As they approached Cold Steel City, Purple Night and Fall Night slowed their pace, taking in their surroundings. The towering steel-gray walls loomed above, glistening faintly beneath the cold sun. A heavy mist rolled along the streets beyond the gate, blending seamlessly with the lingering dampness from the Misty Rain Forest.
The guards stationed outside stiffened at the sight of them—two figures clad in darkness, silent and composed, radiating danger. To the guards, they looked like rebels, the kind of people who could start a war with just a glance.
One guard's gaze lingered on Fall Night—his black mask, dark robes, and the long cloak lined with grey that swayed faintly in the wind. The other's eyes narrowed on Purple Night, sensing something regal and predatory beneath her calm.
"State your purpose in Cold Steel City," one of the guards demanded coldly.
Purple Night—known to outsiders as Fall Night—answered smoothly.
"We're here under Patriarch Murda's command. Conducting an inspection."
The other guard frowned sharply.
"We've received no notice from Lord Murda."
Fall Night's tone didn't waver. "Simple. We're under Legion Three, directly appointed by the Patriarch himself. That gives us full clearance—and no need for advance notice. Now, step aside."
"Verification?" the guard pressed.
Without hesitation, Fall Night produced a Midnight Clan token. Its dark silver gleam pulsed faintly with spiritual light. The guard's expression soured instantly; that token was unmistakably authentic—and high-ranking.
He returned it quickly, bowing stiffly as the two walked past him and through the gate.
The city within buzzed with restless life—cultivators, merchants, and beast tamers shouting deals across the wide avenues. The scent of incense and steel hung heavy in the air. Jewels glimmered on traders' stalls; spirit beasts howled in the distance. Fall Night's eyes wandered, tracing the movement of blacksmith hammers and inscribers at work. Purple Night, meanwhile, scanned the streets like a commander gauging the terrain.
The crowd couldn't help but notice them.
Purple Night's presence drew admiration and fear in equal measure.
Fall Night's presence drew curiosity—especially from the female cultivators whose sharp senses caught the faint aroma of his bloodline. There was something primal about it, something ancient. His aura whispered of a power too wild to be tamed.
Purple Night broke the silence first.
"Where did you get that token?"
Fall Night's tone was calm, but his eyes sharpened behind the mask.
"Why? Curious, or suspicious?"
"Both," she admitted, her voice even but edged with interest. "That's not a low-ranking token. I know enough to recognize its weight."
"I'm from the Midnight Clan," Fall Night replied. "Should that really surprise you?"
Her gaze hardened. "Who are you really, Fall Night?"
He turned slightly, meeting her eyes. "Is that a command, Purple Night?"
The question hit like a knife wrapped in silk. Not aggressive, but sharp enough to draw attention.
Caught off guard, Purple Night hesitated. It wasn't defiance she heard—it was control.
"No," she said finally. "Just curiosity. But I still want an answer."
Fall Night's voice was flat, emotionless.
"I am Fall Night of the Midnight Clan."
Purple Night let out a short, amused laugh.
"Hahaha. Very good, Fall Night. Whatever your rank or secret identity is—remember this: you're in Quiet Storm now. I don't have to spell out what that means."
Fall Night gave a small, incredulous shake of his head and fell silent. He wasn't about to reveal more—not to her, not to anyone. If she wanted to uncover who he truly was, she'd have to dig deep and risk herself in the process.
"It seems like you've been here before," she said after a pause.
"You could say that," he replied casually.
"These vague answers of yours are quite annoying, Fall Night."
"Oh, Purple Night," he said with a mocking smirk behind the mask, "don't worry. This isn't a challenge to your precious sovereignty over our little duo. And don't insult me by comparing me to Jagged."
The mockery in his voice wasn't loud—but it was deliberate.
Purple Night turned toward him slowly, fingers tracing along her mask. Then came two soft clicks—metal unlocking. The lower portion of her dark purple mask slid away, revealing lips so full and dark they looked painted by sin itself.
When she smiled, it wasn't the smile of a warrior—it was the smile of a woman who knew her power. It was warmth wrapped in danger, tenderness coated in poison.
Fall Night felt his pulse quicken, the faint tug of temptation. He bit down on the inside of his cheek, forcing the thought away. A single moment of weakness could cost him his life.
Purple Night's smile deepened, amused by his restraint. She thrived on this game—the silent tension, the balance between predator and prey.
Her voice dropped into a soft purr.
"I'm surprised," she whispered, "you haven't begged to kiss—or taste—these lovable lips of mine."
"I am sure there would be a price I'm not willing to pay, Purple Night," Fall Night said, his voice calm but wary.
A slow, predatory smile spread across Purple Night's face. She leaned just slightly closer, her eyes glinting like sharpened amethyst, the faintest, almost imperceptible hum of amusement escaping her throat. Every movement radiated command, control, and unyielding dominance.
"You say that," she murmured, her voice low, dripping with quiet menace, "but I can feel it… that hesitation, that longing. If I decided to remove my cloak… just for a moment… you would be mine to mold." Her eyes held him, daring him to even imagine, and yet promising consequences beyond reckoning.
Fall Night shifted subtly, keeping his distance, his jaw tight. "I am petty, and I am young. I enjoy my ignorance… for now."
Purple Night chuckled softly, a sound that was equal parts amusement and threat. She traced a finger along the edge of her mask, her gaze never leaving his.
"Interesting… you play your cards carefully. But I will break you down one way or another. Whether you like it or not, Fall Night, you will answer to me." Her tone was sharp, laced with ice, yet undertones of a dangerous seduction hummed beneath each word.
She stepped closer, slow, deliberate, like a cat circling prey. "So… do we do this the easy way… or the hard way?" Her hand hovered near his chest, but before it could touch him, Fall Night vanished, reappearing ten feet away.
A faint moan-like exhalation escaped Purple Night, almost involuntary, betraying the thrill of control. "Ah… clever. You know the rules already, but this game is just beginning," she whispered, voice silk and steel. "Run all you like… it only makes the hunt more enjoyable."
Fall Night's gaze hardened, his chest wound aching but his stance unwavering. "I am seasoned enough to know even a touch from you is dangerous. I won't give you the chance."
Purple Night's smile widened, cruel and knowing. "Good. That is exactly the spirit I enjoy breaking… molding… controlling." Her voice dipped lower, richer, as though each word was a command etched into his mind. "But remember this… I always get what I want in the end."
She straightened, her presence suddenly regal and unyielding, like a queen observing her territory. "Now, show me this city… every corner, every detail. You will guide me, Fall Night. And you… will obey."
Fall Night's jaw clenched, but he said nothing. Purple Night's eyes glimmered with vindictive amusement as she turned to stride ahead, every movement radiating authority and dominance.
A cold dread washed over Fall Night. Her presence pressed against him like a predator's gaze pinning down its meal. He stayed utterly still, knowing that even a word could trigger calamity.
After a tense silence, he spoke evenly.
"Are you hungry, Purple Night?"
"Yes," she breathed. "Hungry for you. You'll serve me, Fall Night — body and soul — as your master commands."
She laughed then — high, unrestrained, almost hysterical.
"I was talking about food," Fall Night replied, his tone dry, flat, almost bored.
"I know," she said simply, grinning wickedly. "So what?"
Her smile carried both mockery and promise.
"You should be grateful I'm only playing today," she added, walking toward him slowly, step by step. "Because one day, when my hands touch your strong, youthful body, you'll find you can't run. You won't escape me."
A soft, wicked chuckle followed. "Hehehehe…"
With that, Purple Night calmly replaced the lower half of her mask, sealing away her smirk. Then she brushed past him, her cloak whispering against his.
"Now," she said, tone returning to business, "show me the best place to eat in this frozen city, Fall Night."
Still chilled from her aura, Fall Night straightened and adjusted his cloak. "One of the best spots is called The Nation," he said, "but we're not going there. We're heading to the Banner of the Crest Palace — small place, easy to miss, but worth it."
"You'd better not be dragging me into one of your wild goose chases," she warned. "How far is it?"
"Fifteen minutes," he said. "Twenty if you keep talking."
She laughed softly. "Fair enough. Tell me something while we walk — what grade was that palm strike you used against me and Jagged?"
"Grade?" Fall Night glanced sideways at her. "What are you talking about?"
"Don't tell me you don't know the rank of your own technique."
"I don't," he said honestly. "In the Midnight Clan, basic techniques are often unranked. Most aren't labeled or measured."
Purple Night folded her arms, thinking. "You mean to tell me an unranked skill in the Midnight Clan can produce that kind of force?"
"That's exactly what I'm saying."
She let out a soft hum of surprise. "Unusual… though not impossible. Listen carefully, Fall Night."
Her voice shifted into the tone of a teacher — controlled, steady, carrying weight.
"From the Awakening Plane to the Emperor Realm, there are countless layers of cultivation. Skills and techniques follow a similar hierarchy. Most of us divide them into four tiers — Refinement, Flowing Water, Void, and Domain. Some whisper of levels beyond Domain, but those are legends."
"Right," Fall Night said. "Common knowledge."
"Not to everyone," she countered. "The weak can't afford that kind of knowledge. A skill is a singular action — a palm, a strike, a kick — limited by one's cultivation. A technique is a sequence, adaptable and evolving, capable of transcending realms. With enough insight and refinement, even a basic art can evolve into something divine."
She paused, eyes flicking to him again. "That's why unranked techniques are dangerous. They're not limited by structure. They can grow infinitely — or collapse entirely. They are… potential in raw form."
Fall Night smirked beneath his mask. "Being around you, Purple Night, I've learned nothing you do is without motive. So—what do you really want?"
Purple Night smiled beneath her mask, voice lowering.
"I want you, Fall Night. You — and all your secrets."
Her tone was direct, stripped of flirtation now. Pure hunger — for knowledge, for power, for him.
She believed that taking him — body, mind, and essence — would ignite something magnificent within her. She had no proof, only instinct. But in this world, instinct often separated the predator from the prey.
That's why she'd taken the time to explain skills and techniques so thoroughly. She wanted him to understand the rules… before she broke them.
Fall Night, however, knew that despite the Midnight Clan's vastness and heritage, knowledge didn't equate to omniscience. He wasn't foolish enough to assume otherwise.
By the time their conversation ended, the pair stood before the Banner of the Crest Palace, the faint scent of roasted spirit beast and aged wine drifting from within.