Night had finally fallen over the Sunken Expanse.
Inside the ruined marble temple, the warm, crackling orange glow of a campfire illuminated the room. The oppressive, rotting chill of the wetlands was held at bay by the flames, creating a small sanctuary of life within the dead Empire.
The atmosphere was nothing short of jubilant.
Not only had the miracle herbs completely healed their shattered bones and torn meridians, but the combination of the miraculous medicine and the life-or-death pressure of the Taurus Fiend had triggered massive breakthroughs.
Sira sat near the fire, her eyes closed as a faint crystalline aura pulsed steadily around her. She had shattered the bottleneck of the True Profound Realm, officially stepping into the Low Level of the Spirit Profound Realm. Across from her, Kael and Elon were practically brimming with excess energy, both having surged to the Peak of the True Profound Realm.
But the most terrifying change was in Vane.
The leader of the group sat quietly, staring into the flames. He didn't look different, but to Leon's sharp senses, his presence felt as heavy and deep as a mountain. With the birth of his Sword Intent and the aid of the miracle herb, Vane had crossed the impossible chasm, stabilizing himself at the Low Level of the Earth Profound Realm.
Leon, however, was focused on something far more immediate—food.
His own cheap, stale rations had run out two days ago, and right now he was happily tearing into a massive slab of roasted spirit-beast meat that Kael had pulled from his spatial ring. The meat was tender, incredibly juicy, and practically melted in his mouth, seasoned with expensive spices that tasted like heaven after days of starvation.
I need one of those rings, Leon thought, his gaze lingering on the simple silver band on Kael's finger. Because time and space were sealed within spatial rings, the meat hadn't rotted at all—it was as fresh as the day it had been cooked. For a discarded prince who had spent years counting coppers, the sheer utility of such an item made his chest tighten with quiet longing.
"Wash it down, little brother," Kael said with a grin, casually tossing a leather gourd across the fire.
Leon caught it smoothly, uncorked it, and took a deep pull. A sweet, warming wine flowed down his throat, sending a comfortable heat into his dantian. He let out a satisfied sigh. "I have to admit," he said, leaning back against a pillar, "for a group that almost got turned into sludge a few hours ago, you all look unusually cheerful."
Kael laughed loudly, unfazed. "Surviving the impossible tends to do that! Besides—" he gestured toward Vane with exaggerated pride, "—Senior Brother just stepped into the Earth Profound Realm. That's not something you stay quiet about."
Leon nodded slightly. "That is… impressive." Even his royal siblings, backed by the full resources of the kingdom, had yet to reach that level. The thought lingered in his mind—resources alone clearly weren't everything; talent and environment are also big factors. He glanced at them again, thinking of the broader world.
"My knowledge outside the Chromewell Empire is limited. I've heard of the Four Great Empires and the Four Great Mystical Lands, including these wetlands… and the Three Great Sects, but don't know much about them. Can you tell me something about your Heavenly Tribulation Sword Sect?"
Elon swallowed his food and straightened slightly, his tone turning more measured. "It is larger than you imagine. Our sect houses nearly one hundred thousand disciples."
Leon nearly choked on his wine. "A hundred thousand? How do they even manage that?"
"It's a strict hierarchy," Sira said calmly, opening her eyes as her aura settled back into her body. "Elon, Kael, and I are Outer Court disciples—the foundation of the sect. Most disciples remain there, competing endlessly for resources, techniques, and opportunities. We've been in the Outer Court for over forty years."
Leon froze, the wine gourd hovering mid-air as he stared at their unblemished, youthful faces. "You're… in your fifties?"
Kael burst into booming laughter, slapping his knee. "You're forgetting, little brother—cultivation slows aging! Once you reach the True Profound Realm, your physical prime lasts a very long time. Fifty is barely considered young."
Right, Leon muttered inwardly, mentally adjusting his entire perception of age. Never assume anyone's age!
"Only a small fraction ever reach the Inner Court," Sira continued. "That's where Vane stands. He was promoted a few years ago—he's considered one of the promising talents of our generation."
Vane shook his head slightly, his voice calm and grounded. "Do not exaggerate. I am only at the lowest rung of the Inner Court. The true geniuses… are far beyond me. The Core Disciples, especially—they possess strength comparable to sect elders. My Sword Intent is insignificant in comparison."
Leon fell silent. A man who had just slain an Earth Profound beast was calling himself insignificant. The scale of the world shifted dramatically in his mind.
"And above the Core Disciples are the Elders," Elon added, "then Prime Elders… and finally, the Ancestors."
"Ancestors?" Leon asked.
"Former Sect Leaders," Vane answered. "They have stepped down and cultivate in seclusion. Very little is known about them… only that they exist." Elon's voice lowered, filled with reverence. "At the very top stands the Sect Leader—the undisputed master of the Heavenly Tribulation Sword Sect."
Leon leaned forward slightly. "What kind of person commands a hundred thousand swordsmen?"
Vane's eyes reflected the firelight. "He is known only by his title… The Silent Sword."
Leon blinked. "Silent? His sword makes no sound?"
"Not quite," Vane said softly. "His sword has not been drawn in over three thousand years. And when it is drawn… it erases all sound from the world."
Leon's eyes widened. Hasn't drawn it for three thousand years? How old was he!
"That sounds… terrifying. Why hasn't he drawn it for so long?"
Kael's tone, for once, lost its humor entirely. "Because when he does… it means annihilation. The kind of war that could shake the foundations of the world itself."
Silence fell over the group, heavy enough so that even the crackling of the campfire seemed to quiet down. Leon stared into the dying embers, his mind struggling to comprehend a level of power that could threaten the foundations of the world just by unsheathing a blade.
Sira's voice broke the stillness, gentle yet steady. "But power alone is not what defines our sect. Our doctrine is the Righteous Sword Heart. We do not draw our blades for greed or cruelty—we draw them to uphold justice." Her gaze met Leon's. "When we were paralyzed… you didn't run. Even earlier, against overwhelming odds, you stood your ground. That matters."
I used your sympathy to survive, Leon thought, a pang of guilt twisting in his gut.
"If we survive this place," Sira continued, her tone soft but sincere, "you should consider joining us. People like you… are valued in our sect."
Leon looked around the fire. Kael gave him an encouraging grin. Elon nodded quietly. Vane said nothing, but his steady gaze carried immense weight.
Growing up as a discarded prince, Leon had learned to view everyone as either a threat or a tool. Trust was a luxury he couldn't afford in the Empire. But sitting here in the warmth of the fire, listening to their laughter and their unshakeable principles, the wall in his chest finally cracked. They were unlike the other people in the palace. They were his first friends in the outside world.
Leon didn't offer a tearful confession or explain his past deception. He simply smiled—a quiet, genuine expression that finally reached his eyes. "I'll think about it," he said quietly. "But first… we need to survive this place."
Kael grinned immediately. "That's the spirit! Now pass the wine—you've been hogging it."
Laughter returned, easing the tension. They spent the next few hours talking and resting, enjoying a fragile peace within the ruins. Eventually, the fire burned low, and the group settled down.
"We rotate watch," Vane said calmly. "Leon, you rest first."
Leon shook his head, standing up. "I've had enough rest. I'll take the first watch."
Vane studied him briefly, then nodded.
One by one, the others drifted into sleep. Even Vane eventually closed his eyes, though his posture remained alert. Leon sat near the entrance, his sword resting across his knees as he stared out into the silent ruins. The wetlands felt entirely too quiet.
I'll get out of here alive along with them.
The night passed without incident, though Leon's grip on his hilt never fully relaxed. When dawn finally broke, casting a pale, bruised light through the violet clouds, the sharp chill of the morning air snapped him fully awake. He stood up, his joints popping, and a sudden realization struck him.
It had been almost seven days since he entered the wetlands.
Back in the Fittora Barony, people were waiting for him. The tribute deadline loomed closer. The pressure settled quietly in his chest, hardening his resolve to get back faster, but he knew that even if he got there faster—in his current state, he wouldn't be able to do much. The leader of the bandit group was said to be at the Spirit Profound Realm; he couldn't win against them. His only choice was to pay the tribute. So, the best choice was to get as strong as possible and hoard as many treasures as possible before exiting the wetlands.
The dawn of the next day arrived.
"Guys, wake up. We move out," Vane said, turning back toward the sleeping group. His voice was solid and firm. "We have ruins to conquer."