The petals of Lorian Vale's famed Nightblossoms drifted lazily through the air, glowing faintly under the moonlight. A serene calm settled over the city, masking the undercurrent of tension that had slowly grown since the arrival of foreign cultivators for the Lower Sky Orders tournament.
Kael sat at the edge of a lotus bridge, his legs hanging over the side as he watched the glowing fish beneath the water's surface. The forge trials felt distant now, like a dream etched in fire. Here, in the soft hum of the city's night, his mind was allowed stillness.
Arien approached quietly. "You've been out here since sunset."
"I needed the quiet," Kael replied, not turning. "Too many voices in the daytime. Too many eyes."
Arien chuckled, sitting beside him. "You're a walking anomaly now, Kael. Word spreads. Everyone wants to see the boy who forged his path through Ashveil without an inheritance."
Kael's gaze drifted upward. "They don't see me. They see a story."
"Maybe," Arien said with a shrug. "But stories move people. Maybe it's time to shape the one they're telling about you."
Silence stretched between them. Then Kael broke it with a question. "Tell me something, Arien. About this world. About how it's shaped… how it's divided."
Arien raised an eyebrow, but then nodded. "You really don't know much, do you?"
"No," Kael admitted. "Ashmere was… very far from everything."
Arien drew a breath, glancing out at the city lights beyond the trees. "Alright. The world as we know it is called the Withered Realm. It's ancient. No one alive knows how it truly began. But what matters is that it's split into four major territories."
She raised a finger. "North is the Frigid Wastes and the Empire of Cold Star—ice cultivators, warlords, and ancient fortresses carved into mountain hearts. Dangerous, secretive, but powerful."
"East lies the Verdant Spiral—jungles, marshes, and the great Life Clans. Their cultivation focuses on longevity, growth, and soul-linked beasts."
"South," she continued, "is the Scorched Expanse. Endless deserts, fire-blooded warriors, and the old flame sects. That's where the Ashveil Forge was built, long ago."
"And West?"
Arien paused. "The Shattered Coasts. A region ruled by sea clans and nomadic sects. Their path is tied to water, storms, and the deep soul. Dangerous because of its unpredictability. Like the ocean."
Kael absorbed the information. "And Lorian Vale?"
"This is neutral ground. The Floating Petal Alliance. A meeting place of orders that don't align fully with any region. And where we are now—this tournament—is run by the Lower Sky Orders, the weakest tier of recognized cultivation sects."
"There are tiers?" Kael asked, surprised.
"Four." Arien held up fingers again. "Lower Sky Orders. Middle Sky Orders. High Sky Orders. And at the top, the Heavenroot Orders. Each level controls resources, inheritance access, and dominion over territories. Cultivators from weaker sects often seek to climb the ranks through tournaments like this."
Kael leaned back. "And clans?"
Arien smiled faintly. "They're different. Sects teach methods and accept disciples. Clans are bloodbound legacies—heritage and power passed down. Sometimes a clan and a sect are one, like the Veylan House. Sometimes they compete."
Kael was quiet for a long time. "How many of them… would want someone like me gone?"
Arien smirked. "All of them, if you grow too fast."
A voice interrupted their thoughts.
"You speak of clans and sects as if they matter. But out here… only strength speaks."
They turned. A girl stood at the edge of the bridge. Her robe was grey like stormclouds, her sleeves lined with silver thread. Her eyes shimmered faintly—a mark of soul cultivation.
"Sera," Kael said, recognizing her. "Listening in again?"
Sera Veylan stepped forward and sat cross-legged across from them. "Just making sure you don't forget you've made enemies already."
"I thought I'd earned your approval," Kael said mildly.
"You did," she said with a sharp smile. "Which means I'm watching you closely now. A single step backward, and you fall."
Arien looked between them. "Are you two going to be friends or rivals?"
"Both," Sera said without hesitation.
Kael looked at her. "Why are you really here, Sera?"
Sera's expression changed—just a flicker, like a crack in a mask. "Because you're not the only one this tournament is watching. There are other eyes. From higher orders. From clans that don't like the idea of a sectless boy standing on the same stage as their heirs."
"And you?" Kael asked.
"I…" she hesitated. "I want to see what kind of storm you'll bring. And whether I'll have to survive it… or ride it."
She stood. "You'll need allies soon, Kael. More than a smith and a shadowwalker."
She turned and vanished into the drifting petals.
Kael looked to Arien. "A storm, huh?"
Arien gave him a sidelong glance. "You're not wrong to worry, Kael. The other competitors—they're not just young hopefuls. Many are hidden heirs, with techniques passed through generations. Some have sacred beasts bound to them. Others have been trained by silent masters their whole lives."
"And me?" Kael asked.
"You," Arien said with a grin, "have burned, bled, and climbed out of nothing. You're the wild card."
Kael's fingers clenched at his side. "Then let them come. I'll show them what a storm forged from ruin looks like."
And above them, the sky rumbled faintly—as if answering.