Tunde panted softly, tossing the last of the tier 1 beasts aside. He held the core firmly in his hand, casting a glance around at the silent forest, devoid of any life. Calmly, he tossed the core onto the pile of others he had accumulated. Whatever creatures remained had gone into hiding, terrified of the madman who had laid waste to the entire ecosystem with nothing but his fists and the indomitable strength of his body. His skin had already healed from the various injuries, his body rapidly breaking down the toxins from the bites of numerous creatures.
Dropping to the ground in a meditative position, Tunde closed his eyes and took a deep breath, beginning to cycle the Ethra he had absorbed through the relic. He felt it burgeon his body and Ethra lines, a tiny drop of energy being added to his reserves. It was minuscule, but it brought a smile to his face.
A cough broke the silence, and Tunde’s eyes snapped open. His body moved before his mind registered the man standing before him, resonance flowing through him with only slight discomfort. Elder Joran caught his fist effortlessly, somehow dispelling the resonance as he chuckled. Tunde immediately bowed low, pressing his head to the ground.
“This student greets his master,” he said hastily.
"A disciple," Elder Joran remarked, his tone causing Tunde to shiver.
“I must say, I’m surprised. Tell me, how did you advance?” Joran asked.
Tunde sat up, his face scrunching as he retold the story, pulling out the carapace of the tier 2 creature from his void ring. Elder Joran took a carapace, examining it with interest before whistling softly.
“Venomspike scorpion, tier 2. Deadly poison—you should be dead by all rights,” the elder remarked, tossing the carapace back to him.
“And yet, here you are, not only alive but a disciple as well. I’m impressed,” Joran added.
Tunde bowed again, then sat up straight as Joran continued.
“Tell me, were you scared of dying?” Joran asked.
Tunde swallowed, then answered truthfully. “Yes, I was. As the poison spread through my body, I wondered if that was the end for me. I… I didn’t want to die. I wanted to fight, to live.”
The elder remained silent, his expression unreadable. Tunde took that as his cue to continue.
“I’m not sure how, but I kept fighting. I woke up a disciple,” he finished.
“Nobody wants to die,” Joran said. “Especially rankers. No one climbs the ladder of power only to fall before reaching the elusive peak. But that is the destiny of most rankers—dying before they reach the top.”
Joran paused, then asked, “Tell me, are you aware of the Hegemons?”
Tunde shook his head. He had heard the term used by Elyria and Thorne but hadn’t paid much attention. The elder nodded.
“Most people think of them as myths. No one has seen a Hegemon in centuries—entire cities and rulers live and die without laying eyes on one. To be honest, I haven’t seen one, not even the fabled Regents who act as their mouthpieces,” Joran chuckled.
“But every child grows up hearing stories of the founders of the cults, the true powers of Adamath, whose very whispers could wipe out a continent… or so they say,” Joran said with a smile.
“What are their affinities?” Tunde asked hesitantly.
The elder laughed. “Affinities? Perhaps we might call them concepts, but theirs have long surpassed the fusion of two affinities. They wield something even greater. I’m not exactly sure what, but it’s rumored to be more than one concept.”
Tunde’s eyes widened. More than one concept—was that even possible?
“Baelthor the Warbringer, Hegemon of the Heralds,” Joran began. “Thogu the Shrouded Whisper, Hegemon of the Veilweavers. Luwaye the Abyssal Beast, Hegemon of the Abyssal Seekers.”
Joran’s tone deepened as he continued. “Temporus the Time Devourer, Hegemon of the Temporal Weavers. Lysandria the Mistress of Illusions, Hegemon of the Illusion Weavers. Astradriel the Equilibrium Keeper, Hegemon of the Balance Keepers. Mekrandor the Luminary Artificer, Hegemon of the Artificer’s Guild. And finally, Sylvagorn of the Wild Heart, Hegemon of the Wild Wardens.”
“These eight beings—these existences—are so far above us that they might as well be gods to us mortals. Immortals who were there at the creation of Adamath and will be there when it finally fades to nothing,” Joran concluded.
Tunde listened intently, committing the names to memory. This was the true height of power in Adamath.
“Every initiate wants to reach that point, that peak,” Joran said, “but few ever make it to disciple rank. Tell me, when the poison was eating you from the inside, what kept you alive? What kept you pushing?”
Tunde clenched his fists, sitting up straighter.
“I made an oath the day you took me in as your student,” Tunde began, as the elder remained quiet.
“I swore to avenge my people who had fallen, to return to Crystalreach and uncover the truth about my people and our history. To grow strong enough to face whatever or whoever stands in my way,” Tunde said with resolve.
“That look in your eyes,” Joran replied. “That fire in your heart, that is your force—your motivation. Many rankers lose that along the way, their fire dimming. Some burn so brightly that it consumes them. You must nurture it, feed it, and tame it. Let it be an inferno for your enemies and a warm flame when you feel weak. Let it guide you when you’ve lost your way.”
Elder Joran stood, folding his hands behind his back. He caught a leaf floating through the air as the first rays of dawn broke through the forest canopy.
“The road only gets harder from here. The higher you climb, the deadlier your foes. Every step draws more eyes to you. The question is, can you bear that burden?” Joran asked quietly.
“Nothing will stand in my way,” Tunde replied, raising his fist, resonance glowing within it. “If they do, well… I’ll just have to move them.”
The elder nodded, his usual smile gone as he spoke. “Good. You’ll need that strength in the days to come.”
Gesturing for Tunde to stand, Joran said, “Don’t hold back.”
Tunde shot forward like a crack of lightning, resonance blazing through his body as his fists and kicks cracked through the air. Elder Joran deflected each strike with ease, precision in every movement. Tunde’s Ethra sight flared, blinking rapidly as the elder’s Ethra lines fluctuated like rolling water. Whenever Joran deflected his resonance, the force of Tunde’s attacks rippled through the elder’s body before dispersing.
It boggled Tunde’s mind, but the elder remained on the defensive, guiding him around the area without staying in one spot.
“You advanced due to the trauma of your heart adapting to the venom,” Joran explained, confirming Tunde’s suspicions as he suddenly went on the offensive.
With a single kick, Joran sent Tunde flying like a projectile. He crashed into a tree, barely making a dent as his head rang. Groaning, he slumped to the ground, heaving, his body weak. Elder Joran landed silently in front of him, arms folded behind his back.
"Advancement happens when your body finally forces itself past the Ethra limit, congealing, purifying, and then exploding with greater strength and density," Elder Joran continued, watching Tunde.
"You had reached the limit of Initiate rank. Most rankers need artifacts to temper themselves, require higher-tier Ethra crystals, and push their hearts to the peak, cycling dangerously fast to break through," Joran explained. "Some die—not often, but it happens. They overestimate their hearts, unable to handle the force of a tier 2 Ethra crystal. Many don’t even make it that far, dying in tier 2 rifts before they can even lay hands on an Ethra crystal."
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Tunde shook his head, trying to dispel the ringing sensation as he stood. His body wobbled in shock, feeling like jelly, and before he could stabilize, he crashed to his knees, collapsing onto the ground.
"What’s happening to me?" he groaned, weak and disoriented. He checked inwardly, feeling the Ethra flowing through him, but his muscles and body refused to respond.
"Resonance is a tricky technique," Elder Joran said, sitting on a rock and producing a fruit from seemingly nowhere. The smell hit Tunde’s nostrils, and his stomach rumbled with hunger.
"As much as it uses Ethra, resonance also drains your stamina, your endurance—your vitality, if you will. It saps you until your body aches and weakens," Joran continued, taking a bite of the fruit. "The last time I felt like that, I could barely move for a whole day—and that was as an Adept. But with your... peculiar body structure, it only weakened you after using resonance how many times?"
"Ten," Tunde croaked, barely able to speak.
"Ten times!" Joran exclaimed, raising an eyebrow. "That's enough to take out an entire team of disciples... assuming they don’t fight you from a distance. What would you do then?"
Tunde knew Joran wouldn’t lift a finger to help him from where he sat, so despite the gnawing hunger, he focused on the elder’s question. "Projection," he whispered hoarsely, willing his void ring to open.
Elixirs, pills, and healing items spilled out, but before Tunde could reach for them, Elder Joran was in front of him.
"No," Joran said, his tone stern. "In situations like this, it’s best to let your body heal naturally. Tier 2 fruits and meat alone—no elixirs or pills. You’ll get poisoned if you push it further. But then again, with your body..." he trailed off.
Tunde gritted his teeth, forcing his hands to move. He stuffed his mouth with meat, chugging vitality-rich liquid, feeling his body grow stronger with each swallow. Slowly, the pain subsided, and his strength returned. Soon enough, he was able to sit upright, tearing into more food as his body absorbed the nutrients and Ethra, growing stronger with every second.
He sighed heavily, turning his gaze to the elder, who watched him in silence.
"I created that technique—resonance—to get me out of dangerous situations. It guarantees the death of whatever foe I face, but at the cost of my body," Joran said.
"I don’t understand, elder," Tunde whispered.
"Resonance forces your body to gather Ethra for projection. That’s why it’s called projection—it’s meant to be released, not held for long. If you hold it, it will damage your Ethra lines," Joran explained. "As an Adept, I can use it a few times before it gets dangerous and I risk needing serious treatment. And vitality mages? They don’t come cheap."
Joran eyed him critically. "You, on the other hand, have the physique of a monster, thanks to the bone your companion used in your body tempering process. I’m not sure she understands the full worth of what she had."
"Was it that powerful?" Tunde asked, hesitant.
Elder Joran shrugged. "She had no idea what it was. She said she stole it as a spoil of war, but I believe she came across it by sheer luck. I can’t say what tier it is, but it strengthened not just your bones but your entire body. Right now, I’d wager you could take the punishment of an early Adept."
Tunde let that sink in, but before he could get too comfortable, the elder raised a finger. "Don’t be foolish. The sky is vast, and so are the seas. There are a million ways to die in Adamath. Powerful disciples wielding Lord-level weapons and relics, rankers with dangerous and unknown affinities, clans with hidden techniques—you might be strong, but there’s always someone stronger."
Tunde nodded, absorbing the warning.
"Like, for example, your opponent in the upcoming duel," Joran added with a sigh and frown.
Tunde’s heart skipped a beat. The elder rarely frowned. Whatever could make Joran frown had to be bad. He was yanked out of his thoughts when a stone smashed into his head.
"Look alive!" the elder barked. "Is that the look of a ranker who wants to reach the top? If you fear every battle before it happens, you’ll go nowhere—or worse, die as someone else’s footstool."
Tunde swallowed his nervousness, steeling himself. "Apologies, elder."
Joran nodded. "Good. At least if you die by the hands of the second-strongest disciple of the clan, you won’t disgrace me."
Tunde froze. "Second-strongest?" he asked.
"Yes, Thalas Verdan, son of Jashed Verdan, the adept and clan head. Thalas is known for his jade affinity and specializes in melee combat with jade gauntlets—plus a little something extra."
"Something extra?" Tunde asked cautiously.
"Oh yes," Joran replied, nodding. "In a bid to prove their superiority, family heads push their Scions beyond acceptable limits, introducing them to additional affinities. Either through bestowments or in preparation for the Convergence, they gain more power."
"The Convergence happens every ten years when Ethra affinities manifest in crystal forms, right?" Tunde asked.
"Indeed. Pure, fresh Ethra affinities, manifesting in various regions. The clan always prepares for this event. It’s about two years away," Joran said.
"And it’s better than bestowments?" Tunde asked again.
"Yes. Bestowments copy affinities into blank Ethra crystals to pass on to another ranker, but they’re riskier. The affinity could be weak, and it takes longer to acclimate. With the Convergence, the affinities are pure," Joran explained.
"Does that mean Thalas can’t use his second affinity well yet?" Tunde asked, hoping for a glimmer of good news.
Joran snorted. "You wish. Thalas has been training with his second affinity, pressure, for over a year. He’s more than capable of using it effectively."
Tunde’s brief hope crumbled. He realized he’d have to rely on resonance sparingly, considering its risks.
"You’re facing one of the strongest rankers in the clan, Tunde—not some backwater disciple. I’m sure you could sneak up on the guards in this forest, but with Thalas, there’ll be no tricks. He’s Elder Moros’ favorite disciple for a reason. Deadly. Sent into tier 2 and even tier 3 rifts for fun," Joran said, his tone grim.
Tunde couldn’t tell if Joran was trying to depress him or motivate him. But as the elder stood up, pointing into the distance, Tunde steeled himself.
"Beyond that line is the realm of the tier 2 beasts—the true monsters of this forest. Once you cross it, you don’t retreat. You face them down or die trying. That’s my method. Do you understand?"
"Yes, elder," Tunde replied, his eyes cold as steel.
"Good. Nurture that flame in your heart. Let it fuel you, but remember to tame it," Joran said.
With that, the elder vanished, moving so fast that Tunde’s Ethra sight could only track him for a brief moment before he melded into the forest. Tunde stood up, testing his body. Realizing he was back in peak form, he packed everything into his void ring. With a final glance at the forest’s edge, he moved toward the realm of the tier 2 creatures, determined to conquer whatever lay ahead.
**************************
Thalas Verdan clenched his jaw, frustration coursing through him as he watched the outer disciples shuffle nervously, their eyes darting towards the forest as if expecting a creature to leap out at any moment. He hated being held back for any reason, especially over petty matters like these. Time was everything—at least, that was what his father had drilled into him. Rhyn Verdan, the pride of the clan, the vaunted Rhyn of the Jade Sword Style, had always been out of reach. Thalas knew that if he had received just a fraction of the training Rhyn did, he’d be at the top as well. But fate was fickle, and Rhyn had always been the number one disciple of the clan.
Tapping his finger against his shoulder, Thalas barely acknowledged the disciples in front of him. Outer disciples, lesser families scrambling for the scraps of true Verdan bloodlines. They didn’t matter. He didn’t even know their names, nor did he care to. Strength dictated the rules, and while Thalas was strong, he wasn’t yet strong enough to change them.
"Excuse us," one of the disciples stammered, drawing his attention. "But… you weren’t scheduled to enter the forest today."
Thalas smirked and produced a badge—its carved crest displayed a lightning bolt piercing through a ring.
"I believe this should suffice," he said coldly, holding the badge before them.
The disciples’ eyes widened, stuttering in fear as Thalas felt his irritation rise. But before he could unleash his anger, a sudden presence descended among them. The disciples dropped to their knees immediately, heads bowed.
"We greet the adept," they chorused.
Thalas didn’t dare look up. He already knew who it was: Elder Joran, the clan’s blind seer. Even with a blindfold obscuring his eyes, the elder saw everything, knowing things he had no business knowing.
"Oh, and who do we have here?" Elder Joran’s voice was calm, but Thalas could hear the subtle undercurrent of amusement in it.
Thalas winced inwardly. He was well aware of the rivalry between his own elder, Moros, and Joran. It was a rivalry that had driven him to seek strength at any cost—even at the risk of his life. His father didn’t disapprove, of course. On the contrary, he had been granted access to the family’s storerooms and privileged information.
"If it isn’t Thalas Verdan," Joran mused, his tone light. "Just the ranker I was looking for."
Thalas froze, choosing his words carefully. "How may this disciple assist the venerable elder?"
Joran chuckled. "No need for the formalities. I bear you no ill will."
Thalas didn’t believe it for a second. It was no secret that Joran’s presence had blocked Jashed Verdan—Thalas’ father—from becoming the third great elder of the clan. Joran was an obstacle, one his father constantly reminded him of. But this opportunity—this duel—could change everything. Was that why the disciples had been reluctant to let him enter the forest? Could it be that Joran’s student, the elder’s initiate, was also in the forest?
Impossible. He’d be dead within hours if he were. But then again, there were rumors. Perhaps Joran had heard about the rift? No… Thalas clenched his fists. The rift hadn’t opened yet. His father’s sources had only picked up signs—nothing definitive.
"Let the disciple of Elder Moros pass," Joran said smoothly. "He’ll need his time in the forest to prepare for the duel."
Thalas bowed stiffly. "I thank the great elder."
With that, he marched toward the forest, a boiling rage building inside him. He was to fight an initiate. The very idea was disgraceful. Even if Elder Moros managed to push this wastelander to the rank of disciple, it wouldn’t change the fact that Thalas would be beating down a child. Yet, he couldn’t afford to underestimate anyone. It wasn’t in his nature.
"Though if I were you," Joran’s voice came again, making Thalas halt mid-step, "I’d be quick. My student has just entered the territory of the tier 2 beasts… quite close to the forming rift."
Thalas’ eyes widened, the words hanging heavy in the air. Without wasting a second, he blasted forward, pure speed propelling him through the forest toward the tier 2 territory. Rage and determination flared in his eyes as he tore through the trees.
Perhaps he would come across this student. Perhaps he’d show him the vast, insurmountable gap between them. No—Thalas didn’t just hope for it. He prayed to the Hegemons for it. He wanted nothing more than to crush the wastelander and prove, once and for all, that the Verdans were untouchable.