Rhyn and Thorne’s clash erupted with such overwhelming force that it shook the very fabric of the rift realm they had been transported to, a barren expanse of jagged stone and broken mountains, devoid of elemental harmony, lifeless and cold. There was no affinity here, no terrain advantage, only desolation. But at their level, none of that mattered.

  Thorne emerged as the very embodiment of undeath and decay. The land bent around him unnaturally—rocks twisting, the air curdling as he summoned forth a towering Gate of Bone, which slammed into reality with a thunderous crack.

  The gate groaned open, spilling forth a thick, creeping miasma of undead Ethra, black and green and hungry, saturating the entire rift as it sought to corrupt everything in its path.

  Rhyn’s body flared in response, a storm of deep red Essence Flame roaring to life around him. It didn't just burn—it consumed the very taint in the air, purifying every inch it touched. A second spectral form of flame coiled around him like an echo of his soul.

  His blade, plain in appearance yet unmistakably dangerous, glowed with radiant authority. It was the same blade Tunde had seen countless times before, and had learned never to underestimate.

  Thorne’s own weapon was a wicked, jagged thing, coated in viscous black ichor that hissed as it dripped onto the cracked earth, scorching it upon contact. Their first clash came with the force of a natural disaster—a single exchange of strikes that reduced an entire mountain to rubble, obliterating the stone as if it had been made of paper.

  Tunde’s breath caught in his throat. Rhyn wasn’t just holding his own—he was matching Thorne’s every move, parrying with a precision that bordered on unnatural. The realization struck like a blow.

  He’s close to touching the Song of Blades...

  And that could only mean one thing: Sainthood.

  High above, Thorne raised a hand and unleashed a flurry of glowing talismans. They ignited in green flame the moment they appeared, spiraling into a cascade of homing fire. They swerved and twisted mid-air like living things, chasing Rhyn through the sky. The herald weaved between them with flawless motion, his form a blur as he danced through the inferno.

  Thorne floated still, watching, unmoving—and then, without warning, launched himself toward Rhyn like a falling star, his blade raised high. Rhyn twisted mid-air, and a second blade materialized in his other hand—simple, understated, yet brimming with restrained power. He spun, slashing upward in a violent arc.

  Their weapons met in mid-air with a deafening crack, and space itself shattered. The rift trembled. The blast sent shockwaves through the dimension. Rhyn had feigned retreat, drawing Thorne in to close quarters—he was fighting not just with strength, but with cunning.

  Blow after blow followed, each of Rhyn’s strikes echoing with a deep, resonant gong, and each echo created phantom slashes, six at a time, pressing in on Thorne from every direction. Thorne met each with equal skill—his swordwork clean, methodical, and utterly brutal—but even he was beginning to strain beneath the onslaught.

  From behind, the Miasma Gate yawned wider, and a massive undead serpent slithered forth, roaring with a voice of undeath. Tunde sat upright, eyes narrowing. For a moment, it looked familiar—a distorted imitation of his own Authority’s shape.

  No... not the same. Cruder. Lesser.

  Still, it was dangerous. The serpent exhaled a torrent of pure undeath flame, forcing Rhyn to break off and backpedal mid-air. A jar flew from his void ring, shattering as it released a swirling mist of grey authority.

  The serpent recoiled instinctively, its flames burning to no effect, as it weaved desperately away from the mist. But it was too late. The mist caught it, and in seconds, the beast was reduced to nothing—not even bone remained.

  "Authority," Tunde whispered, eyes widening.

  That mist wasn’t a technique—it was raw condensed authority, sealed into a vessel.

  As it surged toward Thorne, the revenant opened his palm, conjuring a mass of inky-black flame, foul and hungry. He released it, letting it meet the mist head-on in an eruption of conflicting forces, a detonation of Authority clashing against Authority, shaking the skies.

  But the duel between them never paused.

  Rhyn kept the pressure, his every motion surgical, relentless. Yet Thorne’s undead nature granted him a distinct advantage: no fatigue. No exhaustion. He was tireless.

  Rhyn seemed to recognize that. He planted his feet mid-air and spread his arms wide. A pulse of raw aura thundered outward, and the sky above Thorne filled with hundreds of blades, all suspended, all humming with latent violence.

  Thorne looked up, brow raised slightly.

  “Kael trained you well,” he said, voice raspy but amused.

  Rhyn’s eyes narrowed.

  The floating blades came together as one, merging into a monolithic greatsword that loomed over the rift like a divine judgment. It glowed with radiant gold and silver light, waves of pressure cascading from it.

  This wasn’t a simple finishing move—it was the kind of attack that would scar landscapes, the kind to leave warnings carved in the bones of the world.

  A reminder of a master's wrath.

  Thorne smiled faintly and drove a hand into his own chest, tearing out a decaying long bone from within. It writhed in his grip, reshaping itself into a massive spear, etched with malevolent red scripts that pulsed like infected veins.

  “Samsada,” he whispered with a chuckle.

  The spear grew to match Rhyn’s technique in size and presence.

  “Let us see whose Authority is greater.”

  With a flick of his wrist, the spear launched skyward, splitting the heavens as Rhyn’s greatsword descended. The two collided mid-air in a storm of reality-rending power, tearing space apart as their auras clashed violently. Rhyn held steady, muscles straining, pouring his will into his strike.

  Thorne's aura responded—manifesting six spectral arms that reached up, grabbing hold of the collision, matching Rhyn's might. The rift cracked. A loud gong rang out, and the entire space above them shattered, as if reality itself had given way.

  Tunde's eyes widened.

  The Song of Blades.

  It had resonated. Rhyn had touched sainthood.

  Thorne’s laughter echoed through the rift—wet, hollow, and filled with madness. Two of his spectral arms clapped thunderously, and the Miasma Gate groaned as it birthed something new. A massive iron construct, like a cursed coffin, slammed onto the ground. Its lid creaked open, and the skies turned black.

  A skeletal hand, crowned with rot and dread, reached out from within. Dark green fumes spilled into the air, chilling the marrow of everyone who felt them—even Tunde, who sat outside the rift.

  A decayed golden crown emerged next, and with it came a surge of pure, apocalyptic authority—so potent, so vile, it drove Rhyn to his knees, his blade flickering out of existence.

  His Song shattered. His edge was gone.

  Tunde surged to his feet, heart pounding. Whatever was inside that construct... it was no master. It was something older, more terrible, and it was wearing Thorne's skin like a disguise.

  Just as the end seemed inevitable, the skies tore apart, and a figure exploded into the rift with blazing light—the same one Tunde had seen with Shen, the Zao Saint.

  With one sweeping strike of his blade, he ripped through the creature trying to rise from the coffin, casting it back into the void. Then he grabbed Rhyn and hurled him through the broken rift wall, sending him crashing into the valley below, unconscious but alive.

  The rift stabilized as the announcer materialized again, his expression unreadable. Thorne floated down behind him, that same dreadful smile still carved across his face.

  “Winner, Thorne of the Revenants!” the announcer declared, and the crowd erupted from the floating platforms—cheering, roaring, some simply frozen in awe or dread.

  ************

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  Ifa felt it the moment the building was surrounded—a ripple in the world, a tightening in the very fabric of the air. He exhaled slowly, rising to his feet in the dim glow of the underground chamber. Across from him, Liu’s eyes snapped toward him, wide with alarm. The elder gave a single, solemn nod.

  “They’ve come,” Ifa said.

  “For me,” Liu corrected, his voice low, tinged with regret.

  Ifa met his gaze evenly. “Like I said—us.”

  He turned, beginning to ascend the stone steps, but paused halfway, his back to Liu. His voice was steady, heavy with meaning.

  “No matter what happens, you must survive. For his sake.”

  Liu could only stare, worry etched across his face, but his hands moved on instinct. From his void ring, he began pulling out boxes of talismans—one after another—each humming with dormant power.

  “Take these,” Liu said quickly. “I made them myself—strong enough to—”

  He faltered as Ifa laid a firm hand on his shoulder.

  “Survive,” the elder repeated, his tone final, commanding.

  Liu swallowed, expression tightening into resolve. He pushed the box back into Ifa’s arms instead, gaze hardening.

  “You too, old man. He still needs you.”

  Ifa smiled faintly, a touch of warmth in the face of encroaching doom.

  “My time will come to an end one way or another,” he said. “But the next generation must walk the path we’ve paved.”

  He turned again, walking up into the chaos above.

  “Besides,” he added over his shoulder, “I won’t be alone in this fight. Isn’t that right?”

  Liu smiled quietly, despite himself.

  Outside, winds howled like the cries of old ghosts. Ifa stepped into the main hall as a pulse of his aura burst outward, freezing dozens of cloaked lords mid-motion—phantoms attempting to slip between the shadows of the house.

  The walls trembled as lightning cracked across the sky, all bolts converging unnaturally toward the imperial palace, far in the distance.

  And that wasn’t all.

  High above, like a funeral procession of specters, black-cloaked figures hovered in the air—dozens upon dozens of Lords and Highlords of the Phantom Sect. They floated silently, eyes locked on the house, their presence a suffocating pressure.

  A streak of red light shot down through their formation. The phantoms shifted, opening a narrow corridor in their blockade to let the figure pass. She landed beside Ifa with a soft grunt.

  “Phew. Made it,” Sera muttered, brushing dust from her robes, her face strained but defiant.

  Ifa chuckled.

  “You almost missed her entrance,” he said, nodding toward the heavens.

  Sera raised a brow, glancing upward.

  Another streak tore through the air—green and sharp as a blade. Zhu landed silently on Ifa’s other side, aura surging with full master realm power. He gave Ifa a brief nod before turning his gaze toward the floating phantoms.

  Ifa folded his arms behind his back.

  “It seems we’re no longer guests of the Talahan Clan,” he said aloud, voice calm but echoing with force.

  Then the sky itself split open.

  A jagged tear in the roiling clouds ripped across the heavens, and Ethra-charged lightning danced wildly around it, angry and bright. From within the fracture stepped two figures.

  One, a young woman in black robes—her aura unmistakably that of a tiered master. Her robes snapped in the wind, her expression a blank canvas.

  But beside her came a far more terrifying presence.

  The second figure was tall, ethereal—pale skin, flowing black hair, and eyes like the deep void between stars. Even Zhu, steady as stone, flinched slightly at the pressure she emitted. A Saint. No—something more. Something colder.

  Ifa’s voice dropped, almost a whisper.

  “Listen to me,” he said to Sera and Zhu. “If things turn bad, you run. Find Tunde. Flee to Black Rock. No hesitation.”

  Sera smirked faintly. “Sure—right behind you, with a sack of void rings and broken bodies.”

  Ifa gave a faint shake of the head, no humor in his eyes.

  The Saint spoke then, her voice smooth as black silk.

  “Elder Ifa,” she said.

  He bowed slightly. “You honor me, Saint Yue.”

  She offered a smile—cold, practiced.

  “Be at ease. We’ve not come to harm the companions of the clan’s student,” she said, then paused. “Not unless you refuse to obey.”

  Her voice turned sharp. The phantoms moved in sync, forming scripts with their hands. Darkness poured down from the sky like ink spilled from a divine pen, slowly cocooning the house in shadow.

  Ifa sighed, his shoulders heavy with the burden of inevitable confrontation.

  “Is this truly necessary?” he asked.

  Another figure broke through the darkness before it sealed entirely. Elder Tianlei appeared, his gaze sharp, landing first on Yue.

  “What is the meaning of this?” he demanded.

  Saint Yue answered not with words, but with a golden medallion. Tianlei’s expression shifted instantly. He bowed to it, then turned to Sera, a flicker of fear in his eyes.

  “We come under the direct command of the clan head,” Yue said, her tone absolute.

  “You harbor a fugitive. Hand him over, and you remain honored guests. Refuse, and we are ordered to annihilate you.”

  Ifa turned his gaze toward Miria.

  But the girl before him now was no longer the one he remembered in flashes of memory. She was blade and duty incarnate, her sword already drawn, her stance that of one ready to kill.

  Still, he tried.

  “What would Tunde think… if he saw you like this?” he asked quietly.

  Miria didn’t even blink.

  A shadow-formed blade hung in her hand.

  Yue sighed.

  “Please,” she said, almost lazily. “Make this easy.”

  Yet in her eyes, there was a cruel anticipation, like a cat waiting to pounce.

  Tianlei turned toward Sera, voice hard.

  “The path of cultivation is long. One must survive to walk it. Don’t throw yourself away needlessly.”

  Sera bowed low.

  “Forgive me, honored teacher,” she said, “but would you abandon your family if given the choice?”

  Tianlei’s face darkened. “You stand no chance against the Phantoms.”

  From above, Yue conjured a floating chair from the shadows and reclined in it, expression passive.

  “What is your answer, Elder Ifa?” she asked, voice as light as falling ash.

  Ifa bowed low.

  “Forgive me, Honored Saint, but I have no idea what—”

  He moved before the sentence finished.

  His blade—his only blade—shot from his void ring, a weapon he had crafted in silence and solitude ever since he had regained a physical form. It clashed against the shadow-forged blade Yue had fired toward him, sparks and smoke bursting from the impact.

  The resulting shockwave tore across the courtyard, sending dust and debris flying.

  Yue stood, brushing herself off. She cracked her knuckles and sighed with something that almost resembled pleasure.

  “Kill them,” she ordered.

  From within the heart of the building came a sudden beam of raw, blinding power, lancing through the chaos and catching everyone off guard. The force of it cracked the air like thunder. Ifa shot forward, a streak of golden light against the storm, aiming directly for the Saint herself.

  But Miria stood in his path.

  Her blade was already raised, instincts honed to an impossible edge. But Ifa's sword—a weapon none had ever seen before—met hers with crushing finality. It was a blade he had hidden within his soulspace, a sanctum none but he had access to.

  For weeks, it had rested in his essence, tempered in wrath, refined in silence, soaking in the purity of his Authority until it had become more than a weapon—an extension of his very will.

  The two swords met with a shriek of steel.

  And hers shattered.

  The force of the impact sent Miria hurtling across the courtyard, her form crashing into a shattered column as Ifa advanced, the full fury of his wrath now trained on Saint Yue.

  Yue’s expression shifted, ice cold and calculating. She reached into the air and grabbed at shadow itself, pulling raw darkness down like a curtain to consume Ifa. Her mastery over her affinity was so absolute, the shadows bent to her hand as if alive.

  Ifa didn’t hesitate. He drew his blade back, calling its full spirit to life. In a heartbeat, his Sky Breaker technique ignited.

  Raw Ethra, cosmic and earth-based—erupted, colliding with the Saint's shadows in a titanic shockwave that fractured the battlefield. He narrowly ducked beneath a scythe-like blade of darkness, which passed so close to his throat it tore the air apart.

  His Dominion activated instantly—chunks of the earth wrenched themselves free beneath him, spinning into a deadly orbit that tore through the battlefield, scattering rock and fire.

  The debris didn’t fall harmlessly. Instead, it fragmented into projectiles, raining down on the battlefield, tearing through Lords and Highlords, catching many of them completely off guard.

  Zhu had taken the fight to the enemy as well, his Soul-Piercing technique manifesting in the form of a spectral insect that rattled through the ranks, phasing through defenses and seizing souls mid-breath. Some of the lords simply dropped dead where they stood.

  It was too late for mercy. The point of no return had come and gone.

  Ifa turned his full focus back on Yue, her every movement summoning fresh horrors from the darkness—shapes within shapes, fanged and twisted. The shadows hunted, and Ifa’s body screamed from the internal weight he was still restraining.

  The bones in his arms ached with the pressure of unspent power. It was not yet time to unleash it. A single Saint, even Yue, he could manage without going that far.

  He raised one hand and snapped his fingers.

  From the stone platform beneath his feet, golden scripts flared to life, ancient runes of power that he had learned a lifetime ago burst outwards in a web of glowing light. They lanced across the battlefield, beams of raw energy striking in all directions. Lords and Highlords scattered like birds under a predator’s shadow, some failing to dodge and being consumed on the spot.

  Elsewhere, Sera was locked in battle with Miria, the two women exchanging blows so violent that every nearby lord who tried to approach them was cut down in an instant—collateral damage in a battle far beyond their tier. Yet more enemy cultivators continued to pour into the building.

  They were met by a blast of fire, tearing them apart, screams echoing as the structure itself collapsed.

  And in the space where the building had once stood sat Liu, breathing heavily, his hand clutching what could only be a Nexus Key—a shimmering item of immense power. In front of him stood a figure clad in a reed hat, lazily chewing a stalk of dry grass, a hand resting on a blade wreathed in blue flame. On his shoulder sat a bird made of that same otherworldly fire, its eyes glowing like twin suns.

  Saint Yue recoiled, stepping back instinctively as another presence materialized beside her—Tianlei, his aura bristling with suspicion.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Tianlei hissed.

  He says that a lot, Ifa thought dryly.

  The reed-hat figure spat out the stalk and raised his blade.

  Tianlei moved first—only to be intercepted by another figure emerging from the swirling blue light behind Liu. Golden gauntlets slammed into Tianlei’s chest, sending the master flying backwards in a flash of light.

  Then the Nexus Path burst open fully.

  Its glow flooded the battlefield, and more figures began pouring through. Ifa stepped forward, channeling his Authority into the path itself to stabilize it, lessening the burden on Liu. The air shimmered as dozens of Lords and Highlords emerged, battle-ready and brimming with righteous fury.

  Above them, Yue raised her hand and shattered the dome of darkness, letting the sky see the truth. The light of the Nexus Key shot upward in a radiant beam, cutting through the heavens.

  “What fools would think it wise to attack Talahar?” she demanded, her voice cold and imperial.

  A chuckle echoed through the clearing. Another figure stepped out of the Nexus path, voice calm and amused.

  “Ones who apparently know everywhere,” he said.

  Ifa saw Miria twitch visibly at the sound. Yue’s eyes narrowed in sudden rage.

  “Jun Shadai,” she said quietly. “There will be no return from this.”

  Jun Shadai grinned, spreading his arms as the Nexus path trembled violently. Something massive was coming through.

  Then it appeared.

  A Skyvessel, immense and radiant, began pulling itself out of the Nexus portal like a creature birthing from another realm. Its hull crackled with ethereal light, runes burning across its plating.

  Ifa’s breath caught in his throat.

  “Oh, it’s just beginning,” Jun said, and across the capital, lightning raged, and explosions erupted like the opening chords of war.

  Talahar was no longer a capital.

  It was becoming a battlefield.