Color washed from Luther’s face; shame fought embarrassment. “Yes… Resources were scarce, yet the Door drinks staggering amounts of soul power. Once our hideout was exposed, I couldn’t stay on Level Thirteen…”
“Level Twelve sits in the Lower Realm. The cosmic gaze weakens there, and cultivators peak at High Immortal. With my strength and the Door’s latent force, I could operate unseen… I planned to bait them with promises of eternal life and blessings, letting volunteers offer soul power, or I’d gather the spirits of the dead from battlefields, quietly amass enough energy, then slip back, causing no wider storm.”
A shrug that looked more like self-contempt followed. “Malcolm, Morven, and their ilk were willing pawns—hungry for power, easy to steer.” His gaze met Jared’s; a rueful twist lifted his lips. “What I didn’t foresee was crossing paths with you, and the man standing behind you, Mr. Sanders…”
Silence thickened. Jared weighed the confession, the broken door, and the ghosts of empires, and felt the future tilt. He could follow the twisted logic that had driven Luther’s people, the Ghost Clan, to the edge. When an entire race dangled between extinction and rebirth, mercy became a luxury they could not afford. Even so, the memory of the riots they had sparked across Level Twelve still sat like grit behind his eyes—streets flooded with terrified refugees, healing halls overflowing, and names that would never be spoken again.
Jared cleared his throat. “Did the souls of the Flaxseed clan really make it into the Reincarnation Division?”
“Absolutely!” Luther’s answer came fast, almost stepping on Jared’s last syllable. “Mr. Sanders worked wonders; they’re all back where they belong.” He lifted both palms in a calming gesture. “Their essences are whole, not a thread frayed. The passage through the cycle only polished them; next life, they might even thank us.”
Hearing this, Jared’s shoulders loosened; the knot beneath his sternum finally slipped free. *Promise kept… Mr. Flaxseed could rest…*
The relief lasted only until he took in the landscape—a barren sweep of slate-colored earth, no wind, no songbirds, just the weight of Level Thirteen’s thicker, purer aura pressing against his skin. The laws themselves felt tighter here, as if every breath demanded a toll. Mr. Sanders hadn’t bothered with goodbyes; he had simply opened a door and dropped Jared onto Level Thirteen. The message was obvious enough: whatever could temper Jared in Level Twelve was finished.
Level Thirteen, the first rung of the Middle Realm. A stage wide enough to lose an army on—wide enough for Jared to find his place or vanish trying. But behind the thrill lurked faces: Aurelian’s crooked grin, Blaine’s scowl of pretend indifference, Oswald tracing formation lines in the dust outside Reincarnation Peak. And the Demon Lord of Vermilion clouds, loyal in his own jagged way, would think Jared had died inside the Door of Reincarnation.
He swallowed. He needed to find a way to reach them. Jared turned back to Luther. “Is there any path to Level Twelve? A channel, a token, anything that lets me make a quick trip or at least send a word?”
Luther’s mouth tightened at the corners. “Crossing the boundary isn’t like changing inns. The walls between the two levels bite unless you have a key…”
“I only managed it because our lineage guards a single World-Breaking Talisman. It burned itself to ash the moment we descended,” Luther admitted. He shook his head. “As for messages, the laws don’t match. Ordinary sigils die before they cross.”
Seeing Jared’s disappointment, Luther added, “But Mr. Sanders rarely moves without purpose. If he sent you here, he likely has plans for your friends as well… Level Thirteen holds more openings, more fuel for your growth. When your cultivation catches up, returning will be easier than walking across a courtyard.”
Jared exhaled, a long column of mist that the dry air drank in an instant. Luther was right, and so, almost certainly, was Mr. Sanders. Worrying from a distance fixed nothing. The priority was to master whatever this harsher sky demanded.
He scanned the barren horizon. “You said this is the edge of the North Abyss Wasteland. How much do you know about Level Thirteen, Luther? Where does a newcomer start?”
He had broken through the cloud-clotted sky only this morning, and the realm of Level Thirteen still smelled foreign—ice smoke, thin lightning, minerals no chart had named yet. He needed a guide before the cold finished numbing his sense of direction.
Luther stepped from behind a blue-white stone column, cloak ragged, horns chipped—a survivor of the Ghost Clan, if rumor served. He bowed with deliberate care.
“Mr. Chance, you have asked the right soul,” he said, his voice like wind scraping glass. “Though my Ghost Clan has withered, generations of us traded secrets here. I know the northern half better than most wandering spirits. Level Thirteen is vaster than the twelve skies below combined—ten times that, some say. Powers knot and snarl here: ancient sects that remember the first dawn and beast kingdoms that heed no human law. There are reclusive bloodlines that choose shadow over fame and the scattered descendants of greater clans who now live on memories…”
“Broadly, five domains divide the sky. East: Azure Firmament, where human sect banners crowd every horizon. West: Myriad Monster Mountains, pledged to the beast race. South: Skyfire Flame Continent, a furnace world of living fire and ore. North: the North Abyss Icefield that freezes our breath. Sparse treasure, sparse trouble; refugees and small banners shelter here. Center: Heaven-Origin Sacred Continent, richest Qi under these heavens, ruled by the strongest few. We stand on the rim of the North Abyss. A march of tens of thousands of kilometers south will bring us to frontier cities and trade bazaars…”
“The greatest banner here is Profound Ice Palace; rumor names its mistress Lady Aurora, at High Immortal Realm Level Seven. Lesser but still sharp are the Frost Soul Sect, Frostsnow Sword Sect, and a scattering of drifting schools.”
Jared let the names settle, each clicking onto an empty shelf in his mind. A High Immortal of the seventh level—back in Level Twelve, that stood near the summit. Here, it merely guarded a provincial palace. The gap between worlds pressed on his chest like fresh gravity.
Jared drew a slow breath. “What do you suggest? Where does a newcomer begin?”
While Luther spoke, his shoulders had lifted, pride flaring beneath the threadbare cloak. A man who bled yet still stood for a dying clan—that was a compass Jared could use.
Luther pinched his chin, eyes cloud-pale. “Mr. Chance, your power sits at Heavenly Immortal Realm Level Seven… That makes you a respected blade here, but not the sharpest. Claim a roof in one of those frontier cities first. Listen, watch, learn the price of bread and prime crystals before you pick a fight. Trade your Lower Realm trinkets for prime crystals; the coin here holds cleaner Qi than anything below.”
“The cultivation path is the same song, just sung an octave higher. Techniques, pills, treasures—all refined. If you crave speed, pledge as a guest elder to a strong house, or chase the secrets buried in ancient ruins.”
Jared eased a nod. The advice tasted practical, free of hidden hooks. First shelter, then knowledge, only then the climb.
