The great golden dome moved in perfect sync with the steps of the golden titan that carried it—each stride crossing vast distances in a single thunderous motion. With terrifying grace, it swept through the heavens, piercing deeper and deeper until they crossed the threshold.

  Into the darkness.

  That was where the true horror began.

  It was like being gripped by a cold, invisible hand that reached through flesh, through bone, and clenched down on their very souls. The moment the golden dome passed into the void, Tunde felt it—a suffocating dread, an emptiness that didn’t just surround them but invaded.

  The masters reacted first.

  Authority flared. Essence flames erupted in bursts of gold, crimson, violet—each master burning like a beacon, instinctively shielding themselves from the soul-chilling pressure. Their wills formed armor.

  But the Highlords and below? They had no such defense.

  Their essence flames sparked up like desperate candles, weak and flickering in the storm. Their lights trembled, shadows clawing at their minds, threatening to snuff them out entirely.

  “It’s a soul attack!” a voice boomed over the chaos.

  It was deep, thunderous, and filled with a morbid satisfaction. The Soul Paragon of the Revenants.

  “Guard your minds and spirits! The darkness is forged from the agony and rage of the billions whose lives were ripped away. You hesitate, you die. Golden protection or not.”

  He chuckled, the sound low and cruel.

  And it was true. The golden dome dulled the worst of the corruption, but it didn’t stop it. Shadowy wraiths slithered through the outer barriers—diminished, yes, but still deadly. They moved like smoke and claws, dragging whispers, pain, and madness in their wake.

  Tunde watched as one Highlord broke formation.

  The young cultivator surged forward, perhaps trying to win glory, maybe just overcome with fear. It didn’t matter.

  The wraiths greeted him.

  They passed through his defenses like fog through netting. He froze mid-air, eyes wide as a scream echoed not from his mouth—but from his soul. Tunde saw it, they all saw it—the man’s spirit being dragged from his body, pulled into the darkness by unseen hands. His mouth opened in silent terror before his corpse fell, lifeless, through the dome… and into the abyss.

  Gone.

  It chilled Tunde to his bones.

  “Highlords and below, stay within the ship! Fire weapons only!” Tunde’s voice rang with layered authority, amplified by essence flame.

  “Masters, protect the vessels!”

  The command echoed across the fleet. Officers aboard dozens of Skyvessels relayed the orders, even as the first waves of battle had already begun.

  Authority and essence flame—those were the only things that could hurt these soul wraiths. That meant this was a fight only Masters could win.

  Tunde didn’t hesitate.

  His naginata appeared in his hand, glowing with the combined brilliance of his essence flame and his unique authority. He surged forward, blade cutting swaths through the black. Each strike cleaved a wraith in two, sending spiritual shivers up his spine—but his flame burned it away before it could cling to him.

  Zhu screamed—an insectile shriek that scattered the spirits before him like dust in the wind. Sera fought beside them, wrapped in a burning blood-red Ethra barrier, her blade spinning in wide, perfect arcs that turned wraiths to ash. All around the Skyvessels, Masters blazed like fireflies in a storm, dancing through the void with deadly precision.

  The vessels themselves fired nonstop—runed cannons, energy beams, essence pulse throwers—all lighting up the void. Some of the stronger Lords inside conjured minor barriers and formations or amplified the firepower, desperately trying to support their protectors.

  But the darkness was relentless.

  Endless.

  And time dragged on.

  Far longer than Tunde would’ve liked.

  Their lines began to strain. Masters began to tire—breaths shortening, motions slowing. Even Tunde could feel it. His essence flame dimmed slightly with every swing. And authority? That was even worse—finite, like blood in the body.

  Pills were consumed mid-battle, Ethra elixirs swallowed and forced into circulation, but it only delayed the inevitable.

  They were breaking.

  And then—just as despair threatened to gain a foothold—

  The darkness thinned.

  Like clouds parting after a long storm, the golden dome surged forward and punched through the veil. And what lay beyond stole the breath from Tunde’s lungs.

  An armada.

  A floating sea of Skyvessels, hundreds—no, thousands—stretching as far as the eye could see. Larger than anything he had ever seen. Formations. Icons. Symbols from sects and clans he barely recognized—war banners flying high, weapons trained forward.

  A wall of power loomed before them—so vast, so overwhelming, that it eclipsed anything Tunde had ever seen in his life. The full might of the Talahan clan had been brought to bear, and it was staggering in its scale.

  And yet, what chilled him more than the display itself was the realization that this wasn’t even everything.

  The great vessels of the major cults—orthodox and unorthodox alike—still hovered far behind this frontline. They hadn’t even entered the fray yet. This… this was just the spear tip.

  Hundreds of cultivators floated in perfect formation across the skies ahead. Lords. Highlords. Masters. No Paragons among them—those, Tunde guessed, were closer to the Regents, guarding whatever dark ritual was nearing its conclusion.

  Above, Tiet shook his head slowly, a look of quiet disappointment clouding his expression.

  “We do not have time for this,” the Saint said, his voice echoing across the void like thunder wrapped in silk.

  He extended a hand toward the arrayed enemies ahead.

  “Hold them here. We go on.”

  With a single step forward, reality split. A rift tore open in the air itself, raw and unnatural. The resistance surged through it without hesitation—like lightning let loose from the sky.

  The Talahan forces hadn’t anticipated that. Their moment of confusion became a death sentence.

  Skyvessel guns opened fire with ruthless precision, tearing through enemy ranks. Explosions bloomed across the battlefield as the resistance descended like avenging gods. Tunde plunged into the chaos, his naginata a blur of silver and Ethra flame.

  A Master came at him—twin Ethra whips laced with venom dancing like serpents.

  Tunde severed his head with a single swing.

  No hesitation.

  Another Highlord charged from the side—dead before he even understood his mistake. A Lord reached for a technique—his void ring and body consumed together in a flash. Tunde cut through them all with ruthless efficiency. His void space devoured ring after ring—wealth, legacies, decades of cultivation reduced to silence.

  Around him, techniques screamed through the air—crashing into one another, detonating in bursts of power and color. Cries of rage and death rang out. It was a storm of madness and steel.

  This is the cost, Tunde thought grimly. Countless lives, wasted on the ambition of a few.

  But there was no mercy here. Only survival. And he intended to reach the pinnacle—whatever it took.

  A Skyvessel loomed beneath him—an enemy ship.

  Tunde landed hard, shaking the deck. Lords and Highlords surged toward him, their techniques flaring—

  They fell in droves, unprepared for the monster in their midst.

  At the helm stood the ship's commander: a towering man in red robes, a Master wielding twin war hammers wreathed in raw, blazing Ethra. He roared as he charged, his weapons crashing down with force enough to shatter stone.

  Tunde spun, his imbuement technique activating. Ethra barriers rippled across his form, shielding him from the hammer’s fury. Sparks flew. The ship groaned beneath them.

  And then—his dominion manifested.

  Void.

  Ice.

  The very air around them froze, condensed, and shattered. The entire vessel began to plunge as frost consumed it. The Master’s eyes widened in horror—his essence flame flared desperately, trying to melt the ice.

  It failed.

  Formation after formation lit up in panic—attempts to shield, to repel, to delay—

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  Tunde’s naginata cut through all of it. The formations shattered like glass. The hammer-wielding Master’s head hit the deck. His void ring vanished into Tunde’s space.

  The ship was falling.

  Below, one of the Ark Pillars loomed—an obsidian monolith of impossible height.

  Tunde raced toward the prow, his eyes locked on the structure ahead.

  Figures were already stationed there—floating just before the pillar, robed in blue. A grand formation blazed to life before them, blue flames dancing in sacred patterns.

  Arcanists.

  Tunde slowed just a breath, calculating. But before he could speak—

  “Let me handle them,” Liu said, suddenly beside him.

  He was never loud. Never showy. But when Liu spoke, the world seemed to pause.

  Rhyn appeared too, arms folded, voice filled with disbelief. “You intend to shatter us against that?”

  “Welcome to our life,” Sera replied flatly, stepping beside him. Elyria chuckled, already drawing her blade.

  The blue formation ahead roared, manifesting a massive hand of burning flame—pure arcane force.

  “Impressive,” Liu muttered, eyes gleaming as talismans bloomed around him like petals in the wind.

  Golden scripts ignited, swirling into orbit around his body before racing toward the flame-hand. They wrapped it in layers of radiant sealing techniques, locking its motion in place—

  Then it exploded.

  The flames collapsed inward, detonating in a violent pulse that consumed the arcanists. The Skyvessel Tunde had frozen plunged into the pillar, slamming into the scene and shattering upon impact.

  The Ark Pillar itself remained—barely scratched—but the defense around it was gone.

  Tunde and the others surged forward.

  They raced toward the only visible entrance—an ancient archway carved into the base of the pillar. Highlords stood guard, grim and disciplined. They didn’t last long.

  Elyria and Rhyn cut through them like wind through dry grass, blades tearing cleanly through defenses. The remaining guards fell back—too late. The resistance breached the threshold.

  They were inside.

  The Ark had been entered.

  The final act had begun.

  ********

  Tunde was the first to step inside the spatially enhanced structure—a vast chamber where constructs of cold metal stirred to life. Master-ranked humanoid defenders emerged from the walls, burning recklessly with Ethra, their frames devoid of identity save for the jagged blue Ethra shards embedded in their chests.

  Two of them lunged at Tunde immediately. He froze them mid-motion in layers of void ice, only to watch in startled awe as they shattered through it with sheer brute force, the sound of splintering ice echoing like a warning.

  Elyria arrived in a blur of motion, her blade slicing into the defenders just as her rust tyrant fighting style took hold. Their metal bodies began to corrode on contact, decaying rapidly. She held the first wave back, buying Tunde a moment of space as more poured in like a tide of iron and flame.

  The Ark around them crackled faintly with residual lightning—stolen power now fading. Inside, the structure was a web of arcane complexity: runes layered over sigils, stitched together with scripts too old to be named. From above, vast shapes began to descend.

  Artificers.

  Draped in iron-grey robes, some had grafted limbs or clockwork arms; others were twisted hybrids of flesh and metal, their humanity long lost. More emerged from within the walls themselves, as if born from the Ark’s very skeleton.

  Techniques rained down in chaotic bursts. Tunde surged upward, shielding himself with a burst of shimmering Ethra aura. In a single motion, he spun and cleaved through a cluster of descending artificers with his naginata, scattering them like chaff. The battle ignited once more in full force.

  Ethra surged like wildfire as reinforcements from the Talahan clan arrived. A master riding a cloud of poison fell under Rhyn’s crushing force, while Zhu ripped through packs of metallic beast-constructs, his blades a blur.

  But Tunde pushed forward, his Ethra sight locked on a single point—the heart of the Ark, where the power pulsed thickest. There, deep at the structure’s center, stood two colossal figures. Humanoid constructs at the peak of the master realm, guarding what was perhaps the largest Ethra crystal Tunde had ever laid eyes on.

  It glowed with a deep, stormy blue, lightning coursing not just through its length, but around it—through the air, through the earth. He barely had a moment to take it in before they came at him.

  What followed was pure instinct—speed and fighting style against unrelenting strength. Blows of lightning-charged Ethra rained down upon him, each one brutal enough to kill a Highlord. Tunde’s naginata shifted mid-combat, reshaping into a crude war hammer, his imbuement technique roaring with energy.

  The weapon cracked into the first guardian’s chest, exploding its metal frame and sending it hurtling back. He twisted on his heel, dodging a thunderous strike from the second and brought the hammer down in a crushing arc, forcing it backwards with the weight of his Ethra-fueled might.

  He didn’t slow. His dominion expanded in a wave, nullifying their savage attacks before they could reach him. Ethra shockwaves collided harmlessly with his field. He grabbed one construct by the throat, devouring its Ethra in a violent surge that left behind nothing but a brittle husk.

  The second came behind him.

  Void Step.

  He vanished and reappeared in a flicker, slamming his hammer down upon it from above. The guardian crumpled under the blow as void ice bloomed across its limbs, locking it in place. Tunde siphoned its Ethra too, until its glow vanished and it fell still.

  Straightening, he turned at last to the massive Ethra crystal. It pulsed not just with raw power, but with essence flame and aura. Even fragments of authority flickered inside it—dense, ancient, overwhelming. A nexus of force.

  Behind him, footsteps echoed.

  Elyria stepped through the shattered entrance, her blade still glowing. Rhyn and Zhu followed a heartbeat later, bloodied but standing. Just then, the crystal pulsed. Light flared outward, shaping itself into the form of a man.

  Tunde’s breath caught.

  The face was familiar—distant, buried in memory beneath layers of battle and fire and time. But he knew it. He knew it all too well.

  “Borus,” Tunde said, voice low and full of loathing.

  The artificer’s projection smiled at him.

  “Hello, seeker,” he said.

  *******

  Tunde boiled with rage.

  He barely heard anything—his mind was fire, his body taut with fury. His weapon twisted in his grip, reshaping itself into something he hadn’t used in a very long time.

  The moment it appeared, he knew what it meant.

  And so did the man standing before him—or what remained of him.

  Borus. Artificer of the Technocracy. Traitor. Liar. Betrayer.

  Tunde didn’t waste breath on names. He moved. The axe whirled in a vicious arc, slicing cleanly through the figure in front of him—only for the body to scatter into motes of golden light and reform again, unbothered, chuckling.

  “A master realm cultivator,” Borus mused, his tone mocking. “Impressive. For a piece of filth from Black Rock.”

  Tunde growled low in his throat, the sound guttural. “I told you I would find you.”

  “You did,” Borus replied, almost impressed. “But I got bored waiting. So I sent someone after you instead. And you killed her.”

  Tunde’s jaw clenched.

  “If you’re talking about that woman,” he said coldly, “no. I didn’t kill her. But I wish I had—and I would’ve sent you her pieces one by one, soaked in blood and wrapped in shame.”

  Borus laughed, short and sharp.

  “Typical. Nothing the Dark Wolf of Black Rock—no, wait, is it Dark Fist now? You change names more often than I change robes. It’s exhausting.”

  Elyria stepped forward, her voice like sharpened steel.

  “You. I remember you.”

  “Elyria! Of the Rust Tyrant Style!” Borus declared with theatrical cheer.

  “Favored student of... what was her name again? Pity she died. Always so stubborn, that one.”

  Elyria’s eyes burned as she glanced at the glowing Ethra crystal near him.

  “Don’t waste your breath,” she said to Tunde.

  “He’s not really here. Projection. Secured in the palace, like the coward he’s always been.”

  Borus raised a brow, amused.

  “I was a Highlord long before your mother thought to birth the disappointment that is you. She sends her regards, by the way.”

  Elyria’s aura flared, and Tunde stepped forward.

  “And now you’re a Master,” Tunde said.

  Borus inclined his head. “Yes. And?”

  “Meaning I can face you on equal terms. No tricks. No distance. One on one. Unless, of course, you're too much of a coward for that.”

  Borus laughed again—genuinely this time, wiping his eyes with mock fatigue.

  “Look around you!” he said, gesturing to the skies.

  “Adamath is changing. The Regents are ascending. Soon, this plane will be reborn. And you think I care about your personal vendetta? You think I have time for you?”

  He stepped closer, eyes gleaming.

  “You were only ever useful because you were connected to a relic. That was it. A key—nothing more. The relic of your twice-dead Regent. And now? Now it doesn’t matter. The paths are opening. The Hegemons are rising. This world will be remade, and your existence will mean nothing.”

  He grinned, stepping even closer within the projection.

  “You were only as valuable as the factions needed you to be. But now? You’re obsolete. You want to fight me? No. I want you to remember this feeling. The feeling that your people died in vain. That everything you did was for nothing. Because no matter how high you rise…”

  He leaned in, his grin darkening.

  “...we can always cut you down.”

  Then his eyes flicked downward.

  “Look at you. My presence alone was enough to bring that back.”

  Tunde’s gaze dropped to his hand.

  His breath caught.

  He hadn’t even realized—he was holding Shadowfang. The very same axe Borus had forged for him all those years ago. Crafted not as a weapon of strength, but as a trap. A ticking time bomb meant to fail in battle. Meant to kill him.

  He was holding a memory of betrayal.

  His hands trembled.

  Elyria laid a hand on his shoulder.

  “Don’t,” she said quietly.

  But Borus wasn’t done.

  “Oh, don’t worry,” he said with a wicked smile.

  “You’ll be cut down soon enough. Once the Paragons have had their time, there won’t be any room for people like you.”

  He stepped back as the Ethra crystal beside him began to crack.

  “But before that,” he said smoothly, “I brought you a present.”

  Tunde and the others instinctively stepped back, a creeping sense of dread welling up in their chests.

  “You see,” Borus continued,

  “Once I left your decaying corner of the continent, I stumbled across a pair of Keepers. They were searching for you.”

  Tunde’s eyes narrowed. He didn’t like where this was going.

  “Not only did I learn that your beloved teacher Joran—your blind Adept mentor—was never who you thought he was…”

  The crystal splintered.

  “…he was a clone.”

  The words hit like a slap.

  “Not just of anyone either,” Borus said, voice rising.

  “But of a Paragon. The great Ugad of the Keepers. And he was looking for you.”

  Tunde’s breath left him.

  Borus spread his arms, laughing now.

  “It was only a matter of time before I crossed paths with him. And when I did? Oh, I made sure to leave my mark.”

  The Ethra crystal shattered.

  And something stepped out.

  It should not have existed.

  It was a thing—a blasphemy of life. From the waist up, it resembled a human. From the waist down, a twisted, metallic centipede, legs clicking against the stone with an unnatural rhythm.

  Its face was partially obscured, yet unmistakable.

  Joran.

  Tunde staggered back a step.

  “No,” he whispered.

  The abomination tilted its head, as if recognizing him. Its mouth split open—not into a smile, but something worse.

  Recognition.

  "You," Ifa said, his voice cutting through the air like a blade.

  There was no mistaking the loathing that coated it.

  He stepped forward from the group, eyes locked on Borus with undisguised fury.

  “I remember you.”

  Borus barely glanced his way, already dismissive.

  “And I don’t remember you. But that won’t matter. You’ll be dead soon.”

  He waved a hand flippantly, then turned his gaze back to the abomination that had once been Joran.

  “As I was saying—with the gracious assistance of a Paragon, naturally—I recovered all of Joran’s memories. Every last echo of his life. And I grafted them into this... masterpiece.”

  He gestured proudly toward the metallic centipede horror.

  “A work of art, don’t you think?”

  The thing stirred.

  A look of confusion rippled across its half-human face… then fear.

  Horror.

  “For someone whose sight I restored,” Borus continued mockingly,

  “You really aren’t very grateful, are you?”

  There was a pause.

  Then a voice.

  “Tunde... run!” Joran’s voice—fragile, cracking. Real.

  Tears streamed down his transformed face, leaking from eyes that had once been blind, now seeing too much.

  Tunde didn’t move.

  He couldn’t.

  Every muscle in his body screamed with disbelief and rage. This… thing wasn’t Joran, and yet it was. He knew that voice. That pain. That desperate plea.

  “Ah, we can’t have that now, can we?” Borus said, his tone mockingly paternal.

  He snapped his fingers.

  The Ark trembled violently as glowing runes exploded into light all around them. Ethra-infused scripts blazed across the walls, the floor, the ceiling. A dome-shaped barrier erupted into place, locking them in.

  The room became a prison.

  “Containment field,” Borus said with satisfaction.

  “Wouldn’t want our little reunion to be interrupted.”

  Then he turned back to the abomination. His expression grew cold.

  “And you,” he said—his voice suddenly sharp, like a whip.

  “You know your command.”

  Joran—or the husk that had once been Joran—twitched violently.

  “Kill him.”

  And then Borus vanished, leaving only his echoing laughter behind.

  The abomination's eyes flickered—confusion warring with programming. Its many legs shifted against the stone with a metallic clatter as it lunged forward, faster than anything that size should be.

  “Joran—!” Tunde called out, still rooted in place.

  But there was no answer now.

  Only the scream of something broken beyond recognition, charging forward to kill the boy it had once taught to dream.