The mines of Clan Verdan were situated just outside Jade Peak, a few hundred miles from their seat of power, deep within the mountain ranges bordering the territories of the Mountain Sect to the far northeast. A large canyon, with a narrow path defended by disciples and initiates from various lower and upper houses, lay at its entrance. The path led to a garrisoned stronghold, a small fortress nestled between two mountains, which also served as one of the known routes into the wastelands.
Baran, an outer disciple of House Pyrone and one of only two disciples stationed at the stronghold, yawned lazily as the dusk settled. The landscape was bathed in a red glow, replacing the usual yellowish hue. Guard duty at the mines was a job that came with little risk but immense boredom. Most disciples considered it a high-paying, low-risk position, the only excitement being the occasional wasteland creatures or bandits who foolishly tried their luck. They were met with swift and brutal force, courtesy of the Ethra cannons lining the stronghold’s walls.
Ranked a hundred and fifth in the clan with his flame affinity, Baran saw no reason to push himself for advancement anytime soon. Few disciples aspired to advance quickly, knowing that, once they reached a certain stage, their lifespans would extend for centuries. Baran figured he had all the time in the world. After all, the higher one climbed, the more dangerous and mysterious the path to advancement became.
Squinting into the distance, he conjured a small flame in his palm, watching as the miners below lit bonfires and settled in for the night. He cast his gaze toward the distant wastelands, shivering slightly. There were nights when he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was watching the stronghold—something malicious from deep within the wastelands. Usually, it was just predators sniffing around, meeting their end swiftly for their curiosity.
The sound of footsteps drew his attention to a bulky figure approaching from the door behind him. A red-haired disciple with blue eyes and two blades sheathed at his side stepped forward.
“Quiet night, Baran?” the newcomer asked.
“And I pray to the hegemons it stays that way, brother,” Baran replied.
Disciple Loren of House Argent was the other disciple stationed at the stronghold. They had spent many nights together, either keeping watch or joining the miners in the garrison below before returning to their positions. Loren was ranked similarly to Baran, though he specialized in ice techniques and imbuement, whereas Baran preferred projection techniques with his fire affinity. The two of them complemented each other—fire and ice, projection and imbuement.
Loren stood beside him, crossing his arms. “There’s news going around the miners about a rift tearing open in the cultivation forest.”
Baran glanced at him, raising an eyebrow. “You really think the clan would allow a rift to open so close to Jade Peak?”
Loren shrugged. “What I heard was that Thalas Verdan closed it quickly. Apparently, that wastelander, Elder Joran’s student, survived too.”
Baran’s face scrunched up. “So, the rumors were true? He’s a disciple now?”
Loren nodded. “Yeah, and soon to be ranked. Word is, Gale and the top rankers from House Verdant Arbor tried to take him out. Orders from someone high up in the clan.”
Baran nodded in understanding. Likely one of the great adept elders or a branch family head had tried to remove the elder’s student. It wasn’t something he would comment on openly, though. Only a fool would.
“He won’t last long,” Baran said dismissively. “The road to adept is littered with the bodies of ambitious disciples. A wastelander has nothing to offer the clan in the long run. Even the elder might be using him as a means to an end.”
Loren shrugged. “Maybe. But the surge is coming—an opportunity for all of us to—” He paused, squinting into the darkness beyond the stronghold. “Did you see that?”
Baran turned his gaze to the distance, conjuring a ball of flame as he reached for the bow strapped to his back. Ethra flowed into the flame, illuminating the area as he scanned the horizon. After a few tense moments, he put the flame out.
“Your eyes must be growing weary, Loren,” Baran joked, chuckling.
Loren gave a soft smile, about to respond, when something shot toward them with incredible speed—fast enough to rival the peak of disciple rank. Loren’s blade, imbued with ice, sliced the object in two, but it still blasted into the stronghold with a deafening boom.
Neither of them wasted time. Baran drew the string of his bow, conjuring a flaming arrow and releasing it into the sky. The projectile streaked upward before detonating in an explosion that lit the heavens. The signal was clear: they were under attack.
Loren was already sprinting back toward the stronghold, ringing the large gong that echoed across the canyon. The miners froze for a moment before scrambling for shelter. Baran cursed under his breath, irritated. “Why did it have to be during my watch?” he thought, conjuring another arrow. He nocked it and sent it flying into the distance, where it exploded, revealing hulking shapes tearing across the wasteland toward them.
Baran’s first thought was bandits. They were as common as ants in the wastelands, and it wasn’t unheard of for a group to try their luck against the clan’s mines. But then, as the explosions briefly illuminated the shapes in the distance before winking out, a chill ran through him, rooting him to the spot. His blood froze, and his heart pounded as realization hit.
"Corespawns!" he screamed at the top of his lungs.
Fires lit up atop the smaller mountains as the initiates stationed there scrambled to action. The Ethra cannons roared to life, their blasts shaking the ground. Baran’s mind raced—"Had they infiltrated the mountains? When? How?”
The stronghold was suddenly a flurry of activity. Initiates sprinted past him, their faces pale with fear, as everyone rushed to prepare for the coming onslaught. Baran bolted toward his quarters, tearing through the door. His hands shook as he rummaged through his possessions, finally producing a small metallic insect with wings. He tapped its body softly, and it glowed.
"This is Disciple Baran of House Pyrone. The mines have been besieged by Corespawns—numbers unknown. We will hold for as long as we can. Send reinforcements!" he said quickly, releasing the insect through his window and watching it fly into the night.
No sooner had it disappeared than a deafening explosion rocked the citadel, throwing Baran to the ground. Smoke billowed into the lower rooms, stinging his eyes. Coughing, he tapped the chain around his neck, activating a transparent armor that rolled down his body in an instant. He sprang to his feet, his mind already focused on survival.
"Initiates, to the defense rooms! Loren, answer me!" he shouted.
A scraping noise from nearby caught his attention, and he turned, only to be met with a nightmare.
The thing that stood before him was an abomination—half-human, half-beast, covered in patchy fur, with grotesque claws extending from its misshapen hands. Its body was hunched and twisted, as though stuck in the middle of a horrific transformation. In its right hand, dripping blood steadily onto the floor, was the severed head of Loren.
Baran’s breath caught in his throat, his body freezing in shock. He couldn’t tear his gaze away from the lifeless eyes of his fallen comrade, now staring blankly at the ground.
The abomination let out a low, guttural growl, its jaws opening to reveal rows of sharp, uneven teeth. It tossed Loren’s head aside with a sickening thud, the sound of the skull hitting the ground snapping Baran back into action.
"Hegemons protect me," he whispered, drawing his bow and nocking a flaming arrow in one smooth motion.
************************
Tunde left the Iron Wolf Forge in silence, his mind a whirl of thoughts. Elder Joran walked beside him as they quietly made their way to the outskirts of the forge district. They hired a ride—a small carriage drawn by a large, equine-like beast with two horns jutting out from its forehead. The transportation was far different from the fast, metallic vehicles Tunde had grown used to, but if they wanted to maintain a low profile, this was the best option.
Seated across from Elder Joran in the carriage, Tunde stared at his hands, fixated on the midnight-silver bands wrapped around his wrists. They had fused seamlessly over his relic weapon bands, hardly increasing the weight but holding within them the gauntlets that covered his entire arms, ending at his shoulders.
The elder spoke first, breaking the heavy silence as they traveled down the tarred roads. The bustling streets of Jade Peak City unfolded around them, people going about their business, the outer districts now behind them as they ventured deeper into the heart of the city.
"The words of rune readers shouldn’t be taken so heavily," Elder Joran began, his tone casual. "They don’t see reality the way we do, or so I’ve heard."
“Rune readers?” Tunde asked, his attention momentarily drawn from the bands on his wrists.
“Artificers, arcanists... those who use the language of reality,” the elder explained. “They perceive the world differently, deeper than the average person. Unfortunately, they’re notoriously bad at explaining what they see.”
Tunde nodded thoughtfully, remembering the artificer’s cryptic warnings. The elder continued, “He didn’t tell us anything new, though. First, don’t mess with that thing.” His gaze flickered to Tunde’s disguised bands.
“And second, the obscene yet still growing strength of whatever creature that bone came from during your tempering process,” Joran added, waving it off. “Irrelevant distractions for now.”
Tunde clenched his fists, taking a deep breath. “What next?” he asked, looking up at the elder.
Elder Joran reclined in his seat, gazing up at the sky with a sigh. “Normally, I’d tell you to continue your training in private while I deal with clan issues I’ve been neglecting,” he said.
It dawned on Tunde just how much time the elder had been spending with him, especially given his position as one of the three main elders of the clan. It was clear that Elder Joran had been avoiding his clan duties, likely because of the upcoming surge. Yet, the thought of the elder leaving him to train alone made Tunde feel uneasy. Elder Joran’s constant presence had driven him to strive harder, knowing that the elder could appear at any moment.
“But with House Dark Fist about to be officially registered,” Joran continued, “I have the beginnings of a plan that will benefit not just you, but the recently advanced disciples of Red Blossom. They’ll be as lost as you are right now.”
Tunde blinked, realizing he hadn’t thought that far ahead. The elder chuckled at the expression on his face.
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“Like it or not, you’re in charge of an entire house now,” Elder Joran said with a grin. “That means while you need to keep pushing your own advancement, you also have to make sure your house members aren’t weak.”
Tunde was already struggling with his upcoming duel in less than a month. The thought of managing and training other rankers on top of that felt overwhelming. He sat up straight, speaking carefully. “Does that mean I’m responsible for obtaining resources for them?”
The idea of sharing his hard-earned resources with others was not appealing. He needed everything he had to continue advancing, and slowing down his progress could mean stagnation—something he couldn’t afford.
“Yes and no,” the elder replied. “To a large extent, the clan is responsible for ensuring its rankers have access to resources. And with rifts tearing open everywhere, there should be no shortage of resources.”
A frown crossed the elder’s face as he added, “But... most of the best resources are being siphoned off to the top ranks of the clan, leaving the rest to fight for scraps in rifts.”
Tunde scratched his head, watching the elder gaze out of the carriage window. Joran continued, “What it means, Tunde, is that you’ll need to get strong enough to secure resources for those under you. Either that, or send them into rifts to fend for themselves, giving half to the clan.”
Tunde noticed the mischievous glint in Elder Joran’s eyes when he mentioned the rifts. The memory of his own close brushes with death in the rift still haunted him, and the idea of being responsible for other disciples facing similar dangers didn’t sit well with him.
The elder spent the rest of the ride explaining the responsibilities of running a house: from administrative duties to protecting and ensuring the growth of its members. By the time they arrived at their destination, Tunde’s eyes had glazed over from the overload of information.
Elder Joran chuckled as they stepped out of the carriage. Tunde’s breath caught as he took in the sight before him. When he had first arrived at Jade Peak, he had seen the massive mountain that dominated the city’s skyline, its emerald peak glinting in the distance. But now, up close, the mountain was far from small or inconsequential. Around its base, tall spires carved from Ethereon and jade crystals shimmered in the sunlight, refracting Ethra in dazzling colors. The entire structure seemed alive, pulsating with energy.
Tunde marveled softly, taking in the grandiosity of the Verdan Clan’s seat of power.
It felt like stepping into another world entirely. The very air was thick with Ethra, so dense that Tunde imagined he could sit down and cycle for hours without even realizing it. The sidewalks were lined with statues and lush trees, adding to the overwhelming opulence. While the buildings weren’t as tall as the massive mountain in the distance, they spoke of immense wealth and power. Golden gates, manned by disciples in the green robes of the Verdan clan, stood at attention. Their stern faces quickly turned to astonishment as they spotted Elder Joran.
“I never did like this place,” Elder Joran muttered under his breath. “Too much noise, too extravagant. It’s like they want any attacker to know where the heart of the clan is.”
Tunde remained silent, his attention drawn to the large construct vessels flying overhead, landing and taking off from the surrounding buildings. Ahead of them stood the largest building he had ever seen, towering like a needle intent on puncturing the very heavens. The crest of the Verdan clan was carved into its surface and painted in gold, glinting in the sunlight.
Tunde briefly considered using his Ethra sight to take in the energy around him, but he wisely refrained. The raw power in the air already raised the hairs on his neck, making him feel uneasy. There were powerful people inside that building, and he could sense their presence, their passive auras brushing against his skin like sharp sand.
Steeling himself, he followed Elder Joran closely as the disciples at the golden gates bowed.
“We greet the venerable elder,” they intoned in unison.
Elder Joran gave them a simple nod and continued inside, Tunde trailing behind. He noticed the disciples staring at him, but he ignored their gazes, keeping his hands at his sides. Inside, the building was just as extravagant—crystals of Ethereon lined the floors, walls, and even the massive beams supporting the structure. Tunde wondered if they were simply for show or if they served a defensive purpose.
The people inside were all disciples, a few of them peak rankers whose auras were tightly controlled but still palpable. Some wielded crude weapons, while others had their faces hidden under large hoods. All of them were undoubtedly powerful, likely from the higher houses of the clan. As Elder Joran entered, whispers spread like wildfire, eyes shifting from the elder to Tunde.
Tunde activated his Ethra sight, bracing himself for any surprise attacks. The energy stung his eyes, but he was prepared.
“If they intended to attack you, I’d see it ages before they moved,” Elder Joran murmured with amusement.
Tunde froze for a moment, then relaxed slightly, giving the elder a small nod.
“Besides, none of them would be foolish enough to attack the student of an elder. Not even the adepts watching us from above,” Joran added casually.
It took all of Tunde’s willpower not to glance upward. Were those the powers he had sensed earlier? Had the news of their visits to the alchemist and smithing regions already spread? As more rankers moved aside, clearing the path for the elder, they reached a woman seated behind a large crystal table, a welcoming smile on her face. She stood and curtsied.
“Welcome, venerable Elder Joran,” she said smoothly. “How may we assist you today?”
“We’re here to register a new house under the Jade Tower,” Elder Joran replied, his voice just as smooth.
Tunde immediately felt the atmosphere shift. It was as if a pack of predators had locked their gaze on him, and he couldn’t suppress the shiver that ran through him. The elder, however, remained unaffected, ignoring the forced smile that flickered across the woman’s face as she processed his words.
“I’m sorry, did you say... register a new house?” she asked, her voice faltering.
“Indeed. House Dark Fist, under my patronage, with my first disciple here, Tunde,” Elder Joran replied, nonchalant.
A smooth, mocking voice cut through the air before Tunde could react. “What manner of charade is this?”
Tunde’s body tensed as he instinctively shifted closer to the elder. A woman with piercing pink eyes stood beside him, her arms folded, glaring at him with disdain. He hadn’t sensed her arrival, nor had he noticed the three other adepts who had appeared alongside her. One was a hulking man with green gauntlets covering his massive hands. His cold gaze swept over both Tunde and the elder. The second was a tall, thin figure, his head shaved and covered in slowly shifting tattoos. The last was a woman in silver robes, twin blades strapped to her waist, her sharp eyes focused on Elder Joran.
“Adepts Jashed, Lyra, Torin, and Neria,” Elder Joran greeted them with a smile. “How nice to see you here.”
Tunde’s heart raced as Elder Joran gestured toward the largest of the group. “Tunde, pay your respects to Adept Jashed, branch head of the Jashed family of the Verdan clan. Father of Thalas Verdan.”
Tunde’s chest tightened at the mention of Thalas’ name. He stepped forward stiffly, bowing at the waist. “This disciple greets the branch head.”
Jashed ignored him completely. The insult was clear, and the other adepts stiffened in response.
“Why waste your strength on a wastelander?” Jashed rumbled, his deep voice cold. “What hopeless point are you trying to prove?”
He turned his gaze to Tunde, and it was like a mountain was pressing down on him, the sheer weight of Jashed’s presence making it hard to breathe. Tunde’s knees nearly buckled under the pressure, but he gritted his teeth and cycled his Ethra, trying to keep his expression calm.
“And you, boy,” Jashed continued, his tone dripping with disdain. “Are you so eager to die that you’d waste what little life you have left in a duel you know you’ll lose?”
Tunde felt his heart slow at those words, an unexpected calm settling over him. Despite the voice in the back of his mind screaming for caution, warning him that he could be crushed in an instant, Tunde straightened, locking eyes with the adept. An eerie stillness washed over him, as if all the fear inside had been buried deep beneath a layer of cold resolve.
“Apologies, venerable adept,” Tunde began, his voice steady and clear, “but I’d rather die than cower before an ordinary disciple. My sights are set much higher than that.”
His words left more than a few disciples surprised, and Elder Joran chuckled softly at the change in Tunde’s demeanor.
“Much, much higher,” Tunde finished, his gaze unwavering.
The adepts in the room began to violently emit their auras, sending the instincts of every disciple in the hall into pure fear. Panic spread quickly as rankers scrambled to retreat from their surroundings. Yet Jashed remained calm, his gaze locked on Tunde, who was visibly struggling under the weight of such scrutiny. Remarkably, not a single drop of Jashed’s aura had been unleashed.
Elder Joran frowned, taking one deliberate step forward, his arms loosening as if preparing to strike. Tunde realized what was about to happen, his heart racing.
"STOP."
The word tore through the air like law. A presence, overpowering and undeniable, unveiled itself. The weight of it crushed the auras of the adepts, forcing them to their knees—Tunde included. His body moved involuntarily, his muscles seizing as he dropped to the floor. He couldn’t comprehend what had just occurred. One moment he was standing, the next he was kneeling, immobilized. Even Elder Joran, his face drawn with exasperation, was forced into submission.
A chilling sensation crawled up Tunde’s spine as the sound of footsteps echoed through the hall. They stopped just inches from where he knelt.
“All disciples and below, leave the hall. Now. Except for the student of Elder Joran,” a voice commanded, smooth yet lethal.
Tunde quivered, his Ethra cycling disrupted, and his lungs struggling for air. Around him, the sound of rankers scrambling to obey filled the hall. Even the woman at the crystal desk hurried out. As the presence withdrew, Tunde gasped for breath, attempting to stand on shaky legs that felt as if they had been drained of all strength.
“We greet the Lord,” the adepts said in unison, their voices filled with reverence.
Tunde looked up, his eyes meeting the piercing green gaze of a toned woman with dark braids tied neatly at the back of her head. She wore a flowing green robe, her posture relaxed but commanding. Flicking her gaze between the kneeling adepts, she spoke again
“Jashed, explain yourself,” she said, her voice calm yet firm.
Tunde’s attention was briefly drawn to the rod strapped to her waist—a simple Ethereon weapon with intricate etchings carved into its surface. When he discreetly activated his Ethra sight, the sheer power of the object left him breathless. The woman’s eyes briefly flicked toward him, acknowledging his reaction before turning back to Jashed, who remained kneeling.
“Lord Lirien, welcome back from the Mountain Sects,” Jashed began, his voice carefully measured.
“Is this what the clan has become?” Lirien cut him off, her tone icy. “Adepts behaving like initiates. Over what? One house?”
Jashed’s face tightened, but he remained composed. “Elder Joran wastes our resources this close to the surge on a single disciple—a wastelander at that. It is unforgivable,” he said, his calm voice tinged with rage.
“And who are *you* to decide what is and is not a waste?” she responded, her words slicing through the room.
The other adepts gave Jashed a wide berth as he froze, clearly understanding the weight of her question.
“I may be absent from the clan,” Lirien continued, “but I am neither deaf nor blind to what happens within it.” She turned to Elder Joran, her patience visibly wearing thin. “Elder Joran, explain yourself.”
The elder sighed, stepping forward. “This is Tunde Dark Fist, my student. He rose from initiate to disciple in two weeks. He holds the affinity of shadow and is moving toward becoming a brawler ranker,” Joran explained smoothly. “All resources used for his advancement came from my own pockets, as well as his earnings from the rift. In that same rift, rankers of Adept Torin’s Verdant Arbor attempted to kill him, despite the clan’s no-killing mandate.”
Adept Torin, the bald man wrapped in cloth, visibly stiffened.
“Additionally, High Ranker Thalas Verdan of Branch Family Jashed attempted to kill him but stayed his hand. You’re likely aware of the duel scheduled in less than three weeks,” Joran finished, his words hanging in the air.
“This is the disciple causing such a ruckus? This *wastelander?” Lirien asked, her gaze hardening as she glanced at Tunde.
The word wastelander cut deep, but Tunde remained silent, keeping his expression neutral. He knew better than to react. This was a lord—her words held the weight of authority, and there was nothing he could do but endure.
“Look at me, boy,” Lirien ordered.
Tunde met her gaze, feeling the pressure of her scrutiny as she assessed him. She shook her head softly, disappointment flickering across her features.
“There are thousands of disciples in the clan, ten thousand more initiates, and yet you all squabble over one? Very well,” she said, her voice carrying an edge. “As of this moment, House Dark Fist exists by my authority. And I hereby give them their first assignment.”
Tunde’s stomach dropped as Elder Joran’s expression darkened, while the adepts around them allowed smirks to creep onto their faces.
“The clan has received reports of a possible invasion by Corespawns near our mines. House Dark Fist will handle the situation without assistance from any other rankers. Only members of their house will be permitted to engage,” Lirien commanded.
“Lady Lirien—” Elder Joran began, but she silenced him with a raised hand.
“You are to remain on standby. You will not interfere unless the miners’ lives are in immediate danger. The lives of your house’s disciples are of no consequence in this mission,” she added, her tone final. “And to ensure compliance, Elder Moros will accompany them.”
Tunde’s pulse quickened as Lirien turned her gaze on him. “They doubt your legitimacy to exist. I could care less. Survive, and prove your right to live. If you do, I will grant you a place within Clan Verdan in all but name.”
With that, she turned and exited the hall, leaving behind a heavy silence.
The adepts stood up, and Tunde rose to his feet, his legs still trembling. Elder Joran’s face was thunderous, his jaw clenched tight as he glared at Jashed. The tension in the room was palpable, so much so that Jashed instinctively took a step back before realizing it.
As the disciples began to stream back into the hall, whispers filled the air. The appearance of one of the clan lords was a rare and significant event—this would be a story that would be retold for days to come.
Without a word, Elder Joran strode up to the woman at the crystal desk. She quickly gathered three large gold bars from his void ring, her eyes wide in shock, before handing him a token with trembling hands.
“Congratulations, venerable elder. House Dark Fist has been officially registered,” she said, her voice quivering.