The body of the phantom elder, with a gaping hole in his chest, toppled to the ground beside Mei—but not before she grabbed his wrist, extracting his onyx gem void ring. In her other hand, she produced an exact replica of the medallion in Tunde’s possession, grasping it with bloody fingers. The same vile, mad smile carved itself across her face.

  “They all think this could save them,” she mused, her voice low, almost amused. She paid no attention to Tunde as his naginata lit with the dark grey Ethra of his concept. Or perhaps she simply didn’t care. She was so far removed from his rank that Tunde knew, without the one edge he held over her, he might as well be dead.

  Behind her, the pulsating flesh altar throbbed, the seed-like object embedded in it glowing with raw power. Mei glanced at it with a look of pure adoration.

  Tunde seized that moment, his mind locking onto the plan he had formulated. He didn’t move—he maintained the position he stood in, waiting for the opportune moment.

  “Is it true?” he asked, his voice steady. “Did you kill the daughter of the Ape King?”

  Mei glanced back at him, flexing her wrist. The fleshy walls around them rippled grotesquely, their texture unnerving. In the far corner, a face pushed itself out of the wall, struggling like an organism trapped in a suffocating prison. It was the face of an ape—a softer, almost regal face, frozen in a state of pure terror and pain. The creature’s milky, lifeless eyes told the story of the unimaginable horror it endured at the moment of death.

  Tunde’s grip on his weapon tightened. “How does this make you any different from the revenants?” he growled, his voice low and venomous.

  “Those filthy servants of the dead?” Mei scoffed, her tone dripping with derision. “Or perhaps undeath? The Envoys command the sphere of death, anyway,” she added with a chuckle.

  “This—everything you see here—isn’t some crude attempt at creating life through death. Oh no,” she said, stretching her hands wide, her eyes gleaming. “This is about perfecting life. The culling of lesser lifeforms—weak, imperfect—fused into their betters to create something greater,” she explained, her words brimming with a twisted fervor.

  “And the people of Ashhaven? Were they lesser? Did they have to die?” Tunde asked, his voice barely concealing the seething rage that burned in his chest. His vision blurred with fury as he imagined ripping her apart with his bare hands, snapping her neck, using her corpse as a vessel for his vengeance.

  But even where he stood, he could feel the immense weight of her presence—the raw, oppressive power radiating from her. Mei’s strength was far beyond that of a Lord or Highlady. She had tainted the sacred rank of Masters, her power within that realm and yet twisted into something unholy.

  “They were weak,” she replied with a grin, her voice cold and dismissive. “Of course, I don’t expect you to understand. You’re barely a speck in the passage of life—not even a full century into your path as a cultivator,” she mocked.

  “What your masters don’t want you to see is that the spheres of power and authority are shifting. They’ve been shifting for centuries, and their time—like that of the Seekers and the other powers that once reigned supreme on the earth of Adamath—is coming to an end,” she declared, her tone triumphant.

  Tunde’s expression remained unreadable, but inwardly he steeled himself.

  She pointed a bloody, taloned finger at him. “Can’t you see? They killed your people, burned your land to soot, salted its ground, and left it a wasteland of suffering—and yet you side with them?” she snarled.

  “Not anymore,” she continued, her voice growing fervent. “The true powers beyond the veil are shifting. They have bestowed upon us the gift of fleshcrafting—not the abominations of the revenants, but the true path to perfection,” she proclaimed, her voice filled with mad conviction.

  “The beings beyond the veil?” Tunde asked, his voice hard, though a sinking dread filled his chest.

  Mei laughed, a haunting, mocking sound. “Young child, there are more realms than this little ball of mud and water. Powerful realms where your Regents are nothing more than servants and your Hegemons mere lords!”

  “You lie,” Tunde said, swallowing hard. Deep down, he knew she wasn’t lying—he knew it better than most. The truth of her words stung, though he wished it didn’t.

  Mei chuckled again; her amusement unmistakable. “What reason do I have to lie? You’ll be dead soon enough,” she said, her tone almost pitying.

  The seed in the altar pulsed ominously, its raw, tainted Ethra flooding the room. Tunde shuddered at its presence, his skin crawling with unease.

  “The flesh seed is almost complete. My mission is done, and the glory of the Great Ones will soon descend upon this place!” Mei exclaimed, her voice rising to a fever pitch.

  Tunde moved in that moment, his Ethra surging through his limbs with such power that he shot forward at the speed of a peak Lord—and then faster. He crossed the distance between them in the blink of an eye. Everything he had, everything he was, hinged on that moment. From the startled look in Mei’s eyes, Tunde knew he had succeeded.

  His essence flame, aura, and Ethra wove together into a perfect manifestation of Joran’s Wrath, engulfing his entire weapon in blazing energy. The sheer force of it cleaved through the hastily erected barrier of aura Mei summoned, a defense strong yet unprepared for the precision of his strike.

  In a blur, Tunde swapped his naginata for his relic weapon—a fang. He had timed it perfectly, the blade now mere inches from Mei’s chest. But then, his momentum stopped. Tunde froze in the air, unable to understand why.

  Mei, also immobilized, trembled visibly as she staggered back a step, her chest heaving with an uncharacteristic mix of fury and disbelief. Her gaze burned into him, but Tunde couldn’t move, couldn’t even speak. His entire form was paralyzed.

  Then came the sound—a terrible, tearing noise to his side.

  Tunde turned his eyes as far as he could, and his blood ran cold. Reality itself parted like a book being opened, revealing the infinite void beyond. And within that void, a massive, baleful yellow eye stared back at him.

  Its very gaze broke him. Tears streamed from his eyes as he floated helplessly, caught in the presence of something far beyond mortal comprehension.

  Mei fell to her knees in a prostrated bow, trembling in the shadow of the being whose presence was reality. Its voice came like the deafening clap of thunder, shaking the very foundation of existence.

  “Whole.”

  The flesh seed, as Mei had called it, pulsed with power, its tainted glow brightening as it answered the command. It leapt from the altar, latching onto Mei’s body and boring into her chest. She screamed—a sound of unbridled agony—as her body contorted, writhing under the seed’s invasion.

  The eye shifted its gaze to Tunde. In that moment, he felt so insignificant, so small—a speck in the face of an endless, merciless storm. His spirit screamed, his core trembled, fighting desperately against the overwhelming malice focused on him.

  “Kill the Pathwalker.”

  The being’s words were directed at Mei, and for the first time, a flicker of relief sparked within Tunde’s shattered mind. It wasn’t here to destroy him itself.

  Mei’s body began to rise, held aloft by dark grey, fleshy tentacles erupting from her form. The seed pulsed visibly at her chest, beating like a second heart, radiating its corrupt power. Her entire form rippled as she underwent a grotesque apotheosis.

  The eye retreated, the void closing behind it as reality stitched itself back together like a zipped seam.

  Tunde crashed to the ground, his entire body trembling, drenched in sweat that poured from every pore. He crawled backwards, terror gripping him as he watched Mei’s transformation continue, unimpeded.

  What could he do against such power? A force so immense it had bent reality itself to its will? Had he truly seen a Hegemon and survived?

  Mei’s form grew larger, monstrous. Giant, leathery wings tore free from her back, spreading wide. Her skin darkened into a mottled grey, and her once-white hair fused into writhing flesh-tentacles that hung from her head like macabre strands of a grotesque mane. A thin membrane of skin grew over her mouth, sealing it entirely except for jagged ridges beneath. Her hands elongated, the already-sharp talons extending into vicious, deadly claws.

  When she opened her eyes, they were pure milky white, devoid of any humanity. Her presence was suffocating, a force so vast and malevolent that even the walls of the chamber pulsed in rhythm with the seed lodged in her chest.

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  She raised a single talon, pointing directly at Tunde. Her voice, now ringing with an unnatural tone, thundered through the chamber.

  “Die.”

  Tunde knew, in that moment, that this was the end.

  Before her command could be fulfilled, the roof of the underground chamber exploded inward, light and dust flooding the space. Three auras descended, blazing with the overwhelming power of Masters. Their presence alone made Tunde want to sob with relief.

  “On your feet, cultivator,” boomed the voice of the Ashen Flame Sect Leader, his commanding tone cutting through the chaos.

  “We have an abomination to kill,” he added as the dust cleared, his gaze steady and resolute.

  To his side stood Ifa, gripping a quivering flesh spear that had hurtled toward him. With a flick of his wrist, the weapon erupted into blue flames, disintegrating into ash. Ifa turned to Tunde, offering him a soft, reassuring smile despite the dire circumstances.

  And to the Sect Leader’s right loomed the hulking form of the Ape King himself, his breaths deep and labored, his immense frame ready for battle.

  ***************************

  The Ape King’s eyes locked onto Mei’s grotesque form, his aura blazing outward in the shape of a giant golden ape. Tunde noticed silver lines, like liquid metal, coiling around his massive frame, forming a second layer of armor that extended even to the metal staff he held.

  “You killed my offspring,” the Ape King’s voice thundered, each word vibrating with fury. Mei’s floating form shifted slightly as her attention fixed on the true beast before her.

  “You didn’t see anything,” Ifa’s voice filtered into Tunde’s mind through Ethereal Speech, breaking his focus. Tunde snapped his head toward the elder, who gave him a subtle nod before turning his gaze back to the monstrous abomination before them.

  “What have you done?” Veyra’s voice echoed across the chamber, trembling with restrained rage.

  Mei only laughed, her tone twisted and triumphant.

  “I am the pinnacle of perfection!” she declared, her voice reverberating as though spoken by a dozen mouths at once. “I am what the zenith of cultivation looks like. Gaze upon me and witness beauty!”

  Tunde noticed three things simultaneously.

  First, the raw surge of Ethra that exploded through the underground chamber as domains—not mere dominion techniques—began to take shape. Twisting metal trees sprouted from the ground, impossibly bearing organic leaves that swayed as if alive, snaking through the air like serpents.

  Second, ash and fire swirled wildly, a storm of destruction reminiscent of the wastelands themselves.

  And third, arrays flared to life, Ifa’s power manifesting in full force. Symbols and shapes, incomprehensible to Tunde, bloomed like living patterns across the chamber, their power radiating from the elder’s unwavering stance.

  “This is not a battle for a Lord,” Ifa’s voice boomed, cutting through the chaos. “Go, help the others!”

  Tunde forced himself to his feet, his legs trembling as he stumbled forward. He gathered his aura, trying to take flight, but the very Ethra around him pressed down, restricting him. Space itself seemed locked, his movements sluggish and constrained.

  His concept shuddered, and grey essence flames erupted unbidden from his body. They tore through the restrictions like a blade slicing through silk, the void yawning open and pulling him in before he could react.

  It happened faster than thought, faster than he could marshal his Ethra or mount any defense. The void spat him out just as quickly, hurling him onto the ashen grounds of the city.

  Tunde hit the ground hard, bile rising in his throat as he retched and heaved. His knees buckled as he struggled to stand, his core drained, and his essence flame sputtering weakly, on the verge of extinction.

  He glanced behind him, his gaze drawn to the gaping wound in the northern mountain, now utterly obliterated. Violent waves of Ethra surged from the shattered peaks, buffeting him as he stumbled away, mind reeling from the sheer force of it.

  What had he been thinking?

  Sure, he was strong. Strong enough to stand toe-to-toe with Highlords. The constant torment of the Heaven’s Crucible had forged him into something far greater than a mere Lord. Tunde knew he was a Highlord trapped in a Lord’s body.

  But Mei… Mei was something else entirely now.

  Perhaps he had stood a chance when she was merely a Master—twisted and monstrous, yes, but still within the realm of mortal comprehension. But now? Nothing short of a Master could hope to stand against her.

  He tightened his grip on his relic-turned-naginata, each step he took away from the violent clash of domains growing heavier with the weight of indecision. His mind screamed that it was suicide to go back. Even a stray technique from their battle could erase him from existence.

  And yet, his very soul burned with defiance, urging him to return. To fight. To end her.

  What of his promises to the Forgesmith?

  His other hand clenched around the medallion, its weight grounding him as his thoughts raced. In the distance, he saw explosions rip through the other mountains, faintly feeling Zhu’s presence among the chaos. The Ethralite was undoubtedly locked in battle with the rest of their companions.

  Were Mei’s followers still alive? Were they the ones maintaining the mountain barriers?

  Tunde hesitated at the edge of the clashing titans’ power, torn between aiding his friends or leaving the Masters to their titanic battle. His legs gave out, and he sank to the ground, crossing them beneath him.

  The violent winds from the chasm buffeted his body, but Tunde simply sat there, swaying slightly with each gust as the weight of everything crashed down on him.

  Eyes closed, core empty, and body lighter than it had ever felt, Tunde let himself absorb the sensations around him. Techniques powerful enough to level mountains thundered below. He thought back to what had happened earlier: somehow, he had grasped a fragment of the Masters' power and shaped it to his own will, allowing him to break free of the Ethra lockdown in the air.

  That yawning black hole, the one that had cooked him and spat him out of danger—that was his doing. But how? The closer he got to the capital, the less things made sense, as though he were being tempered with every step. First came the attack by the Mist Walkers, hunters of his kind. Then, the artificer’s assault, no doubt tied to Borus.

  He inhaled deeply, allowing his core to draw in just enough of the violent Ethra swirling in the air. It coursed through his Ethra lines, subdued by the cultivation path he had forged. A drop at a time—not enough to scour his lines, but not too little to be meaningless.

  He had seen saints of flesh and spirit, and even though he hadn’t understood the profound laws and truths at the time, he had glimpsed the enormity of their power. He had seen how insignificant he was in comparison.

  As countless clouds fill the sky and grains of sand cover the earth, so too was the road of cultivation endless. It was a path meant to enlighten, but for Tunde, it had been nothing but a tempering of his body and soul. Almost as if preparing him for something greater.

  His eyes snapped open as the violent Ethra around him grew heavier, more oppressive. The very ash and sand of the ground seemed agitated, trembling as if alive. The Masters were holding back the tide of destruction within their domains, keeping it from spilling out into the rest of the world.

  Tunde stood, his weapon in hand, staring deep into the maelstrom of energies. And then, he began to walk toward it.

  As vast as the skies are, they are nothing compared to the endless void.

  His essence flame began as a flickering candle but quickly grew into a burning ball. It absorbed and refined something from the chaotic energies around him—something he couldn’t yet understand.

  To consume was the nature of the void. To cleanse all that was tainted. Such was the cycle of existence.

  His essence flame swelled into a bonfire, an overwhelming presence radiating from his very being. He was fire; he consumed all before him.

  He was the void, and his path lay between realms.

  Tunde reached the edge of the chasm, where the myriad of colors born from clashing domains obscured his view. Yet his sight pierced through the haze, and with unwavering resolve, he leaped into the storm.

  Ifa felt it—a presence not of this world—and his stomach dropped with a fear as heavy as lead.

  The other two Masters, though formidable, wouldn’t have recognized it for what it was. They might mistake it as just another manifestation of a Master’s power. But Ifa knew better. He bore scars centuries old, marks of knowledge and experience that told him exactly what they faced.

  The thought was inconceivable. How?

  The paths were sealed, shut off from Adamath. Had the Hegemons, as disconnected as they were from the flow of things, played a role in this? Impossible. If they had, the peaks of Adamath would already be nothing but molten glass and brittle bones. Nothing would remain.

  The Ape King, bruised and battered, had finally heeded Veyra’s words. He had come to see the truth for himself and found it undeniable.

  The Sect Leader’s thunderous gaze never faltered as he launched technique after technique, each infused with Ethra and his burgeoning authority, at the abomination Mei had become. Once, she had been his wife. Now, she was corrupted by the influence of something far greater.

  At times like this, Ifa wished the Seekers still existed—or that Alana, their Regent, still lived. The fang in her hand would have excised this taint from reality, tearing it from Adamath before any faction could seek to exploit it.

  Tunde, however, was weak—through no fault of his own. He was a Lord caught in the games of greater beings, struggling to keep up. No one his age should have been forced into such circumstances.

  And so, it fell to Ifa.

  With his knowledge of arrays, formations, and runes long forgotten by the world—known only to the Arcanists in their hidden floating fortress—Ifa prepared to seal away this evil. But without the fang, his efforts would be incomplete.

  It was ironic. The fang would not answer to him, only to Tunde. Whether he liked it or not, Ifa couldn’t afford to endanger the one hope the Seekers had in this lifetime.

  He wove dozens of arrays at once, the inscriptions blooming from his aura and stamping his authority onto the Masters’ combined domains. Mei’s attacks—grotesque fleshy limbs that tore through reality itself—pushed against their defenses. Each limb twisted and warped, enduring the grievous punishments inflicted by the Masters’ domains. One touch on a mortal cultivator, and they were as good as gone.

  The Ape King had survived repeated clashes with the limbs, likely due to the relic of the artificers lodged within him. Its power twisted and augmented his form, reflected in the liquid metal that coated his body. It merged with his hair and skin, repelling most of the attacks, which flaked off like rotten scales whenever they made contact.

  Ifa’s first act was to bind Mei’s form. His authority, interwoven with the other Masters, forged chains of inscriptions from ash and fire, brimming with the pseudo-life of the Ape King’s trees. They pierced her body from behind, pinning her wings even as she screamed. The first chain exploded, pushing them all back.

  That was fine. There were more where that came from.

  Ifa had been testing the limits of her connection to the seed lodged in her chest. This was their last chance to stop her before she ascended through unorthodox means, rousing greater monsters that slumbered within Adamath. Powers that would recognize Tunde for what he was—and either enslave or destroy him.

  Ifa prepared to use the forbidden technique, the Rift Sealer. It would drain him of his mortal form, reducing him to a sentient existence bound within the fang once more.

  The thought grated on him. He had just regained his body. There was so much he hadn’t experienced, so much of the world he still longed to see. But if the world itself was wiped out, what would be left to enjoy?

  Something punched through the Masters’ domain.

  A dark grey power, akin to authority yet lacking the correct essence, slammed through their barriers and struck Mei directly. Ifa’s eyes widened as he recognized the source.

  “No!” he roared, bending his authority to propel himself closer to Tunde.

  Tunde’s weapon had pierced the seed.

  Without hesitation, Ifa slammed a palm into Tunde’s back, drawing in the excess Ethra as the unstable seed exploded in a maelstrom of energy.