"We can't let him escape. Capture him alive — or kill him." The leader's voice snapped; fury burned in his eyes.
He weaved through the midnight city's twisting alleys. His body could not hold much longer. Every second stretched into an eternity. It was only a matter of moments before the young cultivator found the gates of the mansion he once called home.
"I'm finally here… just wait until I—" He gasped for breath, chest heaving like bellows. "When I recover, you'll all pay. Every single group that hunted me down like a dog."
"Who goes there?" a guard barked.
His body folded in on itself and collapsed. A guard rushed forward to drive him off — until recognition stopped him cold.
"Hurry!" another guard yelled, panic threading his voice. "Call the Patriarch and Matriarch. The young master has returned—badly wounded!"
How had he made it here in this condition?
"We're running out of time!" a gate guard snapped, barking orders as if his life depended on them.
In minutes everyone at the front of the mansion scrambled for healers and medicants.
From the shadows beyond the perimeter, a handful of cultivators watched coldly as the lone figure was dragged inside.
"What now, Leader?" one of them asked.
"He's crippled," the leader replied, frost in his tone. "If he leaves, capture or kill him. Post sentries around the mansion. Monitor everything. If anything happens, inform me immediately."
"We'll leave before anyone notices us," another cultivaor whispered, and the group dissolved into the night.
--
Deep inside the mansion, a room was dimly lit by magic orbs embedded in the ceiling. While incense burned, heavy oppression and deadly stillness governed the room like a judge presiding over court.
Several figures with overwhelming auras stood over the young cultivator who had been carried in from outside the mansion gate, half-dead and barely clinging to life.
"What is the situation?" asked the Midnight Clan's Patriarch, arms crossed. His aura was vast and tempestuous, like a storm brewing in the distance.
The lead medic sighed with regret.
"Patriarch Murda, this young cultivator has a damaged core. The strain on his meridians is extreme. I'm surprised they didn't shatter completely. His body contains only a fragment of life force—it's a miracle he made it back alive, let alone in one piece."
Murda stared deep into the medic's eyes, as though searching for even the faintest hint of deceit. The lead medic did not avert his gaze.
"There are a few options," the medic continued, "though none are ideal.
First option: restart his cultivation from the beginning. This is his best chance to recover, though nothing is guaranteed.
Second option: attempt to mend his damaged core and rebuild his body. However, this carries far greater risk and would cost him all his previous body tempering and battle prowess."
As the lead medic spoke, Murda's thoughts wandered. Memories of his youth surfaced—those fierce days when he fought tooth and nail for the right to become Patriarch of the Midnight Clan.
Known for his unbreakable defense and mastery of Earth, Metal, and Darkness, Murda had once been infamous for his raw power and ruthless tactics. He was the architect of domination on any battlefield.
Yet time had changed much. Murda had been the former patriarch once—forced to reclaim the title when no proper heir could be found. His son, once destined to inherit the clan, had shown boundless promise... until his life was cruelly cut short.
Such was the way of cultivators—where blessings and calamities always walked hand in hand.
Murda turned toward the figure seated in a refined, elegant chair.
"What is your opinion, Loaded?"
The man had a slim yet robust frame and appeared to be in his mid-forties. Strands of gray marked his temples, and his simple yet refined attire evoked the air of a spiritual monk. Beaded bracelets adorned his left wrist, while meditation beads hung from his neck.
This was Loaded, Patriarch of the Night Clan.
Loaded regarded the situation with quiet amusement. His presence was vastly different from Murda's. If Murda was a raging storm, then Loaded was the calm before a war—the silent formation of legions awaiting command.
"Hard to tell," Loaded said casually. "No one can predict Heaven's will. Heaven bestows life and death as it pleases. What it gives, it may take just as easily."
Despite his calm tone, the pressure in the room swelled.
"What concerns me more," he continued, "is why this cub was the last to return from the mission the Elder assigned. Other than him, only two returned—and that was over a year ago."
Murda's eyes narrowed. "We know there are people moving in the shadows—playing sinister games, believing they control the board. They know nothing." His voice carried thick disdain.
Loaded pressed further. "Then why wasn't this cub properly trained at your estate, Murda?"
The tension in the room spiked. The old rivalry between the Midnight and Night Clans ran deep, and neither side held affection for the other.
Loaded's voice sharpened. "If I recall correctly, he accepted that Elder's mission while under your watch."
He leaned forward, his words laced with venom. "If it weren't for your thieving son stealing my only daughter—the heavens' one blessing to me—and having this child who now lies half-dead, I'd end his existence myself."
Loaded glanced at the unconscious youth on the bed, disgust clear in his eyes.
"However," he continued, "he is the only remaining member of my Night Clan's main branch. As much as I would enjoy trading more words with you, let us focus on the matter at hand."
His killing intent surged, raw and unrestrained. Loaded was decisive—too decisive to have survived this long any other way.
"Enough!"
The voice, firm yet alluring, cut through the tension.
A mature woman who usually radiated seductive grace now wore a frosty expression. This was Glory, Murda's wife and the current Matriarch of the Midnight Clan.
Beside her sat Sayaro Night, Matriarch of the Night Clan.
In the Liger power structure, the men decided when to wield military might, while the women governed the clans' daily affairs—and often, the fate of individuals who did not hold significant standing.
Glory's tone was calm but commanding.
"What matters most is that Sifir has returned. Once he recovers from these injuries, we can form our plans and move forward. Until then, we will bide our time."
The room fell silent again. The incense smoke curled between the two patriarchs, thick with unspoken grudges and memories of the dead.
Only the faint, ragged breathing of the wounded youth broke the silence—proof that, for now, Sifir still clung to life.
---
While the discussion continued outside, something remarkable stirred within Sifir's spiritual realm.
A faint light pulsed inside the vast darkness of his consciousness—rippling like water disturbed by a falling star.
Sifir gasped and staggered to his feet, looking around. "Where is this place? And what's the purpose of me doing what you're telling me to do?" he demanded, breathing heavily.
A deep, amused voice echoed all around him.
"Haha... if it weren't for me, you'd have perished back there. It was you who woke me from my slumber."
The voice continued, tone casual but filled with disdain.
"Your cultivation level is low and unimpressive. To think I had to save a pitiful ant like you... how shameful."
Sifir's eyes darted through the shifting mist. "Then where am I?"
"You are inside your inner world," the voice said. "Now, let's get down to business. Tell me—how much strength do you think you need to possess to exact revenge on that Elder?"
Sifir's expression hardened. "Enough," he said, though hesitation trembled in his voice.
The voice let out a cold chuckle.
"You sound laughable! Simply put, this is the fastest and most prudent course of action. What other choices do you have?"
Sifir fell silent. As much as he despised it, the words carried truth.
The voice spoke again, steady and cold.
"If you rebuild your foundation the normal way, it will take at least fifteen years—and that's assuming no setbacks, no ambushes, no betrayals. You would be starting from nothing."
Its tone sharpened, like metal scraping stone.
"But if you follow my plan, you'll forge a stronger foundation. Your body will surpass its previous limits, even within the same realm, and your fighting prowess will rise to heights you never imagined."
Sifir's brow furrowed. "And how long would that take?"
"Seven years," the voice replied without hesitation. "The first year will be devoted entirely to recovery and body tempering. This is not negotiable."
"The second year, you will focus on mastering the Midnight Clan's basic techniques and skills. From what I've seen, you can only execute about forty percent of them effectively."
"The third year, you will train in the Night Clan's techniques. Your current execution is sloppy and inconsistent."
"The fourth year, you will begin cultivating a method known as the Nine Noble Truths, found within the Midnight Clan. I don't care how you obtain it—you must."
"In the fifth year, you will seek out a cultivation method from the Night Clan, called Sincerity of No Truth. It is among their top-tier methods. Again, I don't care how you acquire it. You must have it."
"The sixth and seventh years will be the key. You will alternate between both cultivation methods. That's when the true transformation will begin—your cultivation will rise rapidly, and you will break through to the Heaven Realm."
Sifir stood silently, absorbing every word. His thoughts churned.
'Even if I could get my hands on those two cultivation methods, both clans would never grant them to me freely. Why is this mysterious being helping me?'
He knew full well how tightly guarded such methods were. Though Sifir held importance to both clans by blood, neither would simply hand him such treasures. Attempting to obtain them might well sign his death warrant.
"I'll try it your way," Sifir said finally. "It's true—you did save me. But I have one question: how does this benefit you?"
The voice grew colder, every word echoing like frost.
"At least you understand that nothing in this world is free."
"I do have a purpose. But for now, you are too weak to be of use to me. When you reach the True Emperor Realm, I will tell you what I require. Until then, consider this an investment in your future—and in my return."
Sifir's eyes widened. A sudden shock rippled through his body, and he let out a low groan. The light within his spiritual realm flared, flooding everything in white.
-
The faint twitch drew every eye. The powerful figures turned in unison, surprise cutting through the lingering tension. They had expected Sifir to lie unconscious for days—certainly not stir in mere hours.
"Sifir!!!" Murda barked, leaping forward.
"Lower your voice, Patriarch Murda. Can't you see he's barely awake?" Sayaro Night sneered, cold and clipped.
"Apologies, Matriarch Sayaro," Murda said, sheepish but still urgent.
Sayaro inclined her head and then fixed her gaze on the bed. "Now, Sifir—can you tell us anything?"
Sifir's voice was thin but steady. "Give me seven years to recover my cultivation. I will become the sharpest blade of the Midnight and Night houses. I only need seven years and two cultivation methods."
The chamber fell heavy with silence. Seven years could change everything; seven years could destroy it. Nobody dared dismiss what Sifir claimed—yet few could imagine how he could possibly pull it off. Still, Murda and Loaded watched him closely, noting the raw hunger for revenge burning behind his eyes.
Loaded's expression went cool, a faint, dangerous light in his gaze. "We cannot promise you anything. The Night Clan is not obliged to shelter you for recovery. But you are my daughter's son. What I can do… is end your misery." His words carried binding finality.
Murda's face folded into thought. Options are scarce. Who among the young could rise fast enough? Perhaps this is misfortune braided with a strange blessing. He looked at Sifir again, a faint frown cutting his features.
"Listen," Murda said at last, voice low and hard. "I will not promise miracles. But I will personally oversee your training. There are candidates among the younger generation—if you do not match effort with result, I will end you myself. Patriarch Loaded, I will not allow you to kill him. If it comes to it, I will risk my life for this child."
Loaded barked a mirthless laugh. "Murda, you never were one to gamble. Still—despite our differences, and despite the stronger talents in my clan, I will give you a chance. He is my daughter's son."
"I will grant you one year for recovery," Murda said, voice like iron. "Prepare yourself for hellish training."
"I mirror Patriarch Murda's pledge," Loaded added. "Do not let Murda's faith in you turn to ash. Use that year to prepare."
The council broke. Members filed out of the dim room, leaving Sifir alone under the soft glow of the orbs.
Bones tired, breaths shallow, he stared at the ceiling and whispered to himself, voice raw with promise:
"I, Sifir Midnight, will rise again. I will kill those who must die. This is the road of cultivation—I begin again."
After a moment more, the wound of thought eased; his eyelids dropped, and he slipped back into a dreamlike haze—this time with a spark of something new burning faintly beneath his ribs.