world, and he wasn’t about to waste time lounging in the carriage.
Instead, he trained. Whenever they took breaks, and he wasn’t running, he trained.
Not in his lightning techniques—those came naturally, instinctively. No, this time, he focused on something new. A technique he had won in the tournament.
[Starlight Defense], an Earth grade defensive technique.
The name was fancy, but in the world of cultivation, that was normal. He had heard of techniques like [Palm That Cuts the River] and [Immortal Fist of the Heavens.] Compared to those, [Starlight Defense] was straightforward. It did exactly what its name suggested—used the qi of the stars and moon to form a protective barrier around the user.
The diagrams in the manual showed a shimmering cover of light forming over the body, covering vital points like armor woven from the night sky. It sounded impressive. It looked impressive. But there was a catch.
Chen Ren opened his eyes and exhaled, watching the stars stretch across the sky.
He could only cultivate it at night.
“So apparently, it’s mostly potent at night
since it uses the qi of the stars and moon,”
Chen Ren muttered, leaning back against a fallen log. He picked on the grass beneath them as his eyes shifted from the technique manual in his lap. “I can still use it in the morning, but it won’t be nearly as strong.” He sighed, gaze flickering toward the sky, where the moon had begun its slow climb. “It’s powerful—it’s an Earth-grade technique, after all—but I don’t know how to get around this
flaw.”
Across from him, Yalan was sprawled on the grass, stretching her small body. A few paces away, Hong Yi crouched over a pot, stirring the venison soup he had thrown together after hunting a deer. Anji and Zi Han sat nearby, murmuring about something he didn’t bother listening to.
High above, perched on a low-hanging branch, Whiskey lazily chewed on a berry, his tail flicking in amusement.
Yalan glanced up from the fire that was in the middle of them, meeting his gaze. “I don’t think it’s much of a flaw,” she said casually.
Chen Ren frowned. “What do you mean?”
Instead of answering, she purred. “Use the technique.”
He raised an eyebrow. There was no hesitation in her tone, just quiet confidence.
Well, there was no harm in trying.
Without another word, he shut his eyes and exhaled slowly, letting his focus sink into the world around him.
Ever since stepping into the qi refinement realm, everything had changed. Almost as if the world has opened itself to him, in terms of spiritual energy mixed in the air. He had even gotten better at recognising different types of qi. It was eye opening, and felt like a whole different level of enlightenment. Before, it had been like looking at a river from a distance—he knew it was there, but it was unreachable.
Now, he stood at the river’s edge, able to dip his hands into the flow.
And right now, he was searching for something specific.
Star qi.
It wasn’t as easy to grasp as his lightning qi, which surged and crackled like a living storm within him. The celestial qi was distant, slow-moving, as if existing on a different plane. But as he focused, the mantra of [Starlight Defense] running through his mind, something shifted.
A pull.
The energy trickled toward him, slow but steady. He guided it into his body, moving it through his meridians, letting it flow across his skin. It was subtle at first, like cool mist settling over him. Then, as the technique took hold, the mist thickened.
When he opened his eyes, his entire body shimmered with a faint bluish light. A transparent armor, woven from qi itself, clung to him, covering his vitals in an otherworldly glow. There was no weight to it, no restriction in movement, but he felt different. More protected. More... stable.
Yalan studied him for a moment, then nodded. “Not bad. Looks like a solid technique.”
Chen Ren let out a breath, the glow flickering slightly. “Yeah, it is.” He flexed his fingers, watching the way the qi shifted over his knuckles before fading. “But like I said, the problem is during the day. There’s barely any star or moon qi to draw from. It’s not like my other techniques where I can just use my own aspected qi.”
His voice was steady, but the frustration was there. A technique was only as useful as its availability—and this one, no matter how strong, came with a major limitation.
“There’s very little star qi in the air during the morning,” Chen Ren said, shaking his head. “That’s the issue.”
Yalan didn’t reply immediately. Instead, she gave him a long, narrowed-eyed look, the kind that made him shift uncomfortably. Then, with a pointed tone, she asked, “Do you really think that technique is so rigid?”
Chen Ren frowned. “What do you mean?”
She exhaled sharply, shaking her head. “I’ll give you a hint.” Her gaze flickered to the sky before closing. “Earth-grade techniques are superior to mortal ones. Starting from this grade, techniques are thoroughly designed—none of them should have such a glaring flaw unless they’re extremely specialized. That means there’s already a way to use your defense technique in the day without losing effectiveness. You just have to think about it.”
Then she went quiet.
She didn’t elaborate, didn’t offer any further clues. Just sat there, calmly, as if waiting for him to figure it out on his own.
Chen Ren turned her words over in his mind. A way to use [Starlight Defense] in the morning? How? There was no way to create star qi—at least, none that he knew of. Even if there was, he didn’t have the ability to do it.
He kept thinking, running through different possibilities. If he couldn’t generate it, what could he do? He considered how the technique worked—pulling in celestial qi from the environment, shaping it into armor.
Seconds turned to minutes as he thought of ways to use the technique at all periods.
And then it hit him.
He looked up sharply. “The way to do it… is to store star qi in my body so I can use it during the day.”
Yalan nodded, opening her eyes and looking at him. “Exactly. It won’t be easy, though. Star qi is aspected—your body isn’t naturally aligned with it. But you can still store a limited amount, then recharge it at night. It’s a good system. And while I think you’ll get a better defensive technique eventually, at your current realm, this one will protect you from most attacks.”
Chen Ren hummed, considering her words. She was right. [Starlight Defense] wasn’t perfect, but it was strong. If he could master this method, he’d have a reliable defense at all times.
“Alright,” he said, flexing his fingers. “Let me try it.”
Closing his eyes again, he focused on the qi in the sky—the faint traces of star energy that lingered in the night air. It was distant but present, subtle but steady. He pulled it in, guiding it through his meridians, feeling the energy settle against his skin.
This time, though, he didn’t shape it into armor. Instead, he directed it inward, trying to absorb it into his body.
But the moment the star qi entered him, it slipped away just as easily.
He frowned and tried again, pulling in the energy, attempting to hold onto it. Again, it leaked out as if refusing to stay. Over and over, he repeated the process, adjusting, focusing—but each time, the qi escaped, like water slipping through cupped hands.
Eventually, he exhaled sharply, opening his eyes. A thin sheen of sweat coated his forehead. “It’s not working,” he admitted.
“Every time I take in the star qi, it just escapes again.”
Across from him, Yalan simply snickered. “Did you really think it would be that easy?” She tilted her head slightly and scoffed. “Of course, you need to practice. It won’t stick right away.”
Chen Ren sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. He had expected a challenge, but this was trickier than he thought.
“Fortunately for you,” Yalan continued, gesturing toward the carriage in the distance, “we have a long journey ahead. Plenty of time to get it right.”
Chen Ren let out a breath, nodding. “Yeah… I guess I better start working on it.”
***
Throughout the journey, Chen Ren’s focus remained on [Starlight Defense]. Each night, under the vast expanse of the sky, he worked to absorb more and more star qi, trying to store it within himself. At first, it was frustrating—each time he gathered the energy, it slipped away before he could make use of it.
But persistence paid off.
Gradually, he refined his control. The trick, he realized, wasn’t to store the excess star qi in his dantian—where it would dissipate too easily—but within his body itself. His skin, his veins, his very flesh became a reservoir, holding the celestial energy like a sponge soaking up water. With this method, the qi lingered longer, and when he called upon it, it responded instantly, forming the protective barrier without delay.
By the time he had a firm grasp of the technique, they had reached their first destination, Black Lotus Town.
It was a place known for two things—its barley, which was sought after by breweries across the region, and its blacksmiths, whose work was said to rival even sect forges. Obviously, that one was a rumour since there were only mortal blacksmiths in the town, but their skill was still considered to be high.
More importantly, it was the place Hong Yi dreaded to come back to. His sect lay to the left of the town, built into the side of a mountain, looming in the distance and due to that, the man's trepidation was understandable.
As they moved through the streets, the air smelled of roasting grains and hot iron.
And for what had to be the hundredth time, Hong Yi asked, “Are you really sure about this?”
Zi Han walked beside Chen Ren on his left, his sharp eyes scanning the surroundings. Anji had opted to rest at the inn with Whiskey, exhausted from the long journey. As for Yalan? She had disappeared the moment they entered town, wandering off on her own, as usual.
Chen Ren exhaled through his nose, glancing at Hong Yi. “I’ve already told you what I’m going to do.” His gaze turned serious. “Do you really want to live the life of a deserter forever?”
He expected Hong Yi to flinch at the words, but when he turned to look at him properly—he froze for the third time since they had entered the city.
It wasn’t Hong Yi standing next to him.
The man beside him had a different face—plain, forgettable. His sharp features were gone, replaced with a smoother, almost… regular look. He looked like every other guy on the street. Even his usual dark hair had disappeared, leaving him completely bald.
But when he spoke again, his voice hadn’t changed. “It’s not that simple.”
Chen Ren’s gaze flickered back to the street, taking a deep breath.
Skin mask is really a useful yet creepy artifact. It will take a bit of time to get used to Hong Yi looking so different.
It was a cultivation tool—one that Hong Yi had acquired at the same place he had found his inheritance. It was an artifact used by meridian expansion realm cultivators, capable of altering a person’s entire appearance with just a thought. Even other cultivators would struggle to see through its disguise unless they were of a much higher realm or had a specialized technique.
This was the reason Hong Yi had managed to evade his sect for so long. And the reason he dared to come so close to it now.
Hong Yi sighed. “I don’t want to be a deserter. But what you’re planning… it’s dangerous. What if it goes wrong?” His voice was quieter now. “They’ll certainly be suspicious of you.”
Chen Ren met Hong Yi’s concerned gaze and exhaled. “Yes, I’m aware,” he admitted, “but I’m confident that if anything happens, I’ll be able to run away. You already told me about all the escape routes I can take, and I’ll have Yalan with me, so there’s not much to worry
about.”
Even as he said that, though, he was worried.
After all, his plan required him to willingly walk into the jaws of an Established sect to discuss a deserter. Cultivators weren’t exactly known for their patience, and he wouldn’t put it past them to attack first and ask questions later. The only reason he was still going through with it was the combined protection of the cat and the plan he had carefully put together—one that relied entirely on his ability to act.
Still, no point in making Hong Yi more anxious than he already was. Chen Ren patted him on the shoulder. “Just relax. You don’t have to do anything. Focus on preparing for your spot in the Divine Coin Sect.”
Hong Yi hesitated before nodding.
Just then, Chen Ren spotted what he had been looking for—a blacksmith’s shop.
Weapons of all kinds were displayed in front of the open stall, their sharp edges gleaming under the torchlight. Behind them, a forge burned hot, illuminating the muscular silhouettes of several young apprentices hard at work. Sparks flew as they hammered away at glowing steel, their faces streaked with sweat.
As Chen Ren approached, one of the apprentices—a lanky youth with soot on his face—looked up from his work and walked over. “What are you looking for? A sword? Armor? Mace?”
Chen Ren shook his head. “None of that.” His gaze flickered toward the forge. “I’m looking for the blacksmith who owns this shop. I have something to ask him.”
The boy frowned. “Master doesn’t meet just anyone.”
Chen Ren’s lips curled slightly. “I’m not just anyone. I’m a cultivator.”
At that, his expression shifted. He gave Chen Ren a once-over, then glanced at Zi Han and Hong Yi. His eyes lingered Chen Ren again after that, clearly sensing the quiet strength hidden beneath his composed exterior.
Deciding this was well beyond his pay rate, he quickly turned and ran toward the forge.
A moment later, a large, burly man stepped forward. His arms were thick with muscle and hair, his shirt rolled up to reveal the burns and scars. His beard was streaked with gray, but his posture carried the confidence of a man who had been forging weapons longer than most people had been alive.
“I heard an esteemed cultivator is looking for me,” the blacksmith said and eyed Chen Ren down. “I’m Forger Tai. How can I help you?”
Chen Ren nodded. “I don’t want to buy anything,” he said, reaching into his robes. “I have a diagram here, and I’m wondering if you’d be able to make something similar.”
He pulled out a rolled-up parchment and handed it over.
The blacksmith took it with a grunt, unrolling it. His brow furrowed as he examined the sketch, his gaze tracing every line, every detail. After a long moment, he muttered, “This isn’t any weapon I’ve seen before.” Tai lifted his head, looking at Chen Ren with narrowed eyes. “What can it even do?”
Chen Ren tapped the diagram. “It’s a ranged weapon,” he explained. “It fires projectiles into the air faster than any bow, and it has lethal explosive power.”
The blacksmith frowned, squinting at the lines and notations on the parchment. He turned the diagram sideways as if that would help him understand it better, then scratched his beard. “A ranged weapon with explosive power?”
Chen Ren nodded.
Tai muttered something under his breath and kept studying the sketch. He asked a few questions—how the projectiles were launched, what kind of force it used, what materials were needed—but the more Chen Ren answered, the more his frown deepened.
His thick fingers traced the lines of the design, his brows knitting together in concentration, but in the end, he let out a heavy sigh.
“I’m sorry,” he admitted, shaking his head. “I don’t think I can make this. I’m only good with practical weapons—blades, axes, hammers. This… looks like some sort of cultivation artifact.”
Chen Ren’s brows furrowed. He hadn’t expected that response. It wasn’t an artifact, not really—just something this world hadn’t seen before. But even if he tried to explain further, it was clear the blacksmith wouldn’t be able to craft it.
So, he nodded. “I understand.”
Turning to his comrades, he said, “Let’s try more shops.”
Black Lotus Town was known for its blacksmiths—surely one of them had to be capable of making the weapon.
But as they moved from one forge to the next, they received the same responses. Every blacksmith looked at the diagram with confusion, some with curiosity, but all of them eventually admitted defeat. No one could say with confidence that they could craft such a weapon.
By the time they left the last shop, the sun had dipped lower in the sky. Chen Ren exhaled, glancing at Hong Yi and Zi Han. “It seems like we’ll have no luck here,” he said.
“Unfortunate.”
Hong Yi nodded, but Zi Han tilted his head slightly, eyes flicking back to the rolled-up diagram. “What even is that weapon, Sect Leader Chen?”
Chen Ren looked at him for a moment before answering. “One of the deadliest weapons in the world. There’s no production of it in the empire yet, but once I find someone capable of making it, our sect will become very
formidable.”
“That strong?” Zi Han asked. Chen Ren could see the adrenaline that rushed to his eyes at the mention of power.
He nodded at that.
Hong Yi, however, remained thoughtful, eyes distant. Chen Ren placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Either way, let’s leave the weapon for later,” he said. “For now, we need to deal with your Blood Iron Sect and make you a free man.”
Hong Yi inhaled slowly, then nodded. “Alright. Let’s do it.”
2025-02-08 02:37:32 +0000 UTC
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