Five figures shot through the wastelands, riding atop constructs that hovered a few meters above the dusty ground. The lead figure guided the other four, all garbed in red and black robes, their forms little more than a blur as they zipped past any creatures foolish enough to cross their path. Normally, these wasteland beasts would have been harvested for their cores and parts, but such distractions held no importance now. Their mission, though puzzling, was their sole focus.
Their destination came into view minutes later, and their land riders—the name of the constructs they rode—powered down. Seated atop their riders, the five stared in silence at the broken remains of the settlement before them. The leader, a woman, dismounted first, striding toward the devastated area.
“Right under their noses,” one of the four behind her remarked, their cowled heads obscuring their identities.
“The empire should have handled this. It’s beneath our notice,” another muttered.
The woman ignored them, stopping near the sliced body of a barbarian. She spoke, her voice cutting through the silence.
“Blood and bone Ethra,” she said, as the others turned to listen.
“Nothing unusual for the barbaric ways of the wastelanders,” another of them replied dismissively.
The woman offered no further response, her gaze fixed on the bloated, torn bodies strewn across the ground. As she moved forward, she halted at the sight of putrid fluids seeping from liquefied remains. The others noticed her posture and dismounted, walking closer before stopping to stare at the gruesome scene.
“They wouldn’t dare,” one of them whispered.
“We’re far from the empire’s gaze. Of course, they would,” the woman replied.
“Does that mean a revenant strong enough to defeat a peak lord and his team came here?” another asked.
The woman pulled back her cowl, revealing a bald head marked by a scar on her cheek and black tattoos on the left side of her light-skinned face. She turned her gaze northward, lost in thought.
“The Talahan Empire lies that way, doesn’t it?” she asked softly.
“Indeed. A few days’ ride by land rider. We don’t have jurisdiction there, not with the clans and sects that built their cities along the way. It’s an accord we have with the empire,” one of them replied.
She nodded, her eyes returning to the liquefied bodies. After a moment, she turned and began walking back to the riders.
“We’ll make haste to the empire. They need to know what’s happening, and we’ll ensure it’s dealt with,” she said firmly.
“And if they don’t comply? They have their own powers, and a master for an emperor,” another cautioned.
“The empire wouldn’t dare incur the wrath of the cult,” the woman replied coldly.
“No one says no to the Heralds,” she finished.
“Is that so?” a deep voice rumbled from beneath the cracked, dried ground of the wastelands.
The Herald adepts moved with fluid synchronicity, weapons flashing as they surrounded their leader, who remained calm, her eyes fixed on a bulge in the earth a few meters ahead. A humanoid hand burst through the ground, gripping the solid earth before pulling the rest of its body free. The figure was massive, a male judging by its form, covered in a black and gold carapace. Its golden eyes gleamed with an inky blackness, and it stood before them, its carapace extending into sharp, serrated claws that covered its hands.
A cruel smile spread across the being’s sharpened teeth as it unleashed its aura, a lord-level power that lashed out with such intensity that the adepts struggled under its weight. The winds howled, and the ground rumbled, cracks spreading as Sandshards clawed their way out with shrill screams.
“Tier 4 shards!” one of the adepts hissed, her circular flat blades ready.
“Heralds, in the wastelands?” the creature growled.
“State your name and who you serve,” the female Herald demanded, her voice steady as she observed the being calmly.
“These lands belong to the children of the wastelands, to the vagrants. You cultists are not welcome here,” the being snarled, its eyes flicking to the bodies on the ground.
“Though I see you’ve brought your troubles to our doorstep,” it continued with a sneer.
“The revenants were here. What do you know of that?” the woman pressed.
The carapace-covered man chuckled darkly. “You should not have come—not this close to the beast surge.”
The woman moved, channeling raw speed as she surged past her adepts to clash with the being, who had moved in a blink, serrated claws inches from an adept’s throat. She caught the creature’s hand, its claws failing to puncture her skin as she stared it down. Above her, the air shimmered, the winds forming an assortment of crude weapons. The pressure they exuded was so intense that it sliced into the earth itself, cutting through Sandshards as they shrieked and lunged at the adepts.
The being laughed; its voice rich with dark amusement. “A lord. Good,” it said, as both sides clashed with deadly force.
*****************************
Tunde felt them the moment they landed in the cavern—a team of four initiates and two disciples. The oppressive aura that had weighed on him earlier was gone, but he couldn’t shake the instinct to glance upward every so often. Whoever had caused that aura was a being of such power that it made him want to flee in pure terror. That was not a ranker he ever wanted to face.
The disciples stepped forward, one wielding a shimmering blade, the other a pair of knives. The first thing that struck Tunde was the sharpness of their Ethras. Apart from Thorne, he hadn’t sensed such dense power coming from disciples—not even Elyria could boast of that level of control. The rankers eyed them; weapons raised.
“We are not bandits,” Elyria stated calmly.
“Surrender peacefully, and you will not be harmed,” the first disciple said. He was a tall man with a shimmering blade, and even Tunde’s Ethra sight struggled to comprehend the weapon’s composition.
Elyria dropped her metal blades, raising both hands—flesh and metal alike. Tunde followed suit, letting the curved blade he held clatter to the ground, his mind on the manacle around his wrist. The female disciple, with cropped hair and a pair of knives, was suddenly in front of him, moving so fast that Tunde was caught off guard. She glanced at the manacle, then back at him.
“By the authority of the Talahan Empire and the Verdan Clan, we place you under arrest for crimes against the empire,” she declared.
“We did nothing!” Tunde protested; his voice tinged with desperation.
“That remains to be seen. Do not speak unless spoken to,” the female disciple commanded, her aura pressing down on him like a heavy weight.
It was uncomfortable, but Tunde was able to withstand it. A flash of surprise crossed her face, but she quickly masked it, pulling out a set of silk-like strings that wove themselves around his hands, locking them in place.
Tunde felt his manacle shudder as it touched the silk. For a brief, terrifying moment, he thought it might siphon the Ethra from the bindings, but instead, the manacle recoiled and began to glow. To Tunde’s shock, the manacle shrank for the first time ever, becoming a small band on his wrist, snug against the silk restraints. Only Elyria noticed, but the cold look she gave him warned him not to react.
A loud crash from above made the female disciple sigh. “I knew he was itching for a fight,” she muttered.
The male disciple laughed. “Two days on the vessel, and I realized why the elders wanted him out of the mountain. Perhaps this will help calm his nerves,” he replied.
For a brief moment, Tunde was struck by a horrific realization: whoever that lord was with the overwhelming aura, they could be battling Thorne. Panic surged through him, and he was about to rush forward when pain lanced through his body. He stumbled and fell, the initiates dragging him back to his feet.
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“Thought you could run, didn’t you?” the male disciple said, glancing at him.
In their black and green robes, Tunde could only shake his head. “No, my friend—up there,” he said, nodding upward.
“You are friends with a revenant?” the female disciple asked, her tone accusatory. Elyria rolled her eyes with a sigh.
“Merely acquaintances, nothing as deep as friendship, please,” she replied quickly.
“You will speak only when spoken to,” the female disciple growled.
Elyria merely blinked at her, inclining her head in acknowledgment. Tunde knew it wasn’t a sign of submission, and the female disciple seemed aware of that too. They were pushed to the front, one of the initiates throwing a device on the ground. It shimmered before expanding, metals rearranging themselves into circular platforms that floated above each other, forming a path to the top of the hole.
As they stepped out, the first thing that caught Tunde’s attention was the massive ship hovering above them. Its sheer size was jarring, and it thrummed softly with power. His eyes then moved to the dead form of the bandit prince, lying with wide-open eyes and blood pooling around him. A man in green and black robes stood with a foot on the dead bandit’s chest, a long, double-edged green blade in his hand, glowing softly. Tunde’s gaze then fell on a kneeling Thorne, bound with green crystallized cuffs, with two adepts flanking him, their focus trained on the revenant.
From the gathered rankers, the majority were initiates, and while Tunde was an initiate himself, he doubted he could take on more than two at a time. There was something about the way they stood and moved—it reminded him eerily of Elyria. And these were mere initiates. The man standing over Khusen’s corpse glanced at Tunde, and an instinctive fear surged through him. His mind screamed at him to hide, to cower away from this figure’s gaze.
They were shoved to their knees, the man lifting his foot off the dead prince as an adept stepped forward and, with a snap of his fingers, reduced the body to a pile of ash with a flash of white fire. Tunde stared in shock at the remains—a lord had just been ended as though he were nothing. He watched as the lord adept hopped onto the ship, his speed and force creating a gust of wind that blew across the area.
“We move,” he ordered. The weight of his words pressed down on Tunde, causing his Ethra to slow and grow heavy within him.
Struggling to breathe, Tunde and Elyria were dragged toward the vessel by the disciples. The ship finally landed, its massive bulk crushing the buildings around it. Within the swirling dust, Tunde watched as they boarded the vessel, its interior painted in shades of brown and surprisingly spacious, with hallways stretching as far as the eye could see. They were marched downward, deeper into the bowels of the ship, until they stopped before a metal door with a single square hole.
Pushed inside, Tunde and Elyria were separated from Thorne, who was dragged away before they could speak. The door closed behind them, leaving them in a dimly lit room. Tunde sat on the ground, breathing softly as Elyria settled on the other side.
“From one cell to another,” she said quietly.
Tunde forced a light smile, reclining as he stared at the now-band-like relic on his wrist.
“When did that happen?” Elyria asked.
He glanced at her. “Right when they locked my hands with these—whatever they are,” he replied.
“Restraints, crafted from some binding creature. I’d guess tier 3, judging by the fact that we can’t seem to break the bind,” Elyria said.
“So, what happens to us now?” Tunde asked.
“They probably think we’re bandits or part of the revenant cult. If it’s the former, it’s manageable,” Elyria explained. “We might be sentenced to jail time or forced into labor, depending on who places us on trial.”
“And the latter?” Tunde asked, his voice tinged with apprehension.
Elyria’s light blue eyes met his. “Then we’re dead. I warned you—nothing good could come from our relationship with Thorne.”
A heavy silence settled between them.
“He helped us,” Tunde said after a long pause.
“And we helped him in return,” Elyria responded almost immediately, irritation in her voice. “I’ve told you over and over again—appearances matter in this world. That, and power. And right now, we have none.”
Sighing, Tunde had no idea how long they were in the cell before the door opened. He struggled to his feet as three initiates and the male disciple entered the room. Squinting against the sudden light, Tunde faced the man who spoke.
“You may address me as Disciple Rhyn,” the man said as he tapped the bindings on Tunde’s hands, causing the silk strings to unravel
“If you attempt to flee, I will cut you down without hesitation. Orders have been given,” Rhyn added as he moved to Elyria.
“One-handed, and yet you think I could pose a threat to a mid-rank disciple?” Elyria remarked dryly.
“The fact that your senses are that honed makes you a greater threat than the initiate. That goes for you as well,” Rhyn said, glancing at Tunde.
Elyria simply nodded, and Tunde raised a hand hesitantly.
“Yes?” Rhyn acknowledged, his gaze shifting to Tunde.
“Please, what will happen to us?” Tunde asked.
“That’s irrelevant to the current situation. If I were you, I’d be preparing my defense,” Rhyn replied curtly as he left the room.
Tunde fell silent, and Elyria remained quiet as they were marched across the ship. The hum of the engines reverberated through the vessel as they flew through the clouds. Tunde marveled at the sight outside—he had no idea ships could fly. As they passed rankers moving to and fro, he realized just how out of his depth he truly was. They arrived at a large door guarded by two disciples, one of whom was the woman who had arrested them.
“On guard duty, Sorin?” Rhyn asked with a smirk.
She rolled her eyes. “Finally made it to disciple rank, and it’s more guard work,” she muttered.
“All for the clan,” Rhyn responded, his tone mocking.
She snorted as the doors opened, revealing a large room with three figures seated on a green stone platform. A massive carved image of a blade wrapped with a serpent loomed behind them. The three exuded an air of ancient knowledge, though it might have been their age that gave that impression. The one in the center was a gray-haired man with a cloth covered in shimmering scripts tied around his face. At his side was a simple wooden staff.
To his left sat a black-haired man with three thin, sharp rings floating behind him—whether as a show of power or unconsciously, Tunde couldn’t tell. To the right of the blindfolded man was a woman with a soft smile that made Tunde wary; there was a hidden danger in her eyes.
They stopped a few meters from the elders, and Rhyn gestured for Tunde and Elyria to kneel.
“Great adepts of the clan, I bring before you the suspects and accomplices of the revenant,” Rhyn announced.
Tunde bowed his head, too unnerved to meet the eyes of the elders who scrutinized both him and Elyria.
“You may return to your duties, Rhyn. Thank you,” the female elder said.
Rhyn bowed, turning without another glance at them and marching out of the room. Tunde stared at the wooden floor in silence, the quiet stretching on and gnawing at his nerves.
“Raise your heads,” an older male voice commanded. Tunde obeyed, sitting up and meeting the gazes of the elders.
“I am Elder Joran of the Verdan Clan. The elder to my left is Moros, and the woman to my right is Celia. That is all you need to know, seeing as your lives are in our hands,” the blindfolded elder in the middle said.
Tunde nodded slightly.
“Good,” Elder Joran said, clapping his hands. Tunde hid his surprise—could the elder see beneath his blindfold?
“Due to rank, we will allow the disciple to speak first,” Elder Moros, seated to the left, said.
Elyria straightened her posture. “Greetings to the esteemed elders. I am Elyria, no defined concept yet,” she began.
“A disciple with no defined concept?” the female elder, Celia, asked, raising an eyebrow.
Elder Joran lifted a single finger. “Be aware that if you lie, you’ll be dead before you even realize it,” he said with a soft smile, sending a chill down Tunde’s spine.
“I did not,” Elyria replied calmly.
“And that is why you’re still alive,” Joran responded.
“I came from another continent, fleeing a tier 6 attack by a creature of the forests. My house and I escaped through a nexus point set up by the Regent of Forests. We were meant to land somewhere within the continent of Silvershade, but somehow ended up in the wastelands of Bloodfire,” she explained.
Tunde held himself back from reacting—Elyria had never mentioned anything about escaping from a creature. With how Thorne had spoken to her, it was clear she belonged to some powerful family. Elder Joran nodded thoughtfully.
“Silvershade? We heard rumors of an attack by the creatures of the deep forest. Is this true?” Elder Moros asked.
“Indeed. A mere squabble over some resource or another. I have no home, no family, and no connection to the revenants beyond circumstance,” Elyria added.
“Oh? Do explain,” Joran prompted.
Elyria recounted their captivity by the barbarians, their assault on the bandits, and concluded by stating that Tunde was also a victim of circumstance.
“That remains to be seen,” Celia said with another unsettling smile as all eyes turned to Tunde.
“Initiate, speak,” Joran ordered.
Tunde refrained from activating his Ethra sight—such an action could be seen as aggression, and he would be dead before he even realized it. He spoke, explaining how he was a slave from the continent of Crystalreach, and how he knew little about the world he now found himself in. When he finished, silence reigned as the elders continued to scrutinize both him and Elyria.
“A refugee from Silvershade and a prisoner from Crystalreach. If you weren’t telling the truth, it would be an almost too funny lie to believe,” Joran said with a chuckle.
“It proves nothing. They could still be in league with the revenant,” Moros said, his voice gruff.
“Please, Thorne was also a victim of circumstance,” Tunde blurted out, only for Elyria to curse under her breath, shooting him a glare.
“In what way?” Celia asked, her gaze narrowing.
Tunde hesitated, then spoke. “I don’t know the full tale, but he was turned against his will.”
“That remains to be seen. For all we know, he could be a scout of the revenant cult. We could be facing an invasion and might need the aid of the empire. Even this is enough cause to notify them,” Moros growled, his aura rising as Joran raised a calming hand.
“Elder Moros,” Joran said softly.
Moros grumbled, his rings floating agitatedly behind him as Celia watched them in silence. Joran sighed.
“At a time like this, so close to that event, we need more rankers. This could be considered either a boon or an omen of ill will,” Joran mused.
Moros turned to Joran with wide eyes. “You can’t possibly mean to take them into the clan,” he sputtered, his disbelief clear.
“That decision resides in the palm of the lord, but let us hear their intentions. What say you both?” Joran asked, his voice carrying a measured calm.
“I’m trying to make my way to the Technocracy, where I can further my Ethra path,” Elyria answered.
Joran nodded. “Understandable. And you, Tunde?” he asked.
Tunde hesitated, unsure of what to say. “I have nowhere to go,” he replied truthfully, causing Moros to snort in disdain.
Celia sighed, glancing out the window as Joran continued. “The clan is in no position to reject new outer members, assuming you are indeed not guilty of the accusations against you,” Joran said, and Moros coughed pointedly.
“And if the lord deems you fit to join the clan,” Moros added with a scowl. He then turned to Elyria. “Your request will be considered as well.”
Tunde and Elyria bowed, Joran snapping his fingers as the doors to the chamber opened, Rhyn entering and bowing to the elders.
“Return them to their cell, but provide them with food and water,” Joran commanded.
Rhyn raised an eyebrow at Tunde, then bowed and led them back toward the exit. Tunde allowed himself a small sigh of relief as they walked.