The night air is thick with the scent of smouldering lanterns and damp stone as De steps through the dimly lit streets of Ironhold. The city is never truly silent—not with so many warriors gathered, each carrying their ambitions like sharpened blades.
But tonight, there is a different weight in the air.
A presence.
Not subtle.
Not hidden.
Deliberate.
De does not break stride, but his awareness sharpens. Whoever tested him the night before has chosen to reveal themselves.
They are not watching from the shadows this time.
They are waiting for him.
The quiet streets lead him toward a courtyard surrounded by worn, ancient walls, remnants of a forgotten part of Ironhold, now repurposed by wandering cultivators as a place for unofficial duels and discussions that should not be overheard.
And there, beneath the flickering glow of paper lanterns, stands the one who has come for him.
A figure clad in dark crimson robes, their presence unmistakably commanding.
They do not hide their aura.
They let it be known.
Powerful. Controlled. A presence that does not ask for attention—it claims it.
A sword rests at their hip, the sheath simple, but the craftsmanship precise. A warrior's blade, not meant for ornamentation, but for use.
This is not another arrogant young master.
This is a representative of something greater.
A force that does not believe in waiting.
The figure speaks first, their voice low but carrying.
"You have drawn attention, Cheon Ma De."
De stops a few paces away, his expression unreadable. He expected this.
The figure tilts their head slightly, studying him. "Last night was a courtesy. We see now that you are worth more than rumor."** A pause. Then—"Which means we are done with shadows."
They gesture toward the courtyard's open space.
"Speak with me."
Not an invitation.
A summons.
De steps forward, his movements neither hesitant nor aggressive—a quiet, steady confidence.
He does not bow.
He does not acknowledge authority where none has been earned.
The representative seems neither offended nor surprised. If anything, their expression hints at approval.
"Your name has begun to travel," they continue, their hands resting loosely at their sides, but their stance betraying an ever-present readiness. "Not just among wandering cultivators. Not just among the fools who call themselves young masters. But among those who know how to recognize potential."**
They tilt their head. "I trust you understand what that means."
De does not speak.
Because he does understand.
Power moves quickly in a place like this. Those without it scramble for protection. Those with it must decide how to wield it before someone decides for them.
The representative watches his silence, then speaks again.
"Our sect does not wait. We do not extend open invitations like the others. We choose, and we take."
They let that statement settle before continuing.
"You have until sunrise to decide if you wish to be among those who stand at the peak or those who are trampled beneath it."
A pause.
Then—a final weight behind their words.
"If you refuse, then you must prove to us why you deserve the right to stand alone."
De watches them carefully. This is not an offer.
This is a statement of intent.
Join, or be tested.
There is no flattery. No pretense of mutual benefit.
This force does not offer strength—they take those who already have it.
And if he refuses, they will not simply walk away.
They will make him prove that his power belongs to no one but himself.
The moment stretches between them, heavy with unspoken challenge.
Solar shifts slightly beside him, her body tense but still.
The representative holds his gaze, waiting.
This is where the real game begins.
The air between them shifts.
Not with hostility. Not with reckless aggression.
But with something heavier.
Expectation.
The representative watches De with measured patience, their words lingering in the silence between them. This is not a game to them.
They have spoken.
They have chosen.
And now, they are waiting for him to do the same.
De does not look away.
He does not shift.
He does not allow even the smallest reaction of uncertainty to form.
His voice, when it comes, is steady. Unwavering.
"I do not belong to you."
The words are neither sharp nor arrogant. They simply are.
The weight behind them settles like a blade unsheathed, clean and absolute.
He does not raise his voice. He does not need to.
He does not give them explanations. He does not need to.
He does not look for approval. Because he does not seek it.
This is not a negotiation.
It is a fact.
The representative studies him for a long moment, their expression unreadable.
They do not immediately react.
They do not argue.
Because they understand what they are seeing.
They see a man who does not fear being alone.
They see a man who does not need to be accepted.
They see a man who walks forward because it is simply the path he has chosen.
A slow exhale leaves the representative's lips.
Then, finally—a small, knowing smile.
As if they knew this would be the answer all along.
As if they had only come here to see it for themselves.
The moment stretches, the night air thick with the weight of the unspoken.
Then, at last, the representative tilts their head slightly.
"Then prove it."
No threats.
No second chances.
Just those two words.
A pulse of intent radiates outward—not anger, not resentment.
But a test.
A demand from those who have no patience for wasted strength.
Solar tenses beside De, her golden-violet eyes gleaming. She knows what comes next.
De does too.
He does not sigh. He does not frown.
He expected this the moment he said no.
The representative gestures toward the courtyard's open space once more.
"Step forward. Show us why you do not need us."