A smile tore across Elena’s lips. “Is he strong?”

  Without even waiting for a response, she dropped into a stance.

  Low. Balanced. One foot sliding back, weight shifting to her rear leg. Her hands came up—not fists, but open palms, fingers slightly curled. She’d strike fast and worry about the consequences later.

  Hector was pretty sure that if Raquel hadn’t held out a hand to stop his sister, she would have lunged straight at him there and then.

  System. Scan her.

  The words materialised a moment later.

  ————————————————

  ///: Acquiring target stats…

  ————————————————

  ///

  Cultivation level: [Gravity Forging-6]

  Talent: [Unrelenting]

  Talent Fragment: [None]

  ///

  ————————————————

  And Hector’s chest tightened.

  Gravity Forging Six. And a Talent.

  She had the same strength as her older brother. Two minor realms higher than Hector himself.

  Her realm would have been trouble alone, but depending on what her Talent was, that fight would have been a struggle, to say the least. With his Talents, it would probably be doable—but even then, with someone this brash and the cultivation techniques or the Flamelights’ battle arts, he didn’t fancy his chances much in any prolonged confrontation.

  Though it would likely not come to that.

  Especially not just outside the gates of the sanctuary.

  “You need to calm yourself, Elena.” Raquel’s hand remained firmly on her shoulder. “Did you just wake up or something?”

  Sighing, Elena straightened back out.

  Her gaze scanned lazily around the tents in the area, lingering briefly on the large and imposing tent that the Frostkeeps had moved into. Blue fabric stretched between sturdy poles; banners bearing the Frostkeep crest flapped in the light breeze.

  Guards stood at the entrance.

  Two of them. Their hands rested on sword hilts, their eyes fixed on the Flamelight siblings with expressions that promised nothing good. Annoyance. Hatred. The cold, patient malice of people who fully intended to remember this slight.

  But they didn’t move.

  Didn’t come back over to start anything.

  Not yet.

  “I didn’t just wake up, if anything.” Elena shrugged. “I was planning to go to sleep before. But took a little walk to see what the sanctuary could offer instead. You know—a little chit-chat there, a little seeing who wants to get into a fight here.” She stretched her arms over her head, joints popping. “But no one really piqued my interest.”

  She grinned.

  “That was until I saw and heard the commotion going on. Thought it would be a right hoot to come over. And colour me surprised when I found you here, squaring off against the Frostkeeps.” Her expression soured. “Quite a shame I didn’t actually get to beat anyone up, though.”

  She kicked the air with a surprising amount of anger—not the casual annoyance Hector would have expected from such a display. There was something genuine in the frustration. A restless energy that clearly needed an outlet and hadn’t found one.

  “Never mind that.” Raquel shook his head. “We should get going.” He turned to Hector. “I hope to see you soon. At least before the Ascension Tournament.”

  “As do I,” Hector said.

  And he wasn’t lying about that.

  Raquel seemed like a dependable person, at least. And given the fact that he was one of the scions of the Flamelight family, he would be a good friend to have for any future endeavours the Clear Sky Mercenaries might wish to undertake.

  The nobles went on their way—Elena casting one last appraising look over her shoulder at Hector before following her brother toward the sanctuary hall; the convoy moving behind—and Hector turned back towards the marching line.

  Carts creaked forward. Wheels ground against packed earth. The wounded groaned as their pallets shifted, and the murmur of relieved conversation rippled through the procession like wind through tall grass.

  Hector made his way down the line, weaving between the slow-moving vehicles and the people walking alongside them. Faces turned toward him as he passed—nods of acknowledgement, tired smiles, hands raised in greeting.

  “H! We moving?” Said a man who had greeted him earlier.

  “Looks like it.”

  “About bloody time.”

  Tyler fell into step beside him, the boy’s expression caught somewhere between relief and lingering adrenaline.

  “Hey—thanks for that,” Tyler said earnestly. “For bringing me along, I mean. And for... You know. Handling things.”

  Hector found that funny.

  He hadn’t exactly invited the boy along. Tyler had just... followed. Nor had he sorted anything. Nevertheless, Hector nodded. “I’ll see you around.”

  “Yeah.” Tyler grinned. “Yeah, definitely.”

  The boy peeled off toward his own cart—toward Duncan and Caris and whatever responsibilities awaited him there—and Hector continued on, the familiar weight of the convoy’s attention settling across his shoulders.

  When he eventually made it back to Lincoln and the others, three pairs of eyes turned toward him.

  Lincoln trudged up the slope with his spear resting on his shoulder, one hand resting on Jodie’s cart. Maribel had a hand placed on her hip, one eyebrow raised. Brick just... pulled. His eyes were distant as he followed behind the other carts. Who knows what was on his mind?

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  “Well?” Lincoln asked. “Is it done?”

  “We’re fine.” Hector gestured toward the front of the convoy, where the first carts were already passing through the sanctuary entrance. “Frostkeeps were causing trouble. It’s handled.”

  “Handled how?”

  “Raquel’s sister kicked one of them in the face.”

  Lincoln blinked. Then his lips twitched. “Wish I’d seen that.”

  “You really don’t.” Hector glanced at Jodie—still unconscious, still breathing, still not waking up. “Let’s get moving. I want to get back and have a proper wash and also see what Marcus got up to.”

  The cart lurched as Brick bumped over a loose stone and cursed. Lincoln made some space for Hector as he fell into step on one side, Maribel on the other, and moved as one with the slow procession toward the sanctuary’s expansive marble hall.

  —- —- —- —-

  Focused. Primed. That was how Nonami needed to be. That was how his blade needed him to be.

  He brushed a finger across its cool length, letting the steel resonance within flow through him. Its power coursed through his veins.

  Drip.

  Drip.

  Drip.

  Water traced slow paths down the cave walls, each droplet catching what little light filtered through from somewhere far above before splashing against stone with soft, rhythmic plicks. The air hung thick and damp, heavy with the mineral scent of wet rock and something else—something organic. Musky. The smell of scales and old kills.

  Nonami sat upon a large boulder in the centre of the cavern, legs crossed, blade laid across his knees. Around him, the darkness breathed.

  Scrrrrrape.

  Stone ground against stone somewhere in the deep shadows. A boulder shifted—nudged aside by something massive, something patient. The sound echoed through the chamber, followed by the soft clatter of displaced rocks tumbling down unseen slopes.

  His focus pulled inward.

  The blade. Only the blade.

  It was not something he’d ever thought he’d wield this way. An understanding that had been plucked from the deepest parts of his soul and gifted to him. He was thankful for this. Thankful for the power the world had seen fit to give him.

  Well.

  Not the world, exactly.

  A shadowy figure stepped from behind his back.

  She coalesced like morning mist given form—blue light and darkness woven together into something that resembled an almost perfect woman. Saraleth moved around him with careful steps, her bare feet touching the stone with the soft delicateness of someone who should be real.

  But wasn’t.

  Her edges flickered. Shifted. The cave wall was visible through her torso if he looked too closely—which he didn’t.

  She crouched down beside him. Her head came to rest on his shoulder, weightless as a thought, and her eyes—two points of pale luminescence in an almost translucent face—gazed at him with something that might have been longing.

  “Oh, Nonami.” Her voice was a whisper and an echo at once, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere. “Why must you sit here in this damp cave and ruminate like this? Surely you could have picked somewhere better.”

  He said nothing.

  “This is hardly the place for it, really.” She traced a finger along his arm—he felt nothing, of course, just a faint chill where her form passed through the air. “To be honest, I think you should take me somewhere nice and scenic. These creatures down here really abhor me.” A theatrical sigh. “They’re not good for your skin, you know.”

  He put Saraleth’s words from his mind.

  The ring-bound woman was his master now, yes. But that did not mean he had to listen to every droning complaint the woman had. They were distractions, and he would not pay attention to them.

  Instead, he needed to focus on this.

  His hand brushed across the blade again.

  It resonated within him.

  His mana channels flowed with energy as he circulated the cultivation technique. Half his mind was here, within reality—the damp stone beneath him, the distant shifting of massive coils in the darkness, the endless drip, drip, drip of water. The other half was in his soulscape. Channelling his mana into his Lagrange point, then splaying it out through the void, reaching back to reality. To the funnel within his blade.

  Middlec had no technique like this.

  At least not any that the Collar Gang could provide.

  And this resonance felt more akin to a harmony with the world—with his blade—than any mere cultivation technique could achieve.

  “Oh, it’s getting closer.” Saraleth’s voice had shifted. Teasing now. Anticipatory.

  Her eyes moved to the shadows, tracking something that Nonami could feel more than see. The massive form shifted in the gloom—scales rasping against stone with a dry hisssssh. Boulders nudged aside, tumbling down with heavy thunks that reverberated through the cave floor and up through the rock beneath him.

  Closer.

  Closer.

  Even that was but a distraction.

  It would inevitably become part of his will. Part of his blade. A stepping stone toward the greatness Saraleth had all but laid out for him.

  With a sigh, turbid breath slipped past his lips. It curled in thin wisps as it passed his head, ghosting through the cold air before dissipating into nothing.

  He leapt up.

  His boots thudded against the damp stone as he landed, the impact jarring through his knees. Water splashed beneath his heels. His hand moved above his blade, almost resting on the hilt. It wasn’t time to draw it; his approaching whetstone was not in range. Yet.

  The shadows moved.

  A head emerged first. Triangular. Scaled. Larger than a horse, larger than a wagon, the serpent’s snout pushed through the gloom like a form cutting through fog. Green eyes—slitted and likely older than Middlec—fixed on him with the cold patience of a predator that had never needed to hurry.

  Hissssssss.

  The sound filled the cavern, bouncing off walls and ceiling until it seemed to come from everywhere at once. Forked tongue flickered out, tasting the air. Tasting him.

  And Nonami’s mind... shifted.

  The serpent was here, yes. Coiled in the darkness, muscles bunching beneath armoured scales, ready to strike. But it was also there—in his soulscape, its form rendered in lines of light and shadow. Malleable. Present in both realms at once.

  Beneath the steel of his blade.

  He dropped his stance. Weight low. Knees bent. He placed one hand on the hilt, the other hovering near the guard.

  The snake’s mouth opened. Slowly. Fangs like curved daggers caught what little light remained, venom glistening at their tips.

  “It’s getting ready,” Saraleth giggled from somewhere to his left. A hand covered her mouth, her eyes bright with amusement. “Oh, this should be fun.”

  The serpent lunged.

  RIIIIIIING.

  Steel sang against scabbard as Nonami drew.

  The world compressed into a single heartbeat. Crisscrossing flashes carved through the air—silver arcs that seemed to hang suspended for an impossible moment, trailing afterimages across his vision. His blade moved in patterns that his conscious mind couldn’t follow, guided by something deeper than thought.

  The technique.

  The harmony.

  Slice. Slice. Slice-slice-slice.

  The snake froze mid-lunge.

  For one eternal second, it hung there—jaws wide, fangs bared, eyes still burning with predatory hunger. Then the sections separated. Fell. Chunks of meat and scales slapped down on either side of him, wet and heavy against the stone.

  Not a speck of blood touched his clothes.

  Not one drop.

  Click.

  His blade slid back into its sheath.

  His eyes fell closed.

  The resistance of its flesh—he could still feel it, echoing through his arms. Tough. Layered. Muscle, scale, and bone.

  But it hadn’t been enough.

  His enhanced mana had etched through those layers with an ease that he would have thought impossible. Even a week ago. Even a day.

  He’d progressed again.

  Surely his rank within the Oblivion Sword Technique had finally reached the journeyman level.

  A quick study, Saraleth had said he was.

  And he was proving the woman correct with each swing of his sword.

  At his back, laughter rang out—bright and delighted, echoing off the cave walls. Saraleth had jumped onto the boulder he’d vacated, kicking her legs up like a child as she laughed. “It seems I was indeed correct in choosing you, my disciple.” She raised her hand, let it trail down her neck in a languid gesture before it moved to her lip. Her gaze lingered on him—assessing, appreciating, hungry in its own way. “I can’t wait to see what you’ll do in the future.”

  Take the heads of anyone who stands in my way. And avenge Otter.

  That is what he would do.

  Nonami’s grip tightened on his hilt. His other arm rose, and the bead that sat in the centre of his bracelet flashed once, twice—

  Then a screen projected into the air before him.

  QUEST COMPLETE

  Gloom Shadow Lord Defeated

  Points to receive upon returning Core to Sanctuary: 2,000

  Secondary Reward: Ascension Tournament Ticket

  Nonami frowned.

  The Ascension Tournament?

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