A chorus of grateful voices echoed across the Soul Convergence Altar. Cultivators surged toward the gold-robed cultivator, bowing and scraping as if salvation itself wore his embroidered sleeves. None of them sensed the invisible pit yawning beneath their feet, a pit dug with missing fragments of their own souls.
Edison lifted one modest hand, pretending humility. Yet a needle, thin gleam of cruelty flickered behind his lashes.
Their spiritual flow will sour soon enough. When their strength withers and their minds go dull, they will feed my Soul Urn to the brim! The thought curled his lips into a chill, private smile.
“Fools…” The single word, low and blade-sharp, drifted from a shadowed corner. Jared’s voice sliced through the false jubilation like steel through silk, every syllable ringing with disdain.
The word crashed over the altar, a clap of thunder on a clear day, shattering the veneer of harmony and leaving an uneasy hush in its wake.
Heads snapped around. Gratitude soured to hostility. Eyes that had glowed with devotion toward Edison now burned with anger at the man who had dared disturb their moment.
The burly, bearded brute jabbed a calloused finger toward Jared. “You again, snake! Our advancement is none of your concern. Can’t stand to see others rise, can you?!”
Jared ignored the outburst. He stared straight at Edison, his tone flat as a Judge’s gavel. “Hand over the Soul Urn.”
The command carried no shout, yet it drilled straight into the cultivator’s chest, twin spear-points of intent that made Edison’s heart stumble.
Edison’s smile faltered. He spread his hands in feigned confusion. “Soul Urn? Dear friend, I have no idea…”
Even as spoke inched backward, fingers brushing the cool edge of a message talisman at his belt.
I must reach Master Drystan. Stall him, just long enough!
Silent prayers chased one another through his mind, begging Drystan to arrive before this storm broke.
A scoff answered him. Jared’s figure dissolved, re-forming in a blur at the altar’s pinnacle. In the same breath, his right hand plunged into the central recess, swift and certain, as though fate itself had sketched the motion beforehand.
Panic burst across Edison’s face.
Snatching open an ornate folding fan, struck at Jared’s unprotected back and shouted, “Fellow cultivators! This thief dares to rob the Celestial Palace. He will shatter your newfound cultivation. Stop him, now!”
The freshly advanced crowd needed no second urging. Resentment became rage; a dozen figures leapt, weapons flashing, spiritual light sputtering like torches in the wind. Their cultivation was ragged, but their fury raw.
Jared did not bother to turn. Power erupted from him, immense, silent, inevitable. It descended like a mountain of night, pressing upon every stone, every lung, every frightened heartbeat. Air thickened to syrup, even sound seemed to freeze.
The charging cultivators halted mid-stride, pinned as if giant nails had been driven through their shadows. Terror bloomed on their faces.
Only then did they realize the bitter truth, the spiritual energy that had moments ago felt so fluid now clotted within them, sluggish and mute.
An unseen cage of pressure bound their meridians, leaving them powerless, helpless offerings at the mouth of the abyss they had cheered into being.
“H-How can this be? My spiritual energy…” a lone cultivator stammered, one trembling hand drifting to the center of his brow.
The moment his fingertips brushed skin, felt it, more than a needle, point sting, there was a hollow, echoing emptiness where his soul once anchored.
The vacancy throbbed like an old wound reopened, raw and ice-cold. Terror flooded him. Regret slammed in after it, merciless and late, far, far too late.
Around him, the other cultivators finally registered the same truth. Joy from their so-called breakthrough drained from every face, leaving a chalky pallor and wide, hunted eyes.
They understood, at last, the abyss they had stepped into, yet had no idea how to claw back out.
