“Mr. Hexford… Disaster… The Soul Urn stolen… The gold-robed master…” The words were severed, throttled by silence. Ash drifted down like gray snow, settling across the marble floor as though mourning what was still to come.
Drystan’s easy smile vanished. Eyes bulged wide as shields. He slammed the desk; oak detonated beneath his palm, splinters spraying like shrapnel. A torrent of spiritual power erupted, rolling through the chamber in crushing waves.
Cultivators toppled, faces drained chalk-white, dropping to their knees without a breath to spare. He paced, one thunderous step, then another, boots drumming a war-beat against stone. Each stride bled fury. In his glare burned a promise to set the world itself alight.
The Soul Urn was no mere vessel, it was the keystone in a pact between Sixth Hall and the Malevolent Path Hall, a clandestine engine that minted profit from lingering souls. Its loss would not only enrage that formidable ally but also derail the grand design entrusted by Enaricus.
Drystan knew Enaricus’ methods, swift, merciless, and fond of sending warnings no one survived to recount. If this scheme failed, even Drystan might perish without understanding how the blade found his heart.
In the vast, brooding corridors of the Celestial King Palace, court intrigue simmered like oil above a hidden flame. Onneas of the Fourth Hall wielded greater influence, his every word buoyed by the Celestial King’s silent backing.
Enaricus had been forced into shadowy alliance with the ruthless Malevolent Path Hall, trading favors for strength simply to keep his footing within the ever-shifting hierarchy.
Now the Soul Urn lay in shards. If the Malevolent Path Hall chose to sever ties in the wake of that disaster, every delicate balance Enaricus had brokered would collapse overnight.
Drystan drew a breath so deep his chest trembled. Rage thundered within him, an unsteady volcano barely capped by sheer will, yet forced it down, jaw locked, eyes blazing.
He wheeled toward the doors and barked, “Find the one who dared violate Celestial Palace property in Blackwind City! If you return empty-handed, do not bother returning at all!”
The shout rolled out like summer thunder, rattling pillars and courage alike.
“Yes, sir!” dozens of cultivators answered at once. They scattered down the marble steps in frantic haste, each man moving as though a hungering beast snapped at his heels.
Barely thirty minutes later, a cultivator who had gone to scout stumbled back through the archway, breath ragged, robes clinging with cold sweat. His face was paper-white, legs so weak crawled the final yards across polished stone before collapsing in a kneel at Drystan’s feet.
“S-Sir… We discovered the culprit. It was… Someone who calls himself Jared Chance…” The name quivered in the man’s throat.
“Jared Chance?” Drystan echoed, disbelief slicing through his anger. For an instant, his pupils shrank. Memories flooded back, this was the rebel who had crossed the Celestial Palace at every turn.
How is even alive?!
Drystan wondered, panic prickling beneath his skin.
Only weeks ago, Jared had been hounded across level six by the Soul Devourer. Drystan knew nothing of Fire Spirit Lord’s last-minute rescue, and the ignorance made the revelation hit harder.
“You are certain destroyed the Soul Urn?” Drystan’s voice, usually iron, steady, trembled with incredulity.
“Certain, sir!” The scout nodded so violently it might have broken his own neck. “Witnesses matched his description, and declared his name aloud before the slaughter began.”
“He not only shattered the urn,” the man continued, “He consumed every trapped soul, sealed Mr. Hews’ cultivation, and let the duped cultivators tear Mr. Hews apart with their own teeth.”
Cold dread speared up Drystan’s spine. He swayed, clutching an armrest to keep from collapsing as icy sweat filmed his brow.
