The journey back to Petal Street was marked by heavy silence, both Tunde and Elder Joran lost in thought as they returned by sky vessel, abandoning any need for stealth. They tore across the skies, passing the main sectors of Jade Peak and flying beyond the borders of the Jade Towers before finally arriving at Petal Street. By the time they reached the house, dusk had settled in, the once-yellow sun now casting an orange hue over the city.
The vessel came to a smooth stop beside the large structure of the house, where Lady Ryka stood waiting with some familiar faces. As the vessel's door opened, Tunde stepped out calmly, Elder Joran right behind him. Lady Ryka curtsied in greeting.
“I trust your journey went well?” she asked with a calm tone.
“Perhaps we should discuss that inside,” Elder Joran replied.
Lady Ryka’s gaze shifted to Tunde with a frown, while Isolde and Draven stood by silently. They all made their way into the building, where the usual crowd of rankers was conspicuously absent from the common room. Around a large table, Elder Joran explained the gravity of the situation. Tunde remained quiet, listening intently.
“This is quite the grave situation,” Lady Ryka finally said when the elder finished.
Elder Joran nodded. “True, and yet, my influence here is limited. This is the will of the lord herself.”
Draven’s massive form strained the chair he was sitting in. “We only have five disciples, all at early rank, except for Tunde,” he pointed out.
“And we’re low on supplies,” Isolde added, her voice tight with concern. “We’re talking elixirs, weapons—both normal and imbued—scrolls for summoning, defense, offense, transportation... we’re severely lacking.”
Elder Joran turned to Tunde, fixing him with a stern gaze. “Well? It’s your house now, and you intend to link Red Blossom to Dark Fist.”
Tunde crossed his arms and closed his eyes, trying to sort through the mess of issues before him. It was frustrating. Every time he gained some ground, something new would throw him off course. His primary focus should be preparing for the duel against Thalas, but now he was being sent into the wastelands with an elder who disliked him and virtually no resources.
Opening his eyes, Tunde turned to Lady Ryka. “How are Red Blossom's resources looking?” he asked.
“Bleak,” she admitted. “I mean, it’s always been that way, but the initiates have been running rifts back-to-back.”
“Second-grade rifts, though,” Draven added. “The spoils are weaker.”
Tunde frowned. “Second grade? Tier 2 rifts, you mean?”
Draven shook his head. “No, second-grade rifts are ones that have been plundered before but whose cores were left intact. The clan keeps a lot of those around as a source of continuous resources. Tier 1 rifts are practically useless now.”
“That explains why it’s hard for initiates to advance,” Tunde mused.
Lady Ryka nodded. “And with the heavy taxes from the clan, most initiates struggle to finish their ranks, let alone advance to disciple. Those who do, end up as weak disciples.”
“So, it’s not just the rarity of resources but their availability that determines advancement?” Tunde asked, seeking clarification.
“Yes, exactly,” Elder Joran responded. “It limits the number of rankers advancing in each rank, which is why most factions pour resources into their top prodigies.” His gaze became pointed. “You’re a risk I took, Tunde. I expect returns.”
Tunde nodded; the message clear. He glanced at the void ring on his finger, contemplating his next move. “How much could four hundred thousand lumens get us?” he asked.
Lady Ryka’s eyes widened in shock, and both Isolde and Draven turned to him, stunned.
“Tunde, that’s a significant amount of resources,” Lady Ryka protested.
“No, it’s an investment,” Tunde countered. “Red Blossom and Dark Fist are tied together. This is about investing in the future of our houses.”
“At the expense of your own advancement,” Elder Joran added smoothly, reminding Tunde of the critical cost.
“About that,” Tunde said, his mind working. “Will there be rifts out in the wastelands? I didn’t see any last time, so I was wondering.”
Elder Joran leaned back, a smile tugging at his lips. “Possible, but go on.”
Tunde sat up straight, laying out his thoughts. “This mission involves five disciples, but if I had my way, I’d bring double that number of initiates.”
“Against an entire horde of Corespawns?” Isolde interrupted, incredulous.
Tunde raised an eyebrow. “Have you faced them before?”
“No,” Isolde admitted, “but everyone knows about them. They’re the rankers who use beast cores to advance rather than normal cultivation methods.”
“Is that a thing?” Tunde asked, genuinely curious.
Elder Joran nodded gravely. “It is.
“Some, like the Wasteland King, for example, managed to smooth out their advancements using cores, gaining the abilities and strength of the creatures whose cores they absorbed,” Elder Joran explained. “But others... they’re not so lucky. The cores warp their bodies and minds, turning them into abominations. They inherit the feral instincts of the beasts they absorb, constantly teetering between lucidity and madness. Rumors say some of these deranged Corespawns gain control over time, but in most cases, the more they advance, the worse it gets.”
“And if they *do* smooth their way through, like the Wasteland King?” Tunde asked, his mind already picturing the worst.
“Then we’d be facing a disaster on the level of the Wasteland King himself,” Elder Joran replied grimly. “It would take the intervention of the Patriarch to stop it.”
“Plus, rifts outside the clan’s territories are tax-free,” Draven added, his tone casual as the group turned to him.
They stared at him in silence.
“I’m just saying,” he said with a shrug, earning an eye roll from Isolde.
“We need to move quickly,” Tunde said, pulling the discussion back on track. “Gather the initiates. We’ll put out a notice and select a team to go to the mines. The rest will stay behind with Lady Ryka, using whatever resources remain to prepare for our return.”
“And what happens if you come back empty-handed?” Elder Joran asked, leaning forward.
“We either return with resources and cores to sell, or we don’t return at all,” Tunde replied, his voice steady but determined.
Lady Ryka shook her head, her expression firm. “That’s too risky. We’ve already fallen back to eighth in the rankings because our initiates lack the strength to maintain our previous position. If we push what little resources we have left, we risk falling to tenth. It’s not a place we want to be as a house.”
“I agree with her,” Elder Joran added, his tone serious. “Corespawns aren’t creatures you can face in large numbers. They excel at picking off entire bands of rankers, and we still have to consider the strength of the two houses that could stand in your way.”
Tunde listened carefully, realizing that the elder already had a plan in mind for him. Joran had firmly placed him in the role of leader of House Dark Fist, but it was clear that there was more to this than just managing his house.
“What do you have in mind, venerable elder?” Tunde asked, shifting the conversation back to the elder’s strategy.
Elder Joran sighed. “You, Isolde, and Draven will go. I have plans for the other disciples and initiates of the house.”
“Three disciples against an entire force of Corespawns?” Isolde asked, her voice tinged with disbelief. “What hope do we have against such odds?”
Elder Joran clasped his hands together, his expression thoughtful. “Corespawns don’t typically band together. If they’re working in unison, it means there’s a stronger Corespawn—or worse, another force—behind them. Your job will be to find that leader. Take them out, and you’ll disrupt the entire operation.”
“And if that leader is a Corespawn of higher rank—adept or worse?” Draven asked, concern lacing his voice.
Elder Joran sat up straighter. “You have Tunde here,” he said simply, turning toward Tunde with a confident smile.
Tunde blinked in surprise. “Me?”
“Yes, you—and that,” Elder Joran said, gesturing to the silver bands on Tunde’s wrists.
Tunde was about to ask what a pair of gauntlets could possibly do against creatures of Tier 3 or adept rank, but then it hit him. The elder wasn’t referring to the gauntlets. He was talking about the relic hidden within them.
“Advancement means taking risks, Tunde,” Elder Joran continued. “You won’t get stronger by facing disciple rankers within the safety of Jade Peak. This mission will push you, force you to reach beyond your limits.”
“And if an adept-level Corespawn shows up?” Isolde asked skeptically.
“Elder Moros will have no choice but to intervene if the clan’s interests are at stake,” Elder Joran replied, a hint of mischief in his tone. “He’ll protect the miners, and indirectly, that means protecting you.”
Tunde felt a mixture of relief and dread wash over him. The elder’s plan was starting to make sense, though it was clear that this mission wasn’t just about the mines. It was about testing him, about forcing him to evolve under pressure.
“In fact,” Elder Joran said, leaning forward, “we should’ve done this sooner. Here’s how it’s going to go…”
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The group listened intently as the elder laid out the plan.
****************************
Jath Black Claw marched through the smoking ruins of the defense tower, rubble crunching beneath his feet as he drew his tattered cloak tighter around his form. His breath fogged in the cold night air. He closed his bright yellow eyes, extending his clawed hands outward. His whiskers twitched, ears perked, and he breathed in deeply as the power coiled within him stretched. His tail swished lazily behind him, emitting thick, inky Ethra that lingered in the air.
“Jath,” a deep voice rumbled from behind.
The quiet, terror-filled moans of the captured miners were momentarily disrupted. Jath growled softly, his eyes snapping open as he turned his head slightly, fixing his gaze on the huge, kneeling form of his subordinate. Covered in thick, cracked slabs of rock-like armor, the being's massive double-edged axe rested beside him, each breath heavy and deliberate.
“Speak,” Jath ordered softly.
“No signs of reinforcements,” the large being answered, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. “What remains of the stronghold has been secured.”
Jath’s gaze shifted to the scurrying forms of their lesser kin—Corespawns, as they were known in the wider empire. The term was derogatory, a slur even worse than "wastelanders." He bared his sharp, canine teeth in a feral grin. Standing beside Kurl, his ever-loyal guardian, Jath watched the tier 1 Corespawns labor with pitiless eyes. These were the feral ones, those who had failed to leash the beast souls they had absorbed, now reduced to working mindlessly to burn off their wild, uncontrollable urges.
Soon enough, the Verdan clan would send their enforcers, one of the numerous houses under their banner, and Jath eagerly awaited their arrival. They would be offerings—sacrifices to quench his growing thirst.
“Push our lesser kin harder,” Jath growled, his voice low and dangerous. “We don’t have much time until they arrive.”
Kurl nodded, rising to his full height, towering over Jath, even though the kin lord's presence dwarfed his own. As Kurl turned to carry out the order, Jath once again closed his eyes, relishing the silence as he gazed into the distance.
“Speak your mind, Kurl,” Jath said, without turning.
“Can we hold if the empire itself comes for us?” Kurl asked, his voice grinding like stone on stone.
Jath’s lips curled into a sneer. “The empire doesn’t care about the wastelands—not yet.”
“And yet,” Kurl continued cautiously, “a lord of the Heralds fought with one of the king’s lords.”
At the mention of the king, Jath’s eyes snapped open. He turned slowly, his gaze burning with barely restrained fury. Kurl instinctively took a step back.
“You dare call that traitor a king?” Jath hissed, his inky black Ethra surging outward like a dark storm, thick and suffocating. Kurl clenched his massive hand around his axe, bracing himself for whatever might come next.
“They threw us out of our home, and now, look at us,” Jath continued, his voice seething with venom. “We are stronger than ever, strong enough to take an entire stronghold.” His Ethra flared, but he pulled it back with effort, calming himself.
“I can feel it, Kurl,” Jath said, his tone now more measured, though no less dangerous. “The cusp of tier 3. I will be the first of our kind to reach such heights, and when I do, not even the empire will be able to look down on us.”
Kurl’s grip on his axe tightened, but his voice remained steady. “And what of the Heralds?” he asked again.
A cruel smile spread across Jath’s face. “Leave them to me, old friend,” he replied, his voice dripping with confidence. “Besides,” he added, glancing toward another group of Corespawns hunched over the ground, feverishly scribbling symbols with sharp rocks. A glowing crystal lay in the center of their makeshift ritual, pulsing with dark energy.
“They’ll have their hands full soon enough.” Jath’s smile widened, his eyes gleaming with the promise of chaos yet to come.
************************
Red Blossom was alive with the energy of celebration. The house was filled with disciples, from those who had recently advanced to those initiates who had climbed the ranks, thanks to the efforts of one ranker—Tunde. He stood in the center of it all, awkwardly smiling as Lady Ryka placed him firmly in the spotlight. He wished to be anywhere else but here. After what felt like an eternity of drinking and cheering, he finally found himself seated with Draven, Isolde, Lady Ryka, and the two other disciples, Harun and Gisele.
He had only a few hours before the clan required him to report to Elder Moros and board the sky vessel that would carry them to the wastelands. With this weight on his shoulders, he gathered his core team for one final discussion. Draven, bleary-eyed and groggy from the drinks, sighed as Isolde continued summarizing their resources.
"We're stocked on food and clothing for about a month," Isolde reported, rubbing her temples. "But we won’t be out there for that long anyway, not with our esteemed mid-disciple ranker having a duel with Thalas Verdan in two weeks’ time." She shot a meaningful glance at Tunde, causing the rest to wince at the reminder.
"Our main issues are elixirs and void rings," she continued. "They’re selling at mind-boggling prices right now, especially with the surge looming."
Tunde’s stomach churned at the thought of how many elixirs they’d go through on this trip. He just hoped the return would be worth the cost. Nodding, he turned to Harun and Gisele, who were sitting attentively, ready to serve.
"Officially, you two are members of House Dark Fist," he began. "Unofficially, I need you to sell off our surplus resources to our contact."
Elder Joran had departed earlier, leaving Tunde with clear orders as the head of the newly established house. Though the elder had given him a sizable loan of lumens, he made it clear that the house would be on its own from now on. Harun and Gisele, still riding high on their recent advancements, nodded eagerly, their loyalty unmistakable. Tunde could tell they would follow any order without hesitation—something that both reassured and unnerved him.
That left Draven, Isolde, and himself for the mission into the wastelands. The thought was disconcerting; in the rift, he had fought alongside rankers stronger than himself. Now, he was the strongest in their team. Pushing away the doubt, he turned to Isolde.
“What do we know about these Corespawns?” he asked, cutting straight to the heart of the matter.
Earlier, when Tunde had been debriefing Elder Joran on the rift and his newfound resistance to poisons, the elder had passed the responsibility of mission prep to Isolde. She now unfurled a scroll, her expression serious.
“The last report from the disciples stationed at the mines mentioned a horde attacking the stronghold,” she said. “It could be as few as ten or as many as fifty Corespawns.”
“And Elder Joran expects just the three of us to handle that?” Draven asked, incredulity clear in his voice.
“You heard him,” Tunde said, though not entirely convinced himself. “We take out the leader, and the rest will fall apart.”
Harun chimed in, his brow furrowed in thought. “Merchants have been spreading rumors lately. Something about a schism in the Wasteland King’s domain. Could this be one of the results of that?”
“Possibly,” Lady Ryka replied. “The wastelands are always shifting—different factions rise and fall constantly. We could be looking at the beginnings of another power struggle.”
The idea of facing an entire clan of Corespawns sent a chill through the room. Tunde felt the weight of responsibility press harder against his chest.
"What’s the success rate of rankers who use cores?" Tunde asked, hoping to better understand the scale of the threat.
“Low,” Lady Ryka replied bluntly. “Back when I was active, it was something like one in five who managed to fully control the core. Even then, mutations are common, and those who don’t fully control it... well, they lose themselves.”
“It’s like we’re going up against rabid animals in human form,” Draven muttered darkly.
“Good morning to you too,” Isolde quipped, causing Gisele to chuckle softly.
Draven shot her a sideways glare. “I could bury you up to your neck, you know.”
Isolde merely smiled as a breeze picked up in the room. Lady Ryka tsked at the rising tension, her presence enough to still both of them. Draven had an affinity for rock, like many rankers in this region, while Isolde wielded wind with an almost effortless grace. Harun’s water affinity was rare, and it puzzled Tunde why the clan hadn’t capitalized on that. Gisele had a hardening affinity, one of the more esoteric abilities.
Lady Ryka herself remained a mystery. Tunde had never seen her use her power, and no one else seemed to know what it was either. She was a peak disciple, but for some reason, had chosen not to advance any further. Perhaps that was by choice—or something else entirely.
With the two rankers now calm, Lady Ryka spoke again. “Whatever the situation, Elder Moros will be with you. But his priority will be the miners—what’s left of them, anyway.”
The grim reality of what they might find out there settled over the group like a dark cloud. There was every possibility that the miners had been slaughtered, enslaved, or even worse... eaten. Tunde wasn’t sure where that last rumor had come from, but considering the madness of the Corespawns, it didn’t seem far-fetched.
Sighing, Tunde rubbed his forehead. Everything was stained with blood in this world, and the weight of it all felt heavier than ever. He missed the simplicity of the forest—where the only thing he had to worry about was surviving against beasts and wild creatures, not the complex and violent machinations of civilization.
They retired for the night with heavy hearts, each burdened by the dark realization of what lay ahead.
***********************
The next morning found Tunde, Draven, and Isolde assembled at the mountain's shorn peak, where the clan's official vessels docked and delivered important supplies from distant parts of the empire. This was the same peak where Tunde had first arrived, an ignorant initiate. Now, he stood there as a disciple, not yet an important figure in the clan but with enough strength to embark on a mission that most would consider suicidal.
The cold winds howled around them, stirring Tunde’s robe as Draven and Isolde, armored beneath their house robes, stood at his side. Together, they stared at the burnished brown vessel before them. It wasn’t the massive skyship that had brought them to Jade Peak, but it was large enough to comfortably fit ten passengers. It loomed like a silent guardian, ready to take them into the wastelands.
“Why do I feel like we’re just the scouts?” Draven muttered, breaking the silence.
Tunde glanced at the large disciple, noticing the worn red gauntlets on Draven's hands—his "Inferno Gauntlets," relics from his father, a peak disciple who had died on a rift run. It wasn’t uncommon for rankers to inherit weapons not aligned with their affinities, especially if they couldn’t afford custom-forged gear. The gauntlets seemed to be a source of pride for Draven, even if they weren’t a perfect fit for his earth affinity.
“The thought has occurred to me,” Isolde murmured in agreement.
“I doubt the clan is relying solely on three disciples and one elder to secure their mines,” Draven added, his voice tinged with skepticism.
“Elder Moros should be enough to handle whatever we face out there,” Tunde said, trying to inject confidence into his voice. Though he felt some reassurance in his own growing strength, the mission loomed like a dark shadow on the horizon.
Draven, munching on a tier 2 fruit, regarded Tunde thoughtfully. “Oh well, it’s not like we’ve got much to come back to, anyway.”
Tunde knew Draven’s words carried truth. Many lower-house rankers were orphans or had been forced into servitude, as Draven had. Isolde had a junior sister who worked as a maid, but most of them had little family left. The bonds they formed in the house were all they had now.
“You have Red Blossom and Dark Fist. Remember that,” Tunde reminded Draven, trying to ground his thoughts.
Isolde gave Tunde a grateful look, her singular eye softening at the reminder that they weren’t entirely alone. A sudden buzzing filled the air, drawing their attention to a smaller craft approaching the landing area. It was Elder Moros' vessel, arriving fashionably late.
“It seems we have company,” Tunde noted as the vessel descended.
“Is it the elder?” Isolde asked, glancing toward the craft.
“And others,” Tunde confirmed.
The vessel landed, and the door opened to reveal Elder Moros, his face as cold and impassive as ever. With him were two familiar figures—Elyria and the hulking form of Thorne. Tunde’s heart sank. His hopes of having them as companions were quickly dashed as Thorne grinned at him.
“Tunde!” Thorne boomed, his voice carrying across the mountain. “Good to see you again, and with friends!”
Elder Moros’ lips tightened briefly before he spoke. “You have five minutes to say your goodbyes,” he said flatly, walking toward the vessel without looking back.
“Goodbyes?” Tunde repeated, feeling a knot form in his chest.
“You didn’t think we were coming with you, did you?” Thorne laughed, his grin widening.
Elyria offered Tunde a sad smile. “It’s good to see you looking better, Tunde. Mid-disciple already—you’re advancing fast.”
“It’s thanks to both of you. I owe you more than I can ever repay,” Tunde said, bowing in gratitude.
“Bah, enough of that. You’re a disciple now!” Thorne clapped Tunde on the back, his touch surprisingly gentle for a revenant.
Tunde couldn’t help but notice that Thorne’s skin looked healthier, the black veins that once marred his body less visible. He had no doubt that they were treating him well. Elyria, still smiling, stepped forward and met Tunde’s eyes.
“Be careful out there. The Corespawns' midsections are their weak points. Treat them like cunning beasts—don’t be fooled by their crude appearance,” she warned.
“How do you know so much about them?” Tunde asked, intrigued by her knowledge.
“They’re not just a threat to Bloodfire. It’s possible they’ve migrated here, which means you’ll be dealing with more than just a local problem,” she replied, her voice grave.
Before Tunde could respond, the vessel powered to life, signaling the urgency of their departure. Thorne gave Tunde’s shoulder another pat. “Good luck, young one. Remember—ruthlessness before pity.”
Tunde nodded, a weight settling on his chest as he bowed to both Elyria and Thorne before turning to rejoin Draven and Isolde. Together, the three disciples boarded the vessel, the door sealing behind them as it lifted off the ground.
As the skyship rose into the air, Tunde’s thoughts remained on the dangers ahead. He glanced down at the blade Thorne had somehow slipped into his robes without him noticing. It was a small gesture, but it spoke volumes. This journey would test them all, and survival would demand nothing short of brutality.