Eight hundred years ago, a tradition began in the Lingering Valley. As the seasons turn and summer becomes winter, the residents of the valley gather in Goldplume City to celebrate the harvest in what’s known as the Yellow Moon Festival.
For the common folk, it’s a time of joy and thanksgiving. A period to remember the trials of summer and prepare for what’s to come in winter. But for the nobles, it’s a time to socialize during the nightly feasts hosted by the City Lord, whoever they may be.
This goes on for a full week, culminating in the Flight of the Phoenix fireworks show held on the final night. A grand event jointly run by all the reigning powers of the city.
It’s on this night that the Mor and Kaats clan will publicly humiliate the Nervant clan in front of all their peers.
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Aten lay sprawled across a plush couch, a wine glass in his hand and a rich robe on his body. All around him, the young aristocrats of the city laughed and talked. Fake smiles and false pleasantries hiding verbal daggers. Several even hung out by Aten himself, orbiting him like he was their leader as they borrowed his name.
After how much he’d been dreading it, the banquet was turning out to be shockingly boring. He knew that wouldn’t last after the announcement, which would likely be soon, but it was still disconcerting to look over the crowd and see how blithely unaware they all were.
Were they all blind? How could they not see the clans moving in the background?
No, that was a stupid question. They were blind, but that wasn’t the problem here. Aten himself had only seen it when he’d been shown. The plots being woven in the background of this gathering were subtle and well hidden.
He swirled his wine glass, letting himself sink deeper into the couch he was draped across. Around him, his so-called peers laughed and chattered. A few women tried to catch his eye with one, a pretty blonde in a glittering dress, even going so far as to discreetly shift her dress to show more cleavage when he looked her way.
Aten ignored them all. Not a one had the discipline or conviction required to pursue the peak, no matter what they claimed. They’d leech off their families, reaching the peak of bronze at most.
It disgusted him. Cultivation was all about improving and empowering yourself. It was to reach for the heavens, trying to grasp the sky in a single hand. Yet what were these people doing? Wasting their time playing these useless games.
Truly, they were Lowly Beings. Worse than ordinary mortals.
At least the farmer in the field had an excuse for their weakness and lack of ambition. Who would give training or resources to a farmer? Who would educate them on history and the sciences or teach them philosophy and how to think for themselves? But what excuse did these worthless parasites have?
Aten shook his head lightly, trying to pull himself out of his dark mood. The whole business with his upcoming engagement was getting to him again. That he was still aching and sore from the Baptism didn’t help either.
There’d been something different about this Baptism. There was a lingering weight on his chest that made the air feel thicker as he tried to breathe. But in a strange way; he could move, Breathe, and speak like the weight wasn’t there. Yet the moment he got lost in his own thoughts, the weight settled on his chest again.
It was stifling. And he wondered if it was more a symptom of nerves than damage from the Baptism
Trying to ignore it, he let his eyes wander around the banquet hall. It was an impressive place. The City Lord’s entire manor was formed from still-living trees that had been carefully grown into walls, doorways, windows, and balconies.
Above them, the canopy of treetops formed a masterfully designed roof that kept out the rain while still allowing sunlight and moon light to trickle in. Different trees of various colors had been woven and grown together to create beautiful murals and intricate patterns. Not once had the wood been carved, only ever carefully trimmed and guided.
Aten's attention settled on the raised area where thirteen tables sat. The hall was divided into three strata. The lowest one, which he was currently in, was for the children of notable figures. The second was for notable figures.
He could see them up there, distributed among the twelve tables set up in the middle strata. The clan elders and notable aristocrats, be they influential merchants or the heads of lesser clans, were all laughing and socializing.
Finally, the third was for the City Lord and Four Great Heads themselves. Fenn Yelrat, the City Lord and patriarch of the Yelrat clan. Jirai Bethel, matriarch of the Bethel clan. Hui Wang, patriarch of the Hui clan. Kees Nervant, patriarch of the Nervant clan. Ethias Kaats, patriarch of the Kaats clan. And finally, Aten’s own father. Mor El Tyran, patriarch of the Mor clan.
His gaze lingered on Patriarch Nervant for a moment. Just long enough that the man sensed it and glanced over at him. Aten didn't meet his gaze, letting his attention slide off like he hadn't been staring. The last thing he wanted was to provoke Kees Nervant with a staring contest right before the stunt he was about to pull.
Instead, he focused back on the building as a whole. The entire place was a way for the City Lord to show off his wealth and influence. Just one enormous wing of a much larger building. It was a statement that not only did he have the money to waste on something like this, he’d also remained in power long enough to see it through.
But that should be coming to an end soon. The City Lord was over two hundred and fifty years old. Most Martial Grandmasters couldn't live much longer than that. A decade more, maybe two. Then the City Lord's reign would end.
Of course, that was before the Dragon's Gate Sect revealed itself. Aten fully believed there were pills and techniques in the sect that could extend the City Lord's life while enhancing his powers. He had no doubt that the City Lord would do everything he could to get his hand on those treasures.
He sipped his wine, easily tuning out the inane chatter of the vapid wastes around him as he thought. There were only a handful of people at his own cultivation level that could threaten him. Though, he hadn’t truly tested himself since beginning the process of the Hundred Poisons Refinement.
By this point, he could probably crush anyone at his cultivation level through sheer physical strength. Once he completed the Baptisms, that would certainly be true. Even if it didn’t provide him with the promised strength of a weak Iron, it would still give him the strength of a powerful Bronze.
And wasn’t that a strange idea? Aten still had trouble wrapping his head around the idea that a process so quick and inexpensive could catapult anyone, even ordinary people, into possessing physical strength at the cultivation tier as his own father.
Of course, his father could still butcher any number of people like that in a real fight, but the concept was still shocking. By the end of this process, he’d be one of the strongest people in the entire city. Even most elders could only be considered weak Irons. Martial Masters with Iron cultivation, rather than Martial Grandmasters like his father or the City Lord.
Hmm. Speaking of his peers…
Aten’s gaze, which had been lazily drifting around the ballroom, focused on the young man with gray hair walking towards him. He was dressed in a rich blue robe that hid what Aten knew was an incredibly well-defined physique.
Qaelon Yelrat. The City Lord’s firstborn son.
“Mor El Aten,” Qaelon greeted, a greasy, insincere smile plastered on his face. “It’s been a while! How are you? Has the banquet been to your liking?”
What a pest.
Aten strongly considered just ignoring him. But Qaelon definitely wouldn’t take that well. He’d probably do something stupid that would force Aten to give him a public beating. Which could potentially spoil the clan’s plans for tonight.
Irritated, Aren took another, larger sip of wine. It really wasn’t bad. Nothing too expensive; this was being offered to all of the two hundred or so guests attending the Yellow Moon Feast, so making it too excellent would dent even the City Lord’s coffers. But it was still higher quality than he’d expected. It was probably one of several power plays the City Lord was doing as part of his preparations for climbing the Highest Mountain.
Now, there was a thought. Was Qaelon approaching Aten for a similar reason? Had his father put him up to this? Best to tread carefully. Qaelon was an idiot, but the City Lord was dangerous.
“You’re right,” Aten said, letting a wide smile bloom across his face. “I haven’t seen you since the New Year.”
Qaelon’s face momentarily twisted in rage before he regained control over himself. Aten hid his smirk behind his wine glass. He’d slapped Qaelon around in the first round of the New Year’s annual Copper ranked tournament after some fool decided to rig the matches to put them against each other. Aten hadn’t seen the man again, so he presumed Qaelon or the City Lord himself arranged for him to be quietly taken care of.
"Yes, that was quite the day," Qaelon ground out, barely maintaining his civility. "Things will go differently in the upcoming Hidden Dragon Tournament my father is arranging."
"Oh?" Aten raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “He’s setting up a tournament?”
Qaelon smirked at him. "That's the difference between our families, Aten," he said with all the smug condescension of a man too stupid to breathe. "My father can casually arrange a grand tournament involving the entire city. What can yours do?"
Aten badly wanted to say something snide like 'win in a fight.' It was something of an open secret among the nobility that the City Lord feared the Mor clan patriarch. But that would likely push Qaelon into doing something rash. He had a hair trigger temper, after all.
So instead, he kept quiet and drank a bit of wine. Qaelon’s smirk slowly slid off his face at the lack of reaction, as Aten knew it would. Qaelon was almost a stereotype of 'arrogant young master.' Honestly, it should be him in Aten's current position. He'd love stealing Sion's fiance and publicly humiliating him to boot.
Qaelon opened his mouth, likely to say something he thought was clever and biting. But Aten spoke first, cutting him off.
"Hello, Karnae," he greeted. Qaelon whirled, eyes locking onto the third young mistress of the Bethel clan. Karnae Bethel waved lazily at Qaelon, but her eyes never left Aten.
She'd had a crush on him for years now. He'd never returned her affections, but he hadn’t rejected them either. Karnae was one of the women he’d considered a viable possibility for marriage, so turning her down could have backfired on him. Besides, she was one of the handful of his peers he didn't hold in abject contempt. He might even call her something of a friend, though it was hard to be friends with her when she kept trying to ‘subtly’ seduce him.
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She was overtly, absurdly purple today. Her violet hair and lavender eyes were only to be expected; they were proof of her strong Bethel clan bloodline. It was sometimes called the Wicked Fragrance Bloodline, as it was most commonly used to create airborne poisons. Though the more common name was the Purple Death Bloodline, owing to the physical features it gave the Bethel clan.
Beyond that, she wore a light purple inner robe, purple pants, a dark purple outer robe, and darker purple shoes. Her delicate purple eyeshadow matched the hair net woven with shining purple gems. Satiny purple gloves with intricate designs adorned her hands. And he had no doubt that beneath them, her fingernails had been painted some shade of purple as well.
"Your outfit is offensive to my eyes," Aten said bluntly. "Change into something else or leave."
It was actually shockingly nice. Aten was genuinely impressed at how she managed to make an entirely purple outfit look so good. Her recent growth spurt had done her some good, in more ways than one. But he had to put a stop to this. Every time he saw her, she'd added more purple to her outfit. Next thing he knew, she'd be painting her skin purple as well.
Karnae's eyebrows shot up at his words. Then she laughed, raising the embroidered fan in her right hand to hide her wide smile. Naturally, the fan was a pale purple. Because of course it was.
"My, my, Aten," she cooed, her eyes thinning to inviting slits. "I didn't know you were a fashionista."
Aten rolled his eyes. "Enough of that. You were a gangly kid just last year. I'm not buying your 'seductive older woman' act."
She pouted playfully at him, but Aten could see the glimmer of real irritation in her eyes. Come to think of it, maybe she was the one he should be worried about when it came to being poisoned. Karnae had quite a temper. He honestly wouldn't put it past her to try to murder him or Hela in a fit of jealous rage. Especially if he kept poking fun at her like that.
"Really though," Aten continued, "What made you think so much purple could possibly be a good idea?"
Karnae shrugged. "I like purple."
Qaelon snorted, drawing both their attention. "You'd think the third young mistress of the Bethel clan would have better taste. Or at least servants who could steer her on the right path."
"Now look at what you've done," Aten mock complained. "You've made me agree with Qaelon!"
Qaelon sneered at Aten as Karnae glared at them. "I didn't come over here to have my outfit insulted like this," she said primly.
"Why'd you come over at all?" Qaelon asked bluntly.
Aten rolled his eyes. Qaelon really was lucky to be born the City Lord's only son. His personality was too atrocious to make it anywhere in life without such a good starting point. Case in point, Karnae was giving Qaelon a look that promised a slow, agonizing death. Something that should be taken very seriously when coming from a Bethel.
“To confirm some rumors I’ve been hearing,” she said, still glaring at Qaelon, “I heard your father is going to hosting a tournament to celebrate the unveiling of the Dragon’s Gate Sect.”
“Indeed,” Qaelon said, instantly back to his smug self. Mentioning his father usually did that. “There’ll be three brackets. One for Copper, one for Bronze, one for Iron.”
Aten barked out an incredulous laugh. “He thinks he can get the patriarchs and elders to display their strength? Has he lost his mind?”
For all that Goldplume City loved its tournaments, there was never a bracket for Noble Beings. Only the elders of the clans could reach the Iron Step. And they would never casually display their techniques and force of aura before an audience for something as unimportant as public glory.
Qaelon’s face reddened as Kardae chuckled behind her fan. “Of course not!” He snapped. “He already knows how strong they are; he doesn’t need such an unreliable method.”
Well, that was fair enough. The City Lord would certainly have a decent estimate on how strong his rivals were. It wouldn’t be perfect; every clan was always working to create new techniques to give them an edge, like the newly minted Hundred Poisons Refinement Method. But it would be pretty close to accurate.
So- ah. That was the game.
"He wants to measure our strength," he said, giving Karnae a meaningful look.
She nodded. "Us and the others at our cultivation level." She shrugged. "Though the main goal is likely to impress anyone he's trying to ally with. It would just be a bonus if any young master or mistress was stupid enough to show off."
Qaelon looked about ready to explode.
"Stop talking like you're in private," he hissed, glancing furiously around at the various young aristocrats. They weren’t close enough to easily hear the three of them, having moved away to give the three young nobles of the city’s great powers space. But some of them were clearly trying to listen in anyways.
"Are you trying to start rumors slandering my father?" Qaelon demanded, lowering his voice even further.
Yes, actually.
Aten didn't say that out loud though. Qaelon would definitely go tattle to his father if he did. Granted, he'd probably do that anyways. But there was a large difference between having plausible deniability and outright admitting his intentions. And the City Lord's ire wasn't something that could be taken lightly.
"Of course not," Aten lied, plastering his most insincere smile on his face. "I'd never be fool enough to insult the City Lord like that."
Qaelon sneered, but Aten ignored him with an ease born out of years of practice. Instead, he kept turning over the City Lord’s potential plans for the tournament in his mind.
This wasn’t a show of wealth or force. At least, that wasn’t the main goal. Just a nice side benefit. What the City Lord really wanted was to measure the general strength of those at the Copper and Bronze Steps. Especially those who’d earned the right to be called Martial Disciples and Martial Masters.
It didn’t matter that none of the prodigious youths of the great clans would enter the tournament. The City Lord already knew what they were capable of. No, he wanted to find diamonds in the rough. People who’d gone unnoticed.
The City Lord was recruiting. Sparing no expense in an attempt to quickly boost his military might in preparation for the upcoming chaos. Probably for seizing the treasures on the Highest Mountain as well.
Aten took a sip of his wine, frowning. It was an open scheme that nobody could do anything about without outright rebelling against the City Lord. Given the City Lord’s wealth and prestige, it was almost certain that he’d be able to recruit the vast majority of talented individuals unearthed by the tournament.
Wait, if this was the City Lord’s plot, did that mean Qaelon wasn’t talking to him as power of a scheme? Had he just been paranoid for no reason? Aten pursed his lips, then took another sip of wine. He glanced a moment later, curious as to why Qaelon and Karnae had been so quiet as he thought. Not that he minded, but it was certainly out of character.
The answer was immediately apparent. A large man with ashen hair and flat black eyes was standing before Aten, arms folded and an expression that could have been carved from granite. Mor Er Kin. Aten's cousin.
"Greetings, cousin," Aten said lazily, raising his wine glass in a mock cheer. "Is it time already?"
His cousin's eyes narrowed. "Perhaps. I don't know what's going on here, so I can't say for sure. But you've been summoned up to the high table. Sounds like Hela has been too."
Behind Kin, Aten could see Qaelon raise one eyebrow inquisitively. Karnae, meanwhile, looked like she’d been struck by lightning. There was no way she’d figured it out in an instant, right? This was just jealous paranoia, right?!
After all, Hela was the only girl their age Aten could point at as being clearly superior to Karnae. Smarter, more disciplined, more talented, prettier - Hela was just an impressive woman. He could see why Karnae would get nervous.
If Hela hadn’t been engaged to Sion since birth, Aten really might have fallen for her like so many of his ‘peers.’ But he’d never allow himself to feel that way towards a taken woman. Not that his self-control had done him much good. What he was about to do went a bit further than just having a crush on her.
"Oh?" Karnae said, a lilt to the sound that made it come out as a question. "Why would you and Hela be summoned up to the high table together?"
Nope. Aten wasn't going to be the one to have this conversation with her. He hopped to his feet, carelessly draining the rest of his wine and tossing the glass to a startled servant who'd been hovering nearby.
A sudden wave of dizziness almost made him stagger as that strange weight on his chest seemed to redouble. Alongside it came a light-headed, vacant sensation. Almost as though he was watching his actions from outside his own body. Then he blinked, and the sensation was gone. The weight was still there, but it had lessened again.
Interesting. But he could look into it later.
"Sorry, that's a long conversation. No time for it," he said. His tone had a hint of an apology in it, though something in her expression told him she'd seen through him. He chose to ignore it as he caught up to Kin, who'd already turned and started walking away.
Aten's gaze turned towards their destination. The high table. The place where the city's greatest powers, both in martial and political might, sat waiting. He caught his father's eye for a moment, but couldn't read anything in his expression.
Sighing lightly, he looked left and right, surveying the crowd. After a moment, he spotted her. A messenger, presumably from the Kaats clan, had found Hela where she was talking to Sion and Jun.
She'd dressed up well for the Yellow Moon Feast, likely because of what was about to happen. She wore dark green outer robes with white patterns beautifully woven around the seams. Both the belt around her waist and her inner robes were a pale tea green and her black hair was done up in a tight bun. Like Karnae, she wore gloves that extended up her forearms. Though, unlike Karnae, her gloves were white.
As he appraised her, she looked his way. Her face tightened as they locked gazes, her cold amber eyes meeting his own tawny yellow. If looks could kill, she’d have struck him dead then and there.
Aten didn't let himself sigh again. He'd been expecting this, after all. No point in pretending to be surprised and offended. Instead, he returned his attention to the raised platform. Their approach was starting to draw attention. Different nobles and elders were glancing their way. Some of the ones on the Nervant clan’s side seemed to be getting a sense that something wasn’t right as they started frowning and muttering to each other.
Kees Nervant, meanwhile, was giving Ethias Kaats a quizzical, searching look. There was a half smile on his face, like he was waiting for Ethias to let him in on a joke. But Ethias was clearly avoiding making eye contact.
Aten internally winced at the sight. It was well known that the two patriarchs were close friends and had been since they were Aten's age. A small, empathic part of him ached as he watched that friendship crumble before his eyes. Then he shrugged it off. It wasn't his problem and now was a terrible time to get emotional about the consequences of what he was involved in.
No, he should act more like Qaelon: the quintessential young master. An arrogant, unrepentant silkpants who hid behind the influence of his father and clan. A smirk flickered across his face. As it happened, he really was wearing a pair of silk pants. They were quite comfortable too.
Aten schooled his features into a blank mask as he stepped onto the raised platform where the elders sat. A few gave him quizzical looks. Notably, several Kaats elders looked incredibly smug and self-satisfied. Aten would bet every gold square he’d ever owned that they were responsible for forcing Patriarch Kaats and Hela into this position.
He watched the Kaats elders for a moment longer. Three in particular, an old man with a wispy white beard and two old women who looked to have a foot in the grave, stood out to him. All three had an air of superiority and triumph about them as they watched Hela and himself pass through the second strata and approach the high table.
Idly, Aten wondered what price his father had paid for the City Lord to agree to his banquet being usurped like this. It would be a bit embarrassing for the City Lord, after all. What they were about to do could be called dishonorable. It would reflect poorly on the City Lord for it to occur at his banquet.
The problem rolled around in his head for a little while before he decisively dismissed it. He was just trying to distract himself. Aten liked to think of himself as being unafraid of the immensity of heaven and earth. But the closer he got to the high table, the more his knees wanted to buckle.
That feeling of pressure that had been weighing on him the entire night had been rising with every step he took towards the third strata. By now, it felt like there was a great weight on his shoulders. An intangible, immovable, unfathomable heaviness. Like something incredibly important was happening. Far, far more meaningful than his engagement had any right to be.
It was crushing and overbearing. Suffocating him to the point he could barely breathe. With every step he took, it grew and grew, building into a terrible storm. His mind felt frozen, as though every thought was traveling through molasses.
Yet it didn't slow him down. Before Aten knew it, he was at the high table, Hela standing nearby. Kin bowed to the clan heads and City Lord, then quickly left alongside the servant who'd fetched Hela. Aten, of course, bowed as well. First to his father, then the City Lord, then the table as a whole.
"I'm sure you're wondering why I've called these two up here," Aten's father began. "Especially you, Kees."
The Nervant patriarch didn't rise to the bait. He just watched Patriarch Mor with a cold gaze, occasionally glancing towards Patriarch Kaats. There was a look in his eye. Aten wouldn’t quite call it dawning comprehension, but it was close.
The man had clearly realized that he was the main recipient of a play being put on. One that his supposed ally was in on. From the half smirk on his father’s face, Patriarch Mor had seen it too.
“I want to announce an engagement,” Patriarch Mor said. His words came out with a certain richness that betrayed the cruel joy he took in delivering the words, a broad smile on his face. “From this day onwards, my son, Mor El Aten and Hela Kaats are promised to each other.”