The main celebration within the Black Rock Sect was in full swing for the rest of the night. Red and orange lanterns hung from buildings and shops, and the clan's banner flapped all around the settlement. The streets were filled with tables and chairs, an assortment of dishes fighting for space across them. Black Rock was now laden with enough food that they no longer needed to ration from their now-stocked stores.

  It had been the last and final gift from Master Rhaelar herself, a master-crafted void ring filled with enough food to literally feed a settlement the size of Black Rock. It made Tunde wonder if she had prepared for this eventuality in advance, knowing of Varis’s plans. It didn’t matter; the wastelands were theirs, as well as the forgotten territories of Clan Verdan. Tunde sighed, drinking from his cup of wine as he stood atop the balconies that littered the stronghold, watching the festivities below.

  He had done it. He had survived the gaze of the empire and Varis, emerging on the other side as powerful as ever. He was a peak lord now, one step away from the pillars of old Clan Verdan, a height he hadn’t thought he would reach anytime soon. A part of him hoped Elder—no, Moros—was alive; he wasn’t worthy of being an elder in his eyes anymore. He would find him if he was, show him just how far he had come.

  His senses alerted him to the presence of others stepping onto the balcony. Tunde turned to see the rest of his people appear, a soft smile on his face as he took Lady Ryka’s arm, bowing at the waist even as she tsked. “You do realize you’re the face of the sect, right?” she asked.

  “I’m not the one with complete power over Black Rock, now am I?” he replied.

  “Humility,” Draven grunted. Tunde eyed the wrapped item that hung behind the Forgesmith. “That’s the thing about you, always humble yet deadly,” he finished.

  “It has gotten me this far, hasn’t it?” Tunde asked.

  Elder Ming sighed. “Who would have thought you would go on to accomplish such great feats?” she said.

  “I did. He’s Joran’s acolyte. What did you expect?” Elder Wren replied as Ming rolled her eyes.

  Tunde’s eyes were drawn to the figure standing behind them all, trying to merge with the dark corner of the balcony. “Sera,” he called out, the large barbarian woman jolting as if shocked that she was noticed. All gazes turned to her as she gripped his old jagged blade at her waist.

  “Lord Tunde,” she said respectfully. Harun snorted at the tone she used, but Giselle gave him a perfectly aimed jab to the ribs, causing him to grunt in discomfort as he almost sank to his knees, wincing.

  “Please, we’ve shed blood together. I can call you a friend now,” Tunde said with a smile, seeing her lost for words.

  “She did much more than that,” Elder Ming said, drawing attention to herself. “She alone held a broken section of the wall, patching it with heaps of their dead and using their own blood against them,” she narrated, as Sera seemed embarrassed.

  “Witnessed it,” Isolde added. “Piles of Corespawns and true beasts so high that those who came against her fled rather than face the jagged edge of her blade,” she said.

  Tunde glanced at the blood and flesh Ethra user who slunk her way toward him. “You gave me a home and protected me. It was all I could do to repay you when we thought you were dead,” she replied.

  Tunde nodded. “And I thank you,” he said, seeing her uncomfortable with such gratitude.

  “So, Black Rock Sect is ours,” Isolde said.

  “With a slight chain tied to the imperial clan itself,” Wren added

  “As far as deals go, it isn’t bad. No sect would dare come near us, for now anyway,” Ming said, noting Tunde’s questioning look.

  “Because the empire hasn’t given their express permission,” Elder Wren explained. “It’s why sects and clans don’t just go fighting among themselves. For a sect or clan to attack another, they need to have a genuine reason and submit a formal complaint to the Talahan clan, requesting permission.”

  “In doing so, the clan would send a cultivator more advanced than whatever realm or rank the patriarchs of the warring clans or sects are to monitor and ensure it doesn’t spill over to other areas,” Ming chimed in.

  “Then what about the clan with the Acacia clan within the rifts and the mountain sects?” Tunde asked.

  As far as he knew, that had been a blatant attack on the mountain sects by the Verdan clan, and they had gotten away with it, relatively speaking.

  “A rift was involved. A fight for resources is different from an official clan or sect war,” Ming said as Tunde shrugged.

  “Rowan and his children went for the mountain sects simply because the Acacia clan wanted the rift as well,” Tunde added.

  “Perhaps. It was one of the charges and accusations placed upon them. Who knows?” Ming replied. “The main point is that we’re free to operate far from the gazes of the other sects and clans,” she finished.

  “While ensuring our own cultivators don’t recline on whatever they think we have. We run a sect, not a clan, which means merit first,” Harun pointed out. The rest agreed, and at that moment, a servant appeared, bowing to them. It was the same female servant Tunde had grown accustomed to seeing delivering messages.

  “Venerable elders, the table has been set,” she said before retreating from the balcony. Ryka clapped her hands. “Shall we?” she asked as they moved inside.

  The large hall within the sect had been decorated with the same orange and red lanterns that hung from the out-of-reach ceilings. The banner of the sect adorned the walls, and the entire space was bright, filled with rows upon rows of tables. Seated on the wooden floor were the cultivators of the sect themselves.

  They all stood as one, the adepts closest to the higher stage left for the sect's elders, while the disciples and hundreds of initiates filled the other seats as far as the eye could see. Tunde took it all in as the assembled members of the sect bowed as one to them.

  “We greet the venerable elders of the clan!” they roared in unison.

  Lady Ryka raised a hand, and they all sat back on the wooden floor, Tunde doing the same. His eyes glazed over the multitude in the room, noting the subtle looks of awe and respect. He was a prodigy in their eyes, the surviving acolyte of Elder Joran who went on to gain the attention of a Highlord-turned-master of the Talahan clan. A peak lord who would undoubtedly become one of the strongest cultivators in this part of their world.

  He averted his gaze, fixing it on Ryka as she spoke up, her aura amplifying her voice across the silent hall. “Tonight,” she started, “we celebrate the end of our struggles and the beginning of our sect, Black Rock Sect.” She paused, holding their gazes. “We officially mourn our dead, and we celebrate our victory. We survived the revenants of the undead, the fall of Jade Peak, and the war of the wastelands, as I hear people call it now.”

  Her face grew solemn. “We honor the one man who made it all possible, the one who saw just what cultivators who had no powerful family, clan, sect, or even cult could accomplish if given the chance,” she said. “We celebrate the venerable Joran, the blind tiger of Verdan and our original patron.” She grabbed a glass of wine from the table, raising it into the air.

  “To Elder Joran, to the blind tiger of Black Rock,” she said.

  “To the blind tiger of Black Rock!” the entire assembly echoed with fervor. Tunde could barely raise his glass, not trusting himself to crush it under the weight of his fingers. He swallowed calmly, fighting back tears.

  Lady Ryka turned to him. “And now, we’ll let the one cultivator who dragged us all into our golden age, the one who carried on Joran’s legacy, his acolyte, Lord Tunde, speak,” she proclaimed.

  Tunde nodded to her, relieved to release the cup in his hand.

  He calmly got to his feet, swallowing slightly as he looked around the room, unsure of where to start. They gazed at him expectantly, as if waiting for him to proclaim some powerful secret about the direction of the sect. Yet, Tunde didn’t feel within him the bond they assumed he had towards them. To him, they were simply cultivators, resilient ones who had stood and fought for the place they called home.

  Even among their ranks, he saw a few of the bandits who had once sought to attack Black Rock, now looking up at him with respect and gratitude in their eyes. No, there wasn’t any bond. He swallowed gently as he began, his voice loud despite not using his aura, doubting they could withstand the force of it anyway.

  "Elder Joran had a dream," he said. "A dream that all cultivators who had been discarded by those with power and positions could come together and strive for the greater good, to grow in power together."

  His eyes held steady as he continued, "A place to call home, free of the control of the clans and sects of Bloodfire, free to simply cultivate and grow a family. A haven, a solid rock to put down roots."

  "He wanted a place like Black Rock. And although we have fought and bled for this place, it remains ours—Black Rock, free of the control of the powers of Adamath and, in time, the entirety of the borderlands and wastelands."

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  "He left it in great hands, good hands: Lady Ryka, Lady Isolde, Lady Ming, and Lady Giselle. Lord Draven, Harun, and Wren—all good hands," he listed. He could see the slight frowns on their faces as they realized he hadn’t included his own name.

  "They will be the pillars that keep Black Rock afloat and alive. For as long as even one of them lives, I know that Black Rock will survive. But the truth is that our world is one where might make right," he said. "Anyone more powerful could swoop down and take what we have simply because we cannot stand against them. No one knows that better than I do."

  "It is for this reason that I want to announce that I will be leaving Black Rock for the foreseeable future," he declared, as loud murmurs broke out among them. The tones shifted from confusion to concern, even slight panic. Tunde was their strongest cultivator, the true power of Black Rock. Without him, they felt vulnerable.

  He raised a hand, managing to silence them as they latched onto his words. "I understand your fears; they are profound and grounded. But the truth is, the borderlands and wastelands do not provide a useful ground for my advancements—not if you truly want to have a power that rivals those of the great clans and sects."

  "Power like that must be won in sweat and blood. It must be won by constantly pushing to be better, and the wider empire provides such a ground for me," he explained. "You all have a daunting task ahead of you. The ruins of Clan Verdan’s home are filled with creatures that now call it home. It should prove a suitable testing ground for those who wish to get better."

  "The wastelands have long been idle, and with the clash of the mighty masters, the very lands now seem to grow softer, to become more habitable. Black Rock is simply that, a settlement, but we will make it a city—a free city whose very lands will be won by the same cultivators who fought for its survival," he said, spreading his hands.

  "I only ask that you abide by the dream of Elder Joran. That dream, a dream of a free city, where everyone is treated fairly and can practice their arts under the bright sun and glowing moon, must continue."

  “You’re crying,” Ifa said softly in his head.

  Tunde knew; he could feel the wetness on his cheeks as they stared at him, hanging on to his every word. “I ask that you treat everyone who genuinely comes to this place for shelter as you would treat your own family members. That you give them food, shelter, and let them truly see that Black Rock is worth fighting for,” he said.

  Tunde bowed at the waist. “This is all I ask,” he finished.

  There was a profound silence in the hall, so deep that Tunde could hear his own breathing. The shuffling of feet followed as he stood straight, seeing the dozens of cultivators bow to him where they sat, heads bent low.

  “We swear it, on our soul,” a voice said behind him. He glanced at Elder Wren, who clutched Elder Ming’s hand tightly, the lady nodding at him, her eyes glistening. One by one, those words were repeated across the entire room, Tunde feeling the oaths bind them each. By the time they were done, he gave a brief smile as they clapped for him, returning to his seat in silence.

  ***********************************

  The feast went on through the night. Songs were sung, people danced, and for the first time in a long while, Tunde found himself genuinely happy. Except one person was missing. The thought of Miria came back to him with a pang now and then. He locked it somewhere within him, not sure where, but he locked it up all the same. They spoke through the night about their plans for Black Rock, the large requisition hall Elder Wren always dreamed of, and the knowledge hall Elder Ming would be in charge of.

  They had somehow gotten permission from Lady Rhaelar to gain access to a branch knowledge hall within the heartlands of the empire, even though Tunde had no idea how they had managed it. The majority of the funds within the sect had gone towards purchasing a ship’s worth of manuals, elixirs, and other items as well.

  It was worth it in Tunde’s eyes. The cultivators of Black Rock would finally get their hands on true, albeit low- to mid-grade, cultivation manuals and quality elixirs. Tunde even heard that Isolde had tried finding out if there was any alchemist available who would be willing to come back and set up shop within Black Rock.

  “Turns out they consider us nothing but savages this far out,” Isolde had explained. “Which is funny because I wonder what they’d think of the people of the wastelands,” she added rhetorically. It was a perception Tunde was still coming to terms with—the fact that he wasn’t considered a ‘proper’ cultivator compared to the rich and powerful families, sects, and clans of the empire.

  It would be a daunting task on his journey, but that was the aim: to get better and grow stronger. Close to the morning hours, when most of the elder cultivators had retired to bed, Tunde sat with Lady Ryka on the steps of the stronghold. The flames burning in the braziers near them kept their surroundings perfectly warm, staving off the chilly night weather as they watched the lights dim and people shuffle off one by one.

  “When you first came to Red Blossom, I had no idea you’d become the very person to save us all,” she said, glancing at him with a smile. Tunde said nothing.

  “You were that timid-looking boy Elder Joran brought shuffling into my house, all shy and humble. Now, you’re one of the strongest, if not the strongest, cultivators in these parts. You should be happy,” she said.

  “These parts are simply one small pond in a very wide river,” Tunde replied.

  “Yes, and that river is part of a wider ocean. The heights of advancements keep rising, seemingly never-ending,” she reminded him.

  “All the more reason I can’t stay,” Tunde said, glancing at her. “To protect myself, to protect Black Rock, I need to leave.”

  “To protect Miria,” Lady Ryka added.

  Tunde hesitated, then nodded slightly. Lady Ryka nodded in turn, and they lapsed into a brief silence. “I trust that you know better than to go after her right now, not with you being a lord?” she asked.

  He nodded softly. “The Talahan siblings told you then, about them?” Ryka asked. Tunde glanced at her, his eyes affirming her statement as she nodded. The Whispering Phantom Sect, an unofficial greater sect unknown to most powers except the four great clans and sects of the empire. They were the emperor's shadows, his blade in the dark, his hidden forces who took down those who would want to bring harm to the empire.

  Tunde wondered why they hadn’t been sent to take down Haruka, and better still, what one of their members was doing as a bounty hunter with a shadow Ethra crystal. The more he thought about it, the worse it got, until he eventually pushed it away from his mind.

  “I’m weak, not stupid,” he replied, and she snorted.

  “Tunde, do you know the current population of Black Rock?” Ryka asked. He shook his head.

  “Ten thousand. Black Rock, as small as it is, hosts ten thousand souls,” she said, as Tunde’s eyes widened. Did they really have that many people?

  “Do you know how many are active cultivators? Initiates even? Just three thousand,” she continued. “Then we have a thousand disciples, less than twenty adepts, and eight lords. That’s it,” she explained.

  “Now with your absence, that makes it seven lords—seven lords to hold as wide a territory as Clan Verdan wished to hold, secured only by the authority of a distant imperial clan,” Ryka said.

  She poked his chest as she continued, “And you, my dear dark fist, sit supreme above them all. When, just a month ago, you were a lowly initiate, barely scraping by to make a living and simply survive. You are plenty strong, Tunde, even you can’t deny that,” she said.

  “Just not strong enough for the things I plan on doing,” he thought to himself.

  “But I understand you,” Ryka said with a sigh. “When I look at you, I see a man with a haunted past barely reprieved of the pain. You have a goal, a bloody, ruthless one, and you walk the path of a cultivator who will either grow stronger or die in battle,” she said sadly.

  Tunde turned to her, her eyes glinting a soft green and gold hue in the light of the flames. “I simply ask that you don’t lose yourself in it, that you remember you have a home somewhere, with us here,” she finished, as Tunde hugged her.

  “I promise,” he said softly, not believing a single word.

  **************************************

  Morning came quicker than Tunde expected, the bright rays of sunlight illuminating the black beauty that was Black Rock. It found Tunde standing outside the docking platform where the Black Swan awaited, its holdings being prepared for a journey to one of the cities within the heartlands. Tunde was leaving with it, planning to stop along the way at one of the numerous cities that led to the capital itself.

  He had a month until the event, and Tunde was determined to use it to hone his skills against as many cultivators as possible before reaching Talahar. He watched as Isolde walked up to him along with Draven, who still had the wrapped item behind him. Tunde glanced at Isolde as she got close to him. “You let him carry that thing to bed?” he asked as she sighed.

  “You wish you had a tool as big as mine,” Draven said proudly, earning a whack on the back of his head from Isolde. The Forgesmith grumbled even as Tunde shook his head.

  “I’m going to miss you,” Tunde said.

  “You’ll miss freely using my forge, you mean,” Draven said, eyeing him.

  “Both are mutually exclusive,” Tunde replied, and Draven snorted.

  The Forgesmith took off the item, throwing it to Tunde, who caught it, feeling the steady weight. He raised an eyebrow at Draven, who gestured for him to unwrap it. “Impressive,” Ifa’s voice said within his head with grudging respect. It was a naginata, a pole with a blade attached to the end of it.

  Its entire body had been forged with Ethereon, the metal practically singing with Ethra. The blade head gleamed silver under the bright morning sun, and Tunde whistled. “When did you make this?” he asked.

  “While you were busy in the wastelands attempting to live up to its name, I was back in my forge, trying to perfect my forging art,” Draven explained.

  “Thrice-folded Ethereon metal, its body inlaid with the powdered bones of various creatures from the army of the king, mixed into the metal along with broken and ground cores from rift monsters and Corespawns,” Draven listed, as Tunde’s eyebrows rose.

  “Like I said, impressive. Its sturdiness and lethality speak to the dozens of creatures who went into it,” Ifa explained with respect for Draven. “It might not be a high-grade weapon or some mythical or divine artifact, but few, if any, lord-grade weapons can stand against it,” the sentience continued.

  Tunde twirled the weapon, the blade cutting cleanly through the air. Isolde took a healthy step back, dragging her proud husband along with her to be safe. “Light, deadly, strong. Thank you,” Tunde said, genuinely meaning it.

  “She wanted to be the one to give it to you—Miria,” Draven said, as Tunde paused, gripping the blade tightly. “I’ll find her,” Tunde said, glancing at Draven. “I will,” he added, and the Forgesmith nodded to him. His eyes went to the other elders appearing from the stronghold, holding large sacks and boxes carried by cultivators behind them, raising Tunde’s eyebrows.

  “What’s in those?” he asked.

  “A few dozen clothes, lots of dried fruits, and food that should be fine within the numerous void rings we brought along to give you,” Lady Ryka said with a beaming smile. “Along with elixirs and pills. Heavens knows you’ll need them,” Ani said, eyeing him suspiciously.

  He laughed, shaking his head as he watched the boxes being loaded onto the Black Swan. He turned back to them, and Elder Wren handed him a book. Its cover was etched with the crest of Clan Talahan. “Within it are the names of the cities from here to Talahar itself, what clan or sect they belong to, and the like. Everything you’ll need to know as you make your way to the capital,” he said.

  “Are you sure you don’t want the Swan to take you straight to the capital?” Elder Ming asked.

  Tunde shook his head. “No,” he replied. “I intend to reach the capital as the best a lord can be. This month-long journey should be sufficient, I believe,” Tunde replied. Lady Ryka nodded, saying nothing, merely hugging him.

  “Then we wish you safe travels, Tunde,” she said.

  One by one, he hugged them, even Ani, who whispered in his ear as he nodded, ruffling her hair. “Hold fast, make Black Rock the power you want it to be,” Tunde said as they nodded at him. He took one last look at them before making his way onto the vessel and straight to the prow, watching as the ship rose into the air, Black Rock steadily becoming a speck before his eyes.

  Tunde had arrived on the shores of the continent a slave, and now he left the very borders of it a lord. The dark fist intended to return to Black Rock a master.