All across Talahar, ancient defensive formations flared to life, casting radiant scripts into the sky. From the Great Valley, Tunde could see it all, the first signs of chaos spreading like wildfire. It began subtly, murmurs rippling through the crowd like tremors before an earthquake.

  The announcer tried in vain to calm them, his voice brittle with strain. But then came the unmistakable streaks of power: lines of blazing Ethra illuminating the distance as master-level cultivators unleashed their presence. And with that, the thin veil of order shattered.

  Panic erupted.

  Moments earlier, the final duel of the Grand Tournament had just been about to commence. Tunde stood on the stage, his heart pounding, facing Thorne—no longer a friend, but a hollow-eyed shell. He had stared into those eyes, searching for remnants of the man he once knew. Then Thorne had tilted his head up slightly and smiled.

  “Ah,” he murmured, as if sensing something.

  A nexus key appeared in his palm, glowing with quiet menace.

  In the hands of a master, a nexus key was a valuable but manageable tool. Yet Tunde knew Thorne had not been gifted this. He had taken it. Or worse, someone had given it to him for reasons far beyond the stage they stood on.

  The announcer's eyes went wide with alarm. He shot backward just as streaks of light began to plummet from the skies, beams of raw Ethra, anchoring themselves around Tunde like divine spears.

  Figures emerged in a blink. Cultivators of the master realm, clad in the silver robes of the Chronomancers and the ashen grey of the Mistwalkers, all surrounding Tunde in a tightening ring of hostility.

  Thorne laughed. Not a joyous sound, but a cold, serrated chuckle that cut the air around them.

  Tunde ignored the sudden circle of enemies. His focus stayed fixed on the man before him.

  “Where is Thorne?” he asked, voice steady. “What have you done to him?”

  More figures blinked into existence around the edges of the stage. Rhyn stood among them—bruised, but somehow upright, and beside him, an old face from a past mission: a Herald who had once led the Jade Peak campaign against the Revenants. Her name eluded him at first.

  Then he remembered. Aerin.

  Tunde’s gaze flicked to the nexus key still in Thorne’s hand, pulsing as if resonating with something larger. Explosions sounded in the distance, the city's air cracking apart with light and thunder.

  “Isn’t this beautiful?” Thorne crooned, his voice disturbingly soft, as if admiring a painting.

  “We come for the revenant. Do not stand in our way,” Aerin said. Her hair was cropped, her silver spear gripped tightly, every inch the deadly herald she had always been.

  More figures emerged. A female revenant stepped forward, the same one who had once dragged Thorne through the rift. She bowed low at the waist before him, then turned to face the newcomers, weapon drawn and aura blazing.

  “You might as well decide to die here, Aerin,” she said coldly.

  She glanced briefly at Tunde before returning her gaze to Thorne. Her voice dipped.

  “My lord, forgive me... but we do not have time to deal with ants.”

  That wasn’t right.

  In an instant, combat resumed. Tunde moved with precision, reacting before the other cultivators even finished drawing their weapons. Void-ice Ethra surged, freezing several masters in place mid-step. He felt their wills clash against his as they tried to break free, flying Ethra-blades slashing toward him in tight arcs.

  He danced through the air, weaving between death.

  Across the stage, the battle ignited in full. Whoever wore Thorne’s skin was locked in vicious combat with the heralds. Ethra burned through the sky, casting flickering shadows across the blood-stained platform.

  Then, without warning, the skies thundered, and the world halted.

  A presence descended—immense, suffocating, absolute. Everyone stopped moving, their instincts screaming. Even Tunde, fresh off shattering the neck of a Mistwalker master, found his body crushed to the ground.

  The very earth groaned beneath them. An earthquake rippled outward, and then the pressure intensified into something unnatural, a divine weight that forced every living soul to their knees.

  Even pitting his aspect against it, Tunde found no purchase. He was helpless beneath its magnitude.

  From the distant horizon came bolts of pure, unfiltered lightning, arcing from every direction toward the palace at the city’s heart. Behind it trailed a darkness so absolute it swallowed the light around it—a pitch-black wave of death, seething with restrained annihilation.

  Then came the worst part.

  As the darkness passed over cultivators—masters, lords, and even highlords—they were instantly reduced to bone, stripped of flesh, cloth, and Ethra in a heartbeat. Skeletal remains fell like ash from the sky.

  And still, the darkness kept coming.

  All eyes turned toward the palace, where the lightning converged in violent spirals, and the song of devastation grew louder.

  Tunde knew, with grim certainty—this wasn’t the end.

  It was the beginning of it.

  His mind raced.

  Zhu. Ifa. Sera. Even Zehra.

  What had happened to them? Where was this coming from?

  Had the Regents begun their massacre?

  Tunde shot through the sky like a bolt of wrath, his peak Master-realm body blazing with speed, every step of his void technique devouring distance as he arrowed toward Ifa’s home. The air itself seemed heavy, saturated with Ethra and foreboding.

  And then, madness.

  Only a few meters from the compound, the world erupted. Techniques streaked through the air like falling stars, too powerful for any ordinary cultivator to survive. Blades of flame, lances of sound, torrents of cursed wind. Tunde ducked and weaved instinctively, a phantom in a battlefield of giants.

  Then, an enemy. A cloaked figure rushed toward him, blade raised, face hidden behind shadow and bloodlust.

  Tunde didn’t hesitate.

  His polearm twisted in his hands, reshaping instantly into a naginata, its edge glowing with void Ethra. One clean swing, blessed by void step and sharpened by authority, tore the figure from shoulder to torso. A phantom, gone in a whisper of black mist.

  No pause.

  He void-stepped again, right into the heart of the battle.

  And there, at the eye of the storm, Ifa stood defiant, facing off against the very embodiment of darkness itself. A deadly female figure cloaked in shadow, a swirling void given form.

  Above, a massive Skyvessel loomed, its cannons firing beams of concentrated Ethra toward the distant palace. But the imperial formation reacted instantly—a golden dome blooming to life, deflecting the attack with divine ease. Then—impact—a construct of metal and authority slammed into the vessel with thunderous force, sending it careening off-course.

  Tunde’s eyes widened. It had come from the palace.

  One of the master realm imperial constructs that guarded the palace walls. It had crossed that impossible distance in a blink.

  More powerful figures revealed themselves in bursts of light and shadow, but Tunde's attention snapped to one fight. A singular battle that cut through all noise.

  Sera. And Miria.

  He crossed the distance in a single step, void and fire bursting from his feet. His naginata met a black blade mid-swing, stopping it inches from Sera’s exposed neck. She turned to him, startled, breathing heavily, her aura ragged.

  “Go,” Tunde said, his voice low, breath shaky.

  “Tunde, she—” Sera began, but he cut her off with a glance.

  A plea, and a command.

  “Go. Help Zhu. Go.”

  He couldn't say the rest. The words choked in his throat.

  Sera hesitated, just for a heartbeat, then nodded and vanished in a burst of speed, racing toward the cluster of enemies where Zhu was embattled with half a dozen elite cultivators.

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  Tunde turned back.

  And saw her.

  Miria.

  But it wasn't her. Not anymore.

  He had been warned. Again, and again. But nothing had prepared him for the sight of her like this. The warmth that once lived in her eyes was gone, replaced by a glacial emptiness. No hatred. No sorrow. No flicker of recognition. Just cold detachment.

  Not even anger that he hadn't come for her.

  Had she truly been erased?

  Was the woman before him nothing more than a puppet wearing her face?

  “Tunde,” she said, and her blade came down like judgment.

  His Ethra Sight saved him, instinct parrying when his will failed him, steel screaming against steel as he stumbled backward, consumed in her dominion of darkness. It wasn't just shadow, it was despair made real. Her realm lashed out as tendrils of blade and night, striking with precision and venom.

  He dodged what he could. What he couldn’t—bit.

  Steel tore into him, slicing skin, muscle, spirit. Poison flooded into his body. But his essence flame, stubborn and wrathful, rose to meet it—purging the rot, consuming it, even as it left behind burning, gnawing pain.

  Still, the pain didn't leave. It never left.

  “I swear on my soul… I tried,” he breathed, matching her strikes, defending, but never attacking. Not once.

  Then she raised her hands, and the sky above them split. Shadow gathered into form, a woman-shaped terror wreathed in inky black flames, a monstrous echo of herself.

  Tunde’s eyes narrowed. He lifted his hand and snapped.

  A pulse of raw authority erupted from his palm—clean, blinding—and the shadow construct disintegrated like ash in the wind. Miria’s eyes widened, alarm flickering where nothing had lived before.

  She moved to vanish again into the darkness.

  But Tunde saw her—not as she was, but as she once had been.

  He crossed the space between them with void step, faster than thought. Arms wrapped around her—not as a warrior—but as a man begging the heavens for a miracle.

  And then—pain. Her blade pierced his chest, right below the heart, sliding through flesh and bone like a hot needle.

  He gasped, breath hitching, blood spilling from his lips. But he didn't let go.

  He looked into her eyes.

  And something… flickered.

  Something real.

  Recognition.

  Pain.

  Guilt.

  The old Miria surfaced for the briefest moment—eyes wide, lip trembling—before she fell to her knees, clutching her head, screaming silently.

  Tunde dropped too, collapsing beside her, hand shaking as he grabbed the blade’s hilt and dragged it out of his chest with a wet, tearing sound. Blood poured from the wound. His vision spun.

  He had been warned.

  So many times. Over and over. But how could he give up? How could he not try? Not on Miria.

  What would that have made him?

  The darkness shattered. Her dominion collapsed like a curtain torn down. Somewhere beyond, he felt Zhu’s presence—furious and burning. The Ethralite appeared in a blur, grabbing Tunde roughly and forcing elixirs down his throat, each one a burst of warmth and numbness.

  Tunde wanted to resist.

  He wanted the pain.

  But the world blurred as the medicine took hold—and with it, the whisper of a name that he couldn't stop clinging to:

  Miria.

  ****

  He landed roughly, the impact jarring his battered body as his vision swam in and out of focus. Light stabbed into his eyes—nearly blinding—before clarity returned. Elyria's face hovered above his, her expression a mixture of panic, fury, and relief. Her eyes were wet with tears, and her hands trembled as they clutched him.

  “How?” he croaked, blood bubbling at the corner of his lips.

  He spat it to the side as she pulled him up slightly, supporting his weight.

  “If you die,” she said, voice trembling, “I swear to the heavens, I will find your soul and kill you again.”

  One tear slipped down her cheek as she wiped it away with the back of her hand, masking it with anger.

  Tunde blinked, chest heaving. His gaze fell to the wound just above his heart—one that was slowly, agonizingly knitting itself closed. Miria’s blade had missed by a fraction. The realization hit him like a thunderclap.

  She missed. She meant to kill me… and she missed.

  Terror surged through him—not just at the wound, but at what it meant. At what she had become.

  Zhu knelt before him, green eyes glowing with grim urgency.

  “Not right now,” he growled, as if reading Tunde’s thoughts.

  “The capital has fallen into madness. They're coming for you, for all of us.”

  Tunde’s eyes shifted to Elyria, whose jaw clenched.

  “My master held back the darkness, buying time. She kept shouting that we’ve been betrayed. What in the Hegemons’ names is happening?”

  “There are no Hegemons,” Tunde said quietly, spitting more blood before folding his legs beneath him. His body throbbed with pain. “Not anymore.”

  He opened his void ring, pulling out a handful of vitality and healing pills—dozens of them—and began swallowing them one by one. Each groan he let out was half pain, half fury.

  “Find the rest. Bring them here—wherever here is.”

  Elyria hesitated. “It’s an underground construct. A high-grade relic. My master built it for me, for my role representing the Technocracy. It's shielded from the surface.”

  Tunde blinked, surprised despite himself. “How long have I been out?”

  “An hour,” Zhu replied.

  Tunde turned sharply to the Ethralite.

  “The darkness?” he asked, dread crawling into his voice.

  “Consumed most of the capital,” Zhu said. “I fled with you when it got too close. It didn't care what it touched, phantoms, cultivators, masters. There was no difference to it. Just… annihilation.”

  “I barely made it here,” Elyria added. “Found Zhu on the way.” Her voice carried the strain of desperation she was fighting to suppress.

  Tunde rubbed his face with a hand that still trembled slightly. Ifa. Sera. Both still out there. What had he been thinking, charging in like that? How could he lead the Seekers if he let his emotions cripple him in the heat of battle?

  The image of Miria, blade poised to kill him, burned in his mind like acid.

  He would berate himself later. Now, he rose slowly, pain fading as the pills took effect, and glanced at the two of them. “Zhu, bring Elyria up to speed. She needs the full picture.”

  Zhu nodded once.

  Tunde walked to the heavy stone entrance, placing a hand against its surface. Ethra-sight flared behind his eyes, letting him peer through the door into the world beyond.

  Only blackness stared back.

  A churning sea of pitch-dark shadows stretched endlessly in every direction. The building they were in—this relic—was the only thing left standing for miles. Everything else had been erased. Only by the defenses woven into the construct had they survived.

  He stood there for several moments, silent.

  If this was the Patriarch’s plan… why destroy his own city? His own people?

  And if this was the fate of Bloodfire Continent… what of the other continents with Arks on them? They were scattered across all of Adamath. If this destruction had touched them as well…

  Tunde had seen Masters turned to bones in a blink. What hope did Highlords and below have?

  He turned slowly.

  Elyria was staring at the door, face pale, eyes wide. She took a step back.

  “How?” she asked. “Why?”

  “They were all working together,” Tunde replied, his voice cold.

  She glanced at him, face unreadable.

  “Even now, they’re pushing for it—breaking through to the realm of Hegemon. If they succeed, Adamath won’t survive it.”

  “No…” Elyria murmured, shaking her head. “No. My mother…”

  She stopped herself, eyes clenched shut in denial, shoulders trembling.

  Tunde said nothing.

  He knew what name lingered on her lips: Yensu—the Regent of the Wild Wardens. Her mother. The one who had abandoned her, cast her out, and forced her to wander across continents in exile.

  Elyria’s silence broke.

  “She sent a letter,” she said softly, more to herself than them.

  “The day I was to advance to Master. Declared me an enemy of the Wild Wardens. Said I was never to return to Silvershade. Never to step foot in the Eternal Forest again.”

  Her words were sharp, bitter, brittle.

  “And now I hear… she’s sacrificed billions for a chance to advance?”

  She stood slowly, fists clenched at her sides, fury blooming behind her eyes.

  “We can’t stay here,” she said, voice hardening. “I’ll mourn later.”

  Tunde nodded, his approval quiet but resolute.

  “Things have been moving too fast,” he said. “Now… we take control.”

  He glanced between them.

  “What do we know?”

  “Our forces—or rather, the forces of our allies—are already within Talahar,” Zhu explained, his voice low but steady.

  “Liu opened the way through a nexus gate. They were engaging the imperial clan's forces before... before that darkness descended.”

  “Good,” Tunde replied, though his tone carried no real relief. “We don’t know exactly where the fighting is happening—or if the entire capital has already been swallowed by the darkness.”

  Elyria shook her head slowly, her eyes distant as if watching the past unfold again.

  “Those lightning bolts that tore through the sky, streaking toward the palace... those were the main threat. Whatever they were, they had the force to kill masters with a mere glancing blow. The darkness, it moved. That means it must have left parts of the city untouched.”

  Tunde paused, staring at the ground as his thoughts turned inward. He hesitated to voice the fear that clawed at his chest—didn’t want to burden Elyria with more pain. But he couldn’t stay silent either.

  “We have to assume,” he began carefully, “that what happened here… happened everywhere in Adamath.”

  He faltered as the image of Black Rock surfaced in his mind, stark and unforgiving. He shut his eyes for a breath, silently praying that his warnings had made it in time. He knew prayer was a fragile shield against what they faced, but hope was all they had left.

  “It could’ve spread, like you said. Or it might have consumed the entire world. But even with all their power, I doubt the Regents could have managed that alone.”

  “And the Paragons?” Zhu interjected.

  “We have to assume they’re with the Regents now. And we have to hope that whoever leads the rebellion is with them too—trying to stop them. Because that fight…” His voice hardened. “That’s not one we can win.”

  Tunde nodded grimly. “We need to find Ifa and Sera. After that, we leave Talahar behind. Let it burn, for all we care.”

  Elyria nodded in agreement, her expression taut.

  Tunde glanced at her, something unspoken in his eyes. “You know we might not be able to take you to the Technocracy, right?”

  She looked away for a heartbeat, then shook her head with quiet finality. “We started this together. Now we see it through to the end, and beyond.”

  A small smile tugged at Tunde’s lips as he exhaled. “Then all we have to do,” he said, glancing out toward the unnatural gloom, “is find a way to get around that darkness without touching it.”

  Without a word, Elyria tapped the wall to her left. Golden scripts flared to life, scripts burning as a platform detached from the floor below. It floated upward, a bronze disc gleaming in the ambient light, humming with quiet power. Tunde and Zhu watched, intrigued.

  “My master built more into this building than most would guess,” she said. “This vessel, it can fly.”

  Tunde’s eyes widened in surprise. “Then don’t wait. Take us up.”

  The entire structure began to shake, ancient mechanisms groaning to life as it rose. Walls shifted, parts of the structure retracting to reveal the suffocating pitch of the darkness outside. Then, with a low rumble, the vessel broke through the curtain of shadow.

  Zhu pointed sharply. “There—look!”

  Tunde followed his gaze and saw it: a burning sphere of white and blue lightning suspended over the palace, surrounded by a flotilla of ships. Dozens of them, marked by banners from every faction—orthodox, unorthodox, united for once by necessity. The light cast long, jagged shadows, and the raw energy of it all made his skin crawl.

  His gaze hardened, jaw tightening.

  “Tunde!” Elyria’s voice cut through his thoughts, sharp with alarm.

  He turned quickly.

  She was pointing in the opposite direction. He followed her hand and saw it, the darkness had withdrawn, coiled like a beast around the imperial palace. A wall of black death surrounded it, seething and alive, a cursed fortress of its own making.

  Everything else... gone.

  What was once a thriving capital now looked like the grave of a forgotten kingdom—only ash, sand, and bone remained. The silence was unbearable, a complete absence of life that chilled the soul more than the cold itself.

  And yet, off in the distance, there was light.

  Floating ships. Cultivators in flight. Shapes moving with purpose, distant but unmistakably alive.

  Tunde looked to Elyria. “They’re our best chance.”

  She nodded and guided the vessel in their direction, her hands steady on the controls. The air grew tense as they approached. Cultivators began to fly toward them, weapons drawn, but they bore no colors of the imperial clan. Tunde’s grip on his naginata loosened slightly.

  The tension broke with a single voice.

  “He’s with me!” a loud cry rang out.

  Tunde’s heart jumped. He knew that voice.

  Liu appeared from behind the approaching cultivators, his face streaked with soot and exhaustion. He didn’t wait; he rushed forward and pulled him into a tight embrace.