The Black Swan soared over the rocky plains far east of Black Rock, its sleek form cutting through the skies. It had been two days since they departed from the city of the sect, heading along the path toward the heartlands. The skies were clear, free of any creature or predator that might seek to disturb their journey. The gentle yet powerful thrum of the sky vessel’s engine vibrated through the air as it traveled smoothly toward its next destination.

  Their course would take them to the next city closest to Black Rock, beyond the destroyed remains of Jade Peak. They intended to gather resources along the way before continuing to their main destination—Talahar itself. The journey to the capital of the empire would take a little over two weeks, with another two weeks for the return trip. For Tunde, the time felt all too brief.

  The Dark Fist sat atop the prow of the ship, the gentle winds tugging at his robes as he meditated in the serene silence of the journey. His eyes were closed, hands folded into the sleeves of his robes. His once-bald head now sported a layer of fine, smooth black hair as he cycled his Ethra. The dark gray energy within his core flowed smoothly, the power of a peak lord cultivator attuned to the space around him.

  “The void is infinite and vast,” came the voice of Ifa in his mind. “A near-limitless space of raw power, unmatched in strength.” Tunde stretched one hand outward, dark gray wisps of Ethra gathering around it. “Your aura, your ego, must reflect this—the strength of the void, of the devourer,” Ifa continued.

  From the clouds emerged a black flying horror, screeching as it shot toward Tunde at the prow. A tier 4, and a powerful one at that—he could feel it. Yet, it meant nothing. With a deft flick of his wrist, Tunde sent his aura shooting out, grabbing the creature mid-air as it squawked in shock, its razor-like feathers firing at him. His other hand seemed to pass through the air, space rippling around him as he retrieved a weapon—a black-poled naginata with a blade atop its head.

  One swing of the naginata displaced the feathers. “You now command the affinity of force, attuned to the cosmic concept,” Ifa intoned with finality. “Exert your will.”

  Tunde clenched his fist, his aura rippling with the affinity of force, crushing the creature into a tiny ball. Flesh, blood, and bone—nothing remained of its existence except a small black marble-sized orb. Tunde inhaled, then exhaled as he released his aura, watching the orb fall through the clouds below.

  He pushed the weapon back into the void, the naginata vanishing as quickly as it had appeared. “Your mastery of void space has improved,” Ifa said with satisfaction.

  “I preferred staring into the yawning black hole as I drew from it,” Tunde replied softly, the winds carrying his words away the moment they left his mouth.

  “This is a safer and more concealed way of exerting your concept,” Ifa countered. Tunde nodded, tucking both hands back into his robes.

  “Enjoying the show?” Tunde asked aloud without turning around, the soft patter of footsteps echoing closer to him. A female figure in black robes with short-cropped hair appeared at his side, arms folded across her chest.

  “And they call me the barbarian,” she remarked, her tone laced with irony.

  Tunde chuckled. “That was a tier 4 flying horror. I’m not sure what they’re called, anyway,” he replied. “If I’d let it get any closer to the ship, it could have caused damage.”

  Sera tsked. “It could hardly dent the prow, or you, for that matter,” she observed.

  “Can’t be too sure now, can we?” Tunde responded, his eyes drifting to the blade sheathed at her waist. It had once been his—Midnight, now called Slaughter—a weapon he had used to carve through the creatures of the wastelands with such brutality that its very presence had warped into one of pure bloodthirst. In other words, it was the perfect weapon for her—a cultivator on the path of blood and flesh.

  Her concept of the Crimson Touch granted her a healing ability so potent that she could recover from life-ending injuries. And yet, some of her scars—especially the one across her cheek—remained, refusing to heal. Tunde wondered if this was a conscious choice, Sera refusing to let her body clear the scar, or if it was something so deep that even advancement couldn’t mend.

  Sera glanced behind them with a frown. “They consider themselves safe because of our presence on the vessel,” she said disapprovingly.

  Tunde shut his eyes, sighing in relaxed agreement. “There are currently three lords aboard this vessel. Anything foolish enough to attack would have only itself to blame—like that bird, for example,” he replied.

  “Still, depending on others for safety is a sure way to die,” she countered.

  “For once, I agree with the Blood Asura,” Ifa’s voice chimed in his mind.

  “Blood Asura?” Tunde asked, intrigued.

  “She walks the crimson path, one that few cultivators ever successfully recover from. They always end up as Asuras, and they always die by the blade or hand of another,” Ifa explained. “You’d be wise to be careful around her. To those who walk her path, every living being is simply an elixir for advancement.”

  Tunde glanced at Sera, watching as she stared into the clouds with a forlorn expression. She turned to him, noticing his gaze. “What?” she asked.

  “How are you feeling?” Tunde asked calmly, raising an eyebrow.

  “As healthy as any mid-level lord should be, I suppose,” she replied.

  “No strange urges to go on a killing spree, to spill the blood of your enemies, to drown in their agony and sorrow as they bleed to death around you?” he asked rapidly.

  Sera blinked at him, caught off guard. “What?” she asked, confused.

  Tunde waved his hand dismissively, relief evident on his features. “That answers it, I suppose,” he said.

  “Why would you even think that?” Sera asked, still bewildered.

  “Your affinities are blood and flesh—two frowned-upon affinities that often lead cultivators down a path of carnage. I just wanted to make sure everything’s fine,” he replied.

  Sera swallowed, her hand resting on *Slaughter* as she gripped it firmly. “If that day ever comes, when you think I’ve strayed from my path, put me down,” she said, her voice steady.

  Tunde shook his head. “You walk your own path, Sera. Your decisions are yours alone,” he replied. “Only you have the power to decide your path. Mine is mine to walk alone, as is yours.”

  She sighed, her expression softening. “So you’ll do it?” she asked

  “You won’t walk that path, I’m sure,” Tunde responded confidently.

  She gave him a brief smile before nodding and turning back to gaze at the clouds.

  “And if she does?” Ifa asked him.

  “Then I’ll stop her,” Tunde replied, his resolve unwavering.

  ******************************

  A few hours later, Isolde emerged from within the ship as Tunde and Sera finished a session of hand-to-hand sparring. The intense bout had drawn the attention of other disciples and adepts aboard the vessel, who watched from a safe distance. Tunde had cocooned himself and Sera in a bubble of aura to prevent damage to the ship, but even so, cracks could be seen on the wooden floor where he had repeatedly slammed her down.

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  Dressed in a cream robe with the clan’s sigil stitched in gold, Isolde placed her hands on her hips, eyeing the two of them. “We’re approaching Shimmersteel,” she announced as Tunde adjusted his robes, their audience dispersing with excited chatter.

  “I still don’t understand why you want to go to this city of all places. We could drop you off at one of the cities in the heartlands,” Isolde said, her tone laced with concern.

  “I have a month to make it to the capital. Besides, the master said that when the event arrives, each sect or clan sending a contestant will have a path opened up straight to Talahar,” Tunde explained. “It doesn’t matter which city I’m in; I’ll make it to Talahar.”

  “Well, true, but that’s not why I’m concerned,” Isolde replied, her expression grim.

  “I understand your fears,” Tunde responded, nodding.

  “What’s wrong with the city?” Sera asked, frowning.

  “It belongs to the Acacia Clan,” Isolde explained. “Tunde and our late Elder Joran had a…clash with them.”

  Tunde chuckled. “We were stuck in a tier 4 rift with members of the Acacia Clan and the revenant cult. I ended up stealing their void ring, opened it somehow, and took all its contents. Plus, I got the rift core they were after, along with a few other items that helped build the foundations of Black Rock.”

  “Isolde’s right—this is a bad idea. They’ll be after your head,” Sera said, her voice firm.

  “You assume they think we survived,” Tunde countered

  “Everyone knows some people survived Jade Peak to start Black Rock. It’s not like you can hide your features,” Isolde pointed out.

  “I don’t intend to, but I also don’t intend to stand out. Not too much, anyway,” he added.

  Both women gave him deadpanned looks. “What?” he asked, genuinely confused.

  “You always stand out. It’s like you’re a magnet for trouble,” Isolde replied, exasperated.

  “True,” Sera agreed, looking thoughtful. “It’s like you exude a scent that trouble finds irresistible.”

  Tunde sputtered, turning away. “Now you’re just making things up,” he protested.

  Isolde exchanged a glance with Sera. “Try to keep him out of trouble, will you?” she asked.

  “I’ll try,” Sera replied with all seriousness, as Tunde rolled his eyes and left them to their discussion.

  He made his way back to the prow of the ship, watching as the large city of Shimmersteel came into view. The first thing he noticed was the lush grasslands surrounding the circular city, with streams of water flowing all around it. Tiny dots, which he knew to be people, worked in the fields, seemingly unbothered by the large sky vessel flying above them. He supposed it was something they had grown accustomed to—not an isolated place like Black Rock or, to some extent, Jade Peak.

  As the vessel drew closer to the city, Tunde saw figures flying through the air toward them, their lord-level auras blatantly exposed. He folded his hands into his robes, watching as they landed softly on the vessel, hands resting on the blades at their waists. Dressed in blue robes with a white crest of a blade etched onto them, the two lords were tall, with slightly brown hair and muscular builds—men used to being obeyed.

  Tunde could have crossed the space between them in the blink of an eye, relieved them of their weapons, and even killed them if he wanted. Instead, he let them believe they held the advantage—no need to upset their fragile egos.

  “Greetings, esteemed lords!” Isolde’s cheery voice broke the silence as she approached from behind Tunde. He locked eyes with the one on the left.

  “State your business and sect or clan,” the leftmost lord demanded, his voice authoritative.

  “Right, right. I am Isolde, head of trade for the Black Rock Sect, and that gentle soul in front of you is a member of our sect as well,” she replied smoothly, even as Sera appeared, eyeing the two lords warily.

  “And your business?” the one Tunde had locked eyes with asked, his tone brusque.

  “To simply trade,” Isolde explained. “We have cores from Corespawns and creatures of the wastelands, a few Ethra crystals of varying qualities, and we’re hoping to buy a few water shells and other items we might be fortunate enough to acquire.”

  The two guards exchanged a look before one of them moved past Tunde, spreading his aura across the ship as if scanning it. Satisfied, he nodded to the one who had questioned Tunde. “Clean. Simple cultivators, nothing to be worried about—yet,” he said.

  The second lord stepped closer to Tunde, narrowing his eyes. “I don’t like your attitude,” he said, his voice low.

  In an instant, Tunde imagined slamming his palm into the man’s throat, cutting off his air supply as he floundered in shock, then kicking him off his feet and driving his palm into his midsection—a move he could call the Void Palm. He wondered briefly what its effect would be on the arrogant lord.

  But Sera’s cough behind him snapped him back to reality. Tunde sighed and bowed slightly. “I apologize if I have offended you in any way. Please know that I meant no insult to you or your esteemed clan,” he replied.

  Then, he leaked just a bit of his aura toward the cultivator, whose eyes widened as he shot backward, grabbing his blade and nearly drawing it.

  His companion was at his side in an instant, hand on his blade as he hissed, whispering urgently. All the while, Tunde feigned shock and surprise.

  “What was that about?” Sera whispered as she stepped closer to him.

  “I have absolutely no idea,” Tunde replied, glancing at Isolde, who looked at him with a resigned expression. He winked at her.

  The first cultivator, now calmer, bowed slightly. “I apologize for my companion’s rude behavior. Please, forgive us,” he said.

  “No, no. I totally understand. It is I who should apologize for whatever I might have done to cause such a noble cultivator to draw his blade. Perhaps an offering or two would help?” Tunde suggested, withdrawing two tier 4 Ethra crystals from his void ring and handing them over to the cultivator, whose eyes widened in surprise.

  “My thanks! These are worth a few thousand lumens each!” the man exclaimed, accepting the crystals gratefully.

  Tunde waved a hand dismissively. “Think nothing of it, esteemed cultivator,” he replied.

  The first lord dragged his companion away, who whispered something about cold and emptiness. They flew back toward Shimmersteel, leaving behind a medallion for Isolde as their pass into the city.

  “See what I meant?” Isolde said, glancing at Sera, who nodded in agreement as they both looked at Tunde, who struggled to hide a smile.

  ********************************

  As the flying ship descended through the clouds, the city of Shimmersteel revealed itself, spreading out like a glittering jewel cradled in the arms of a verdant valley.

  The first thing Tunde noticed was the city's walls—tall and formidable, forged from shimmering Silverstone, supposedly a rare metal that gleamed with a polished luster. These walls were not just defensive barriers; they were masterpieces of craftsmanship, etched with intricate patterns that somehow reflected both the flowing grace of water and the sharp precision of a blade. The sunlight caught on these patterns, making the walls appear as if they were alive, flowing like a river one moment and flashing like a sword in the next.

  Beyond the walls, the city itself was a harmonious blend of natural beauty and martial strength. The streets were laid out in sweeping arcs that mimicked the gentle curves of a flowing river, guiding the eye and the spirit toward the heart of the city. Canals crisscrossed through the streets, their waters clear and pure, fed by a network of underground springs. These canals were both practical, providing water to the entire city, and symbolic, representing the fluid nature of the clan’s power. The sound of water, always present, was like a soft whisper in the ears of those who walked these streets—a reminder of the ever-present flow of life and energy.

  The architecture of Shimmersteel was a testament to the clan’s dual affinities. Buildings were constructed from a combination of Silverstone and dark, polished wood, their structures sturdy and sharp, yet with a certain grace that echoed the fluidity of water. The rooftops, lined with metallic tiles, were shaped like the upturned edge of a blade, their sharp lines softened by the occasional vine or flowering plant that cascaded down from the higher terraces. Balconies and bridges arched gracefully between buildings, their railings fashioned to resemble flowing water or curving swords, a subtle but constant reminder of the clan’s power.

  Tunde’s eyes were drawn to the center of the city, where the clan’s ancestral seat, the Bladewater Keep, stood tall and imposing. The Keep was a fortress of Silverstone and crystal-clear glass, reflecting the sky above and the waters below. It was built in the shape of a vast, rippling wave, its crest frozen in time as it surged upward, ready to crash down with the force of a thousand blades. Water flowed through the Keep in controlled streams and falls, weaving through the building as if it were part of its very lifeblood. At the top of the Keep, a colossal blade stood embedded in the stone, its edge glinting in the sunlight—a symbol of the clan’s martial prowess and their unyielding will.

  As the ship glided closer to the city, Tunde could see the people moving through the streets. The clan members were easily recognizable, their clothing a blend of deep blues and silvers, mimicking the colors of water and steel. Their robes, though flowing like water, were often adorned with intricate patterns resembling the edges of blades, and many carried swords at their sides, the hilts shaped like crashing waves or rippling currents. There was a disciplined grace to their movements, a fluidity that spoke of years of training, where each step was as deliberate as the swing of a sword.

  Tunde noticed the many training grounds scattered throughout the city, where young disciples practiced their techniques. Some wielded swords that danced like flowing rivers, each strike a perfect blend of power and elegance. Others focused on water manipulation, pulling streams from the canals to swirl around them like living, liquid blades. These practices were often done in harmony, where swordplay and water arts blended into a seamless, deadly dance.

  As the flying ship approached the main landing area near the city’s gate, Tunde’s gaze was drawn to the shimmering field that surrounded Shimmersteel. It was a massive formation, a protective barrier that seemed to ripple like the surface of a still pond, but with an undercurrent of lethal sharpness. This was the city’s ultimate defense—a barrier that could turn any attack into nothing more than a ripple in the water, or strike back with the precision of a master swordsman.

  Finally, as the ship touched down, Tunde felt a deep respect to this place. Shimmersteel was a city of contrasts—where the fluid grace of water met the unyielding strength of the blade, where beauty and danger intertwined in every corner. It was a place that reflected the very soul of the clan.