Tunde sat within the chamber, Miria beside him, both staring at the lifeless puppet as it slowly accumulated Ethra. It had been more than a day since they first began their assault on the puppet, and each time it fully recharged, they barely survived by the skin of their teeth. Tunde threw everything he had at the wooden creature, which seemed to embody pure martial focus.

  The puppet learned from them with each encounter, but so did Tunde. His movements grew sharper, his blows landed with more fluid grace and maximized damage. Yet, the construct always found a way to escape the worst of it. Each time it shut down to recuperate its Ethra reserves, Tunde watched with unrestrained frustration as all the damage he had inflicted vanished.

  Frustration soon turned to full-blown anger, knowing that crushing the creature while it was in its defeated state wouldn’t count as a victory. Beyond the fear of the Highlord’s judgment, Tunde found himself unwilling to take the easy way out. The urge to destroy the puppet while Ethra still ran through its accursed frame filled him with a sense of relish; he looked forward to the challenge.

  His Ethra breath cultivation style was modeled after that of the Boundless Wrath Sect, but instead of using wrath, Tunde found himself gathering Ethra and compressing it with raw pressure within his core. It was a struggle at first, forcing the refined Ethra through his heart like a funnel before it entered his core. Breathing was more than difficult, with each rotation feeling worse than the last. But Tunde’s determination prevailed, envisioning his core as a void, swallowing more and more Ethra, no matter how much he pumped into it. The dark grey swirling orb within his lower abdomen kept taking it all.

  An hour or two after his first Ethra gathering, the puppet woke up again, this time meeting a more than ready Tunde. Miria stood wordlessly, her gaze sharpened as she eyed the creature, which seemed to shudder as two more limbs sprouted from its sides.

  “That’s new,” Miria muttered, breaking the silence that had enveloped them for hours. They had long since stopped talking unless necessary. As soon as the puppet moved, Tunde was already in its path, aura-covered hands flowing like dark grey wisps as they blocked two of its limbs, while a third gathered a blade of lightning and fire aimed at skewering Tunde.

  Ethra sight allowed Tunde to track the attack, but he let it come, trusting Miria’s whip blade to intercept it. The blade wrapped around the limb, dragging it away, and opening up a chance for Tunde—a split-second opportunity devised by Miria. Tunde took it.

  Joran’s Wrath crashed down on the puppet’s midsection with pure speed and lethality. The puppet attempted to deflect the attack with both aura and reflexes, but Tunde felt the smooth wooden body tremble before splintering. As the puppet’s other hand gathered raw Blitzfire, aiming to scorch him, Tunde used Void Forge to create a lance, which he slammed into the puppet.

  Breathing lightly, Miria maintained her distance, allowing her Shadow’s Embrace technique to lash at the puppet from afar, keeping it at bay as she dodged its counterattacks. Her whip blade moved like a serpent, weaving through the air and distracting the puppet long enough for Tunde to get close.

  With his aura-covered arm sharpened to a blade edge, Tunde went for the kill, imbuing his body as his other hand gathered Joran’s Wrath. The attack shattered the puppet’s third arm, but Tunde’s aura-covered arm couldn’t pierce the tough wooden body. In that split second, he clenched his hand into a fist and released Joran’s Wrath, sending the puppet flying back in an explosion of power. Limbs dangled through the air as Tunde forged a spear with his imbuement technique, skewering the creature midair. It slammed into the chamber walls with another explosion before sliding to the ground, smoke rising from its body.

  Ethra sight revealed Ethra leaking from the puppet’s frame as Tunde cautiously approached. When one of its limbs jerked, Miria’s whip blade lashed out, decapitating its wooden head. Tunde followed up with another Joran’s Wrath, shattering the puppet’s frame.

  If the spear or decapitation hadn’t ended it, Tunde’s final attack did, leaving the puppet a broken mess of smoldering parts on the floor. Both of them stared at the construct that had hounded them for what felt like days—perhaps it had been days, Tunde thought. It was hard to know.

  “Is it dead?” Miria asked as Tunde kicked its frame.

  “Looks like it,” he replied, staring at the broken parts. Suddenly, the puppet burst into flames. Miria yelped and moved backward, and Tunde did the same, watching as the once glossy, polished wood became charred and blackened.

  The door to the chamber opened, and Varis stepped through, pausing as he wrinkled his nose in disgust. “Smells like something died in here,” he muttered. Tunde wanted to point out that being locked up for days with no access to cleaning facilities might have something to do with it, but he kept quiet, simply bowing to the Highlord.

  “Three days. Longer than I expected, to be frank,” Varis began, surprising Tunde as he peeked outside. Had they really spent three days in the chamber, cut off from the outside world without realizing it?

  Varis glanced at the ashes of the broken puppet, a fleeting look of contemplation crossing his face before he turned back to them. “Boundless Wrath and Twilight Blade styles. How well did you fare with them?” he asked.

  “It was... difficult,” Tunde admitted. “The cultivation and fighting style of the Boundless Wrath Sect was fashioned toward ruthless hatred. How did they survive?”

  Varis nodded. “Exactly why they died out. Some forms of cultivation are simply not meant to be.”

  “Then why did you give me their art?” Tunde asked softly.

  Varis glanced at him; his gaze steady. “Because I wanted you to see just what you’ll be treading should you decide to follow the path of an Asura.”

  Varis replied, “Ruthless, bloodthirsty fighters, true, but they don’t last long. And I expect you to do better to meet my needs,” the Highlord finished cryptically.

  He turned to Miria, whose gaze followed him silently. Leaning in gently, he stared into her eyes. “The Shadai clan’s path rings true in you now,” he said softly, as if confirming something. “But there is still a long way for you to go if you’re to make it completely yours,” he finished.

  Clapping his hands once, he spoke again, cold aloofness returning to his voice. Tunde ached to leave the stifling confines of the training chamber. “I’ve done what I can to level the ground for the duels,” Varis started. “Whether you win or not remains in your hands now. You are true cultivators, but whether you will succeed where countless others have failed remains to be seen,” he concluded.

  “Clean up, see to your people. The duel begins in two days,” he said with a nod, turning away from them and leaving the chamber.

  Tunde took a deep breath, retrieving his void ring and the other items that remained within the chamber. He and Miria left its silent space behind, and Tunde headed for his room. As he made his way past several servants who bowed to him, he quickly closed the door behind him. He carefully scrubbed away days’ worth of dirt, disposing of his filthy robes, and put on a fresh pair, feeling clean for the first time in days.

  Sitting on the floor of his room, he opened his void space, bringing out the large shield he had obtained from Crispin, staring at its silver Ethereon body. Placing it aside, he counted how many ingots of Ethereon he had left, satisfied with the amount before placing them back in his vault. Next, he examined the tier 5 or Highlord-grade elixirs he had received from Lady Zehra of the Acacia clan.

  He stared at the swirling liquids contained in the tiny glass containers, feeling the raw power that radiated from within them. The Highlord’s warnings about the dangers of elixirs echoed in his mind, yet Tunde found himself unwilling to part with them. He had fought hard to obtain them, and it felt wrong to simply give them up.

  With a sigh, he placed the elixirs back into his void space. He didn’t have to make a decision now—maybe later. After going through a few more items, he closed his void space, got to his feet, and stared out his window at the guards on the new wall surrounding the stronghold. Their armor gleamed in the sunlight, making them look more like black statues than humans from this height. He wondered just how well he would fare against them.

  Tunde made his way down to the stronghold's gate, where the guards’ eyes locked on him. Ignoring them, he approached the door, only to be blocked by two guards. He glanced at them, arms folded behind his back.

  “Is there a problem?” he asked smoothly.

  “Where are you heading to?” the guard on the left asked, a bulky lord looming over him.

  Tunde sighed, massaging his brow. “Is there a reason for this?” he asked tiredly.

  “Oh, look, the baby lord has grown wings!” the guard on the right exclaimed in mock shock.

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  The guard on the left suddenly released his aura, a bluish energy that enveloped Tunde, attempting to subdue him. Tunde retaliated, his aura exploding out with the renewed strength of his second affinity, dropping both guards to their knees with wide eyes. They gritted their teeth, struggling against his power as Tunde noticed the other guards atop the walls flaring their auras in warning.

  He glanced at them, daring them to make a move, fully aware that they had likely drawn the attention of the Highlord or the master. “This looks like fun!” a loud voice called from atop the wall. Tunde’s gaze shifted to a muscular figure in a dark grey robe standing next to a guard who jerked in shock, surprised by his presence.

  Bright blue eyes stared down at Tunde with interest as the figure effortlessly dropped down from the wall, landing next to him. The man moved closer, looking Tunde over as if assessing him.

  “You must be the Dark Fist!” the man said with a pearly white smile.

  Tunde nodded hesitantly. “And you must be one of the heirs of the great clans,” he replied, bowing slightly.

  The figure laughed loudly, holding his waist. “Yes, Chun of the Zhang clan,” Chun said. “I must confess, you do look bigger than I anticipated!” he continued.

  Tunde glanced at the guards, who stared at Chun with wary gazes as the cultivator kept smiling. “Oh, ignore them,” Chun said to Tunde as the guards stiffened. “Only the dregs make it to become rank and file of the Lightning Army. The true power of the army lies in its commanders,” he said dismissively.

  Tunde saw the rage simmering in the guards’ eyes as they quietly seethed. Chun glanced at them, his smile still in place. The attack came as quick as lightning, Chun crossing the distance between himself and the guard on the left. A thunderous clap followed, shattering the guard’s armor like exploding glass and sending the guard crumpling to the ground in a smoking heap.

  “See? Weaklings,” Chun said with a smile at Tunde while holding the other guard up by the throat with one hand. The guards atop the walls dropped to the ground, surrounding them with their weapons drawn. Tunde could only stare in shock. The guard on the ground wasn’t even moving—knocked out or dead, Tunde wasn’t sure. But what unnerved him the most was that he hadn’t been able to follow Chun’s movement.

  He expected Varis or the master to show up at any moment, yet there was no sign of them, as if they were watching the events unfold with interest. “I’m not sure the Highlord would approve of this,” Tunde said warily, glancing skyward as if expecting Varis to appear out of nowhere.

  Chun grinned and shrugged. “They insulted me by baring their fangs against me,” Chun said, as if it were obvious. “That is an insult against the Zhang clan as well,” he finished.

  Tunde glanced at the guards, who were cycling their Ethra, preparing to attack. He bowed to them as they stiffened. “I apologize for whatever slight I may have caused by provoking this situation,” he said, glancing at them.

  They flicked their eyes from him to Chun, who now had a frown on his face. “You are quite strange, aren’t you?” Chun said.

  Tunde glanced at the guard Chun was holding before Chun threw him aside, the frown disappearing from his face.

  “I simply wanted to see what sort of cultivator you were,” Chun said.

  “And?” Tunde asked.

  Chun looked him over. “Emi will eat you for breakfast. You’d have a much better chance fighting against me,” the Zhang heir replied.

  Tunde locked eyes with Chun. “Because you’re weaker?” he asked.

  Chun’s smile froze, as if he couldn’t believe what he had just heard.

  “No,” he replied, shaking his head. “Because I’d still leave you breathing. It would be sad to break you when you’re still so… feeble,” Chun finished.

  With one hop, he was back on the wall, glancing down at Tunde. “But then again, you wastelanders need to understand the gulf between you and the true cultivators of the empire proper,” he said before vanishing in a flash of blue lightning.

  Tunde stared at the spot where Chun had been, rage simmering in his eyes before he tore his gaze away and moved toward the fallen guards. The one still conscious raised a hand, halting Tunde as he opened the gate. “Go,” the guard said. “We will attend to our member.” Tunde heard the veiled shame and leashed anger in the guard’s voice and found himself understanding their plight.

  He took out a tier 4 healing elixir from his void ring and handed it to the guard, who stared at him in surprise. “It isn’t much, but I hope it helps,” Tunde said softly before passing through the gate and heading toward the settlement proper. He could feel their eyes on him as he walked away, but he didn’t turn back. He had made a statement; it was up to them to decide whether to accept the gesture.

  As he made his way to the forging district, Tunde noticed the improvements along the road—the cobblestones were cleaner, stalls were set up in an orderly manner, and the air was filled with the sounds of laughter and bustling activity. The telltale plumes of smoke in the distance marked the forges, growing thicker as he approached. Draven’s forge towered above the others, the billowing heat embracing him as he stepped inside. The Forgehands noticed his presence, offering soft bows, which he acknowledged with a nod.

  He headed toward Draven’s private room, knocking before entering to find the Forgesmith staring contemplatively at a blade, a blue core in his hand. Draven glanced up at Tunde’s entrance before returning his gaze to the weapon.

  “You’re alive,” Draven remarked.

  Tunde snorted. “Sounds like you’re disappointed when you say it that way.”

  Draven grabbed his hammer, which glowed with a yellow and silver aura that drifted off like wisps of smoke. Tunde’s Ethra sight activated, and he watched with joyful surprise as Draven placed the core on the weapon’s body. The hammer tapped the core lightly, infusing it with aura. The core cracked, then shattered, its energy seeping into the blade. Draven frowned, tapping the blade again, causing the energy to flow faster, glowing lines resembling veins running through its frame.

  Then the blade shattered like brittle glass. Draven sighed in frustration, tossing the hammer onto the table before turning his full attention to Tunde.

  “Something about you seems different,” Draven observed.

  “I could say the same for you,” Tunde replied with a smile.

  Draven shrugged. “We have you to thank for it.”

  Tunde waved it off. “I merely gave the idea. I doubt the Highlord considered me when he decided to accept.”

  “Would it kill you to take a compliment?” Draven asked.

  “I would if you’d let me use your—”

  “No,” Draven interrupted with a short laugh.

  Tunde smiled. “It fits you, though—a complete adept. I suppose you’ll be advancing soon?”

  Draven grabbed his hammer again, the object still releasing wisps of his Ethra. “Honestly? I doubt it,” he started, and Tunde listened closely. “It doesn’t feel right. My goal to become an artificer will be hampered if I advance without the right knowledge.”

  “The Technocracy?” Tunde asked, sometimes wondering if Raven’s goal would take him across the continent to its far side. Draven barked a light laugh.

  “Are you crazy?” he asked. “Of course not. The funds alone would be impossible. I meant one of the bigger cities or, if possible, the capital or central plains themselves.”

  “Perhaps artificers would be in the central plains?” Tunde asked again.

  “No, but master-ranked Forgesmiths who have practiced their paths for decades would be there. Might as well apprentice under them,” Draven replied.

  “Whatever decision you make, I’ll stand by you,” Tunde said, and the Forgesmith grunted, snapping his fingers.

  “That reminds me,” Draven started, moving to a corner of the room to pick up a wrapped item Tunde recognized. “What do you want to do with this?” he asked, brandishing the wrapped Midnight.

  Tunde took it, feeling the raw bloodlust emanating from the weapon and frowning. He contemplated unwrapping it for a second, extending his aura a few meters as he did so. He felt pure, unbridled rage suffuse him as he held it at bay, fully removing the linen wrapping and staring at the weapon in silence. One side was completely chipped away, giving it a saw-like appearance. The blade itself was devoid of his aura, exuding only an aura of blood.

  “When I fought with it,” Tunde began, “I was surrounded from all sides. I kept swinging, trying to take down as many of those creatures as I could.” He sighed, gripping the weapon, feeling its eagerness to kill. “In the process, I might have created something abominable.”

  Draven tapped his hammer on his palm. “I’ve never seen a weapon as bloodthirsty as this. I’d advise simply shattering it.”

  Tunde found himself unwilling to do so. It was his first Lord-rank weapon, and it meant a lot to him, but he couldn’t see himself using it. He paused, glancing at Draven. “Sera, where is she?” he asked.

  “The wild woman who feels like blood? Somewhere within the city,” Draven replied as it dawned on Tunde.

  “I’ve got to admit, on your list of absolutely mind-boggling ideas, this takes the winner,” the Forgesmith said in a deadpan voice.

  “It would suit her,” Tunde argued.

  Draven pinched the bridge of his nose, speaking slowly. “You want to give a wastelander a weapon of pure bloodthirst? How is that a good idea? Besides, she wields a broadsword.”

  Tunde wrapped the weapon back up. “At least let’s ask her, but until then, just keep it around,” he said, tossing it to Draven, who caught it and placed it back in the corner of the room.

  “That makes you weaponless,” Draven noted.

  “True. Not sure what I want, though. The idea of losing another weapon puts me in a bad mood,” Tunde admitted.

  Draven seemed to consider it before sighing. “I’ll see what I can come up with in such a short time,” he said.

  “Isolde?” Tunde asked.

  Draven gestured toward the distance. “At the shipyard, she and Giselle. Something about an expedition.”

  Tunde nodded, saying his goodbyes before leaving the building and the forging district altogether. He headed toward the walls in the distance, his eyes picking out the disciples atop the walls and the distinct figure of Harun, who stared into the distance. Reaching the walls, he propelled himself with pure aura to the top, where Harun finally turned, surprised by his presence.

  Lord rank—the adept had finally advanced. The sharpness of blade Ethra and the cooling presence of water Ethra Tunde was used to now exuded from the newly advanced Lord realm cultivator. Tunde nodded at him, aware of the disciples bowing around them.

  “Lord rank suits you well,” Tunde remarked.

  Harun inclined his head. “Feels good, I won’t lie.”

  Tunde glanced into the distance. “Any trouble of late? Bandits?”

  Harun shook his head. “No, it’s like they vanished,” he replied.

  “Or they’re dead,” Tunde thought grimly. The dusty landscape stretched for miles ahead of them, the usual yellow sands tinged a deep brown of rusted metal. He could feel the Ethra in the air reaching a crescendo, coinciding with the end of the surge that was fast approaching.

  The forces of Black Rock had been diligently sealing off rifts as soon as they opened, preventing them from saturating the area with their energies and spawning more rifts. Tunde sat cross-legged on the wall, closing his eyes and cycling his Ethra in total silence, fully aware of the rankers around him.

  He extended his Ethra into the distance, attuning himself to the ebb and flow of the natural aura and Ethra in the air. It allowed him to detect the tunneling creature headed for the walls. In an instant, he was off the wall, void forge forming an orb in his left hand while Joran’s Wrath blazed in his right.

  Tunde crashed into the sands like a meteor, spraying sand and sediment as the hard carapace of a giant Sandshard emerged, the creature shrieking in rage. Void forge tore through its black carapace, shattering it before lodging deep into its body. Tunde retreated just as the creature exploded in a shower of gore and blood.

  He stood in the aftermath, Harun landing beside him, eyes wide. “This close to the wall?” Harun hissed in alarm. Ethra sight flared to life, and Tunde stared with grim realization at the distant horizon.

  “Sound the alarms,” he ordered Harun, his voice steady but urgent. “War has come to Black Rock.”