The snow continued to fall as Luther stepped into the square. His borrowed sword—a standard-issue military blade, nothing like his Black Dragon Sword gathering dust in storage—felt wrong in his hand. Too light. The balance was off. But it would have to do.
The five cultists spread out in a loose semicircle, cutting off any retreat. Their white and gold robes hung heavy with blood—some of it their own, most of it belonging to Southern Town's defenders.
The one in the center stepped forward. He was younger than the others, perhaps thirty, with a face that might have been handsome before whatever darkness he'd embraced had hollowed out his eyes.
"Luther Malik," the cultist said, his voice carrying across the empty square. "Son of Oliver Malik, Supreme Commander of the Southern Region Military."
Luther said nothing, adjusting his grip on the sword.
"There's no need for more bloodshed tonight." The cultist spread his hands in a gesture of peace that fooled no one. "We have no intention of killing you or your family."
Luther's laugh was sharp and bitter. "Do you think I'll believe this nonsense?"
"It's not nonsense." Another cultist spoke—older, with grey threading through his beard. "Your father recently entered a Level Eight ruin. Do you know what that means?"
Luther's eyes narrowed slightly. Level Eight ruins were legendary—ancient sites from before the Cataclysm, sealed by formations that required immense power to breach. If his father had entered one...
"He obtained a supreme treasure," the bearded cultist continued. "Something the Dawn of Light has sought for centuries. We don't want your death, Luther Malik. We want an exchange. You and your family for the treasure."
"Hostages." Luther's voice was flat.
"Guests," the young cultist corrected. "Treated well, kept safe, until your father sees reason."
"And if he doesn't?"
The silence that followed was answer enough.
Luther's stance shifted, weight settling onto the balls of his feet. The sword came up—not quite a guard position, not quite an attack. Just... ready.
"I see," he said quietly. "Then let's not waste any more time with lies."
Three blocks away, Vanessa ran through the darkened streets, Reo clutched tight against her chest. The tunnel entrance her husband had described should be nearby—beneath the old municipal building, behind the maintenance access.
Her lungs burned. Her legs screamed. But she didn't slow.
Behind them, footsteps echoed. Unhurried. Patient. The sound of someone who knew their prey had nowhere to go.
She skidded around a corner and saw it—the municipal building, its doors hanging open, interior dark as a tomb. She plunged inside, boots crunching on broken glass.
"Mama," Reo whimpered. "Where's Dad? I want Dad."
"Shh, baby. Shh." She kissed his forehead, tasting salt and fear. "We're going somewhere safe. Dad will find us."
The maintenance access was where Luther said it would be—a steel door marked with faded warning signs. Vanessa grabbed the handle and pulled.
Locked.
"No. No no no—"
"Looking for this?"
The voice came from behind her, calm and ancient. Vanessa spun, putting herself between Reo and the speaker.
An old man stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the red glow of the Sealing Formation. He wore deep crimson robes, and the pressure radiating from him was like standing before a mountain—vast, immovable, absolute.
"My name is Ankit Singh," he said, stepping into the building. His movements were fluid despite his age, without a hint of infirmity. "Elder of the Dawn of Light. And I'm afraid I can't let you leave."
Vanessa's mind raced. Her hand moved instinctively to her chest, where something ancient and terrible slept beneath her skin. Power that didn't belong in this world. Power that had followed her across the boundaries between realms when she'd fled her homeland fifteen years ago.
She could feel it stirring now, responding to her fear and desperation. If she unleashed it—if she broke the seal she'd maintained for so long—she could kill this man. Probably. Maybe.
But the moment she did, the heavens would know. This world's natural laws would recognize her as an anomaly, a foreign element that shouldn't exist. She'd have seconds—maybe a minute—before the rejection began. Before reality itself tried to expel her.
One attack. That's all she'd get. One chance to kill a Golden Body stage cultivator who'd spent decades mastering combat.
And if she failed—if he dodged, if her strike wasn't perfectly placed—Reo would die. The backlash would kill her, and her son would be left defenseless.
Ankit Singh seemed to read her thoughts. "You're considering something desperate," he observed. "I can see it in your eyes. But you're also a mother. And mothers make terrible gamblers when their children's lives are the stake."
Vanessa said nothing. Her arms tightened around Reo.
"Your husband is being captured as we speak," the old cultivator continued. "Three of my people engaged him in the town square. He's skilled—better than our intelligence suggested—but outnumbered and out of practice. By now, the outcome is decided."
"You're lying."
"Perhaps. Or perhaps I'm giving you a reason not to do something foolish." He took another step forward. "I have no desire to harm you or your son. The Dawn of Light needs you alive and well. You're leverage, nothing more. But if you attack me—if you unleash whatever power you're hiding—I'll be forced to respond. And even if you kill me, my death won't save your boy."
The truth of it settled into Vanessa's bones like ice. She could feel the power beneath her skin, begging to be released. Fifteen years she'd kept it locked away, pretending to be ordinary, pretending to be human.
She looked down at Reo. His small face was pressed against her shoulder, eyes wide with terror he didn't fully understand.
If she fought and lost, he'd watch her die.
If she fought and won, the world itself would kill her within minutes.
Either way, he'd be alone.
The seal beneath her skin grew quiet, sensing her decision.
"Smart woman," Ankit Singh said softly. "Your son is fortunate to have such a wise mother."
Vanessa's jaw clenched. "If you hurt him—"
"We won't. You have my word, for whatever that's worth." The old cultivator gestured, and two more cultists emerged from the shadows. "Take them. Gently. They're not to be harmed."
Hands—too many hands—grabbed Vanessa's arms. She didn't resist as they pulled her away from the door, as they bound her wrists with rope that tingled with suppression formations. Reo clung to her, crying silently.
"It's okay, baby," she whispered, the lie burning her throat. "Everything's going to be okay."
Ankit Singh watched with eyes that had seen this scene play out a thousand times before. Mothers surrendering for their children. Love becoming chains more binding than any rope.
"Take them to the square," he ordered. "Bring them to Luther Malik. Let him see what his resistance has cost him."
The cultists exchanged glances. The young one sighed, almost regretful.
"So be it."
Three of them moved forward while two held back. Luther recognized the tactical formation immediately—his father had drilled it into him years ago. Pin the target with superior numbers, keep reserves fresh for rotation.
The lead cultist's body erupted with power—mid-stage innate cultivation, Luther's instincts told him. The two flanking him radiated even stronger pressure. Advanced stage on the left. Peak stage on the right.
All three were innate realm cultivators. Under normal circumstances, this would be a fight Luther could win.
But he hadn't fought seriously in fifteen years.
The peak-stage cultist attacked first, closing the distance in a blur of movement. His hands twisted into claws, fingers elongating and blackening with demonic energy—the same transformation Luther had seen on Agent Z.
Luther's sword came up to parry, and the impact nearly tore the weapon from his grip.
Too slow. Too rusty.
He barely managed to deflect the strike, and the cultist's claws raked across his shoulder, shredding through coat and shirt to score bloody lines across his skin.
The advanced-stage cultist came from the left, chanting something guttural and wrong. Dark energy coalesced around his hands—Life Drain, one of the Dawn of Light's signature techniques. If that touched him, it would suck the vitality straight from his body.
Luther threw himself backward, boots sliding in the snow. His shoulder screamed in protest. The sword felt heavier with each passing second, his arms remembering movements they'd deliberately forgotten.
The mid-stage cultist circled right, patient, waiting for an opening.
Come on. Remember. REMEMBER.
The peak-stage cultist lunged again. This time Luther didn't try to parry—he sidestepped, muscle memory finally surfacing through fifteen years of rust. His blade flicked out in a counter-strike, and he felt it bite into flesh.
First blood. Not deep, but enough.
The cultist hissed and leaped back, black ichor dripping from his ribs.
"He's stronger than the reports indicated," the advanced-stage cultist muttered.
"Doesn't matter," the peak-stage one growled. "He's out of practice. We can see it. Just keep the pressure on."
They attacked in concert this time. The peak-stage cultist from the front, the advanced-stage from the left, the mid-stage sweeping around to cut off retreat.
Luther's blade became a blur of silver in the crimson light of the Sealing Formation. His body moved through the Cascading River Form—one of the foundational techniques his father had beaten into him until it became instinct. The sword flowed like water, redirecting force rather than meeting it head-on.
Clang. Clang. CLANG.
Steel met demonic claws. The sound echoed across the empty square, sharp and discordant. Luther's breathing grew labored. His shoulder bled freely now, blood soaking through his coat. His muscles burned with the effort of movements they hadn't made in over a decade.
But the rhythm was coming back. Slowly. Painfully.
He shifted into Stone Roots Stance—a defensive form that prioritized stability over mobility. His feet planted into the snow-covered cobblestones as he weathered the assault. Each blocked strike sent shockwaves up his arms, but he held firm, immovable as the mountains themselves.
The advanced-stage cultist's hands glowed with sickly green light as he prepared another Life Drain technique. Luther recognized the buildup—three seconds of channeling, then release.
He had a window.
Luther surged forward, breaking from Stone Roots into Lightning Descent—an aggressive invasion technique designed to close distance and overwhelm an opponent before they could react. His blade became a streak of silver, five strikes flowing into one continuous motion.
The advanced-stage cultist's eyes widened. He tried to dodge, but Luther had already committed. The sword traced a diagonal line across his chest, cutting deep. The cultist screamed, his Life Drain technique dissipating as he clutched at the wound.
One down. Temporarily.
But the opening cost Luther. The peak-stage cultist's claws raked across his back, tearing through coat and flesh. Luther stumbled forward, pain exploding across his spine.
"Got you," the cultist snarled.
Luther spun, his blade coming up in a desperate parry. Too slow. The claws were already inside his guard, reaching for his throat—
His sword shifted mid-motion, flowing from defense into Viper's Reply, a counter-attack technique that turned a failed parry into a thrust. The blade slipped past the cultist's guard and punched into his shoulder.
The cultist howled and backpedaled, black blood fountaining from the wound.
Luther pressed the advantage, muscle memory fully engaged now. Cascading River transitioned into Autumn Wind Cutting—a series of spinning slashes that created a sphere of cutting force around him. The mid-stage cultist, trying to flank him, caught a blade across the thigh and fell back cursing.
Good. Keep moving. Don't let them set up combinations.
But Luther's body was screaming at him. His lungs burned. His wounds bled freely. Fifteen years of disuse couldn't be overcome in minutes, no matter how perfect the technique.
The peak-stage cultist's body began to convulse. Luther recognized the signs—demonic transformation. The cultist's bones cracked and popped, the sound like green wood snapping in winter cold. His spine elongated with a series of wet pops. His jaw distended, ligaments tearing audibly. His skin rippled and split, revealing something darker beneath, something that pulsed with wrongness.
"Khehehehe... KHAHAHAHAHA!"
The laughter that emerged wasn't human. It was layered, multiplied, as if a dozen voices spoke through the same throat. The transformation completed in seconds—the cultist now stood seven feet tall, his body a twisted amalgamation of human and something else. Something that should not exist.
"You fight well, Malik spawn," the thing rasped, voice grinding like stone on bone. "But you're injured. Tired. And we—"
The other two cultists, the ones who'd been holding back, stepped forward. One moved left, the other right, both initial-stage but fresh and coordinated.
"—have reinforcements."
Luther's heart sank. Two more innate-stage cultivators. Against a rested Luther, they wouldn't be much threat. But now, bleeding from multiple wounds, exhausted from the sustained combat?
The five cultists surrounded him completely. The transformed one grinned, revealing rows of needle teeth that glistened with venom.
"Last chance to surrender."
Luther's answer was to shift into a new stance—Unyielding Bastion, a purely defensive form designed to weather overwhelming force. His sword came up horizontal, body angled to minimize his profile, every muscle coiled and ready.
They attacked as one.
The world became chaos. Steel rang against claws. Demonic energy crackled in the air, leaving the smell of sulfur and burnt flesh. Luther's blade moved in desperate patterns, deflecting strikes that would have killed him, accepting wounds to prevent fatal blows.
The two initial-stage cultists coordinated their assault. One feinted high while the other swept low. Luther caught the high attack on his blade but had to twist awkwardly to avoid the low strike. The movement tore something in his back, and he felt warm blood cascade down his spine.
A claw opened his left arm from elbow to wrist, cutting through muscle and scraping bone.
His sword caught the second initial-stage cultist across the face, and the man fell screaming, clutching at the ruin where his eyes had been.
The Life Drain cultist, recovered enough to fight, lunged forward and grabbed Luther's wounded shoulder. Agony exploded through him as energy was ripped from his body, his very life force being drained away. Luther twisted and drove his elbow into the cultist's throat, shattering cartilage and breaking the technique's hold.
He was slowing down. Too many injuries. Too much blood loss. His vision swam at the edges.
The transformed cultist's massive claw came for his head. Luther raised his sword to block, but the force of the impact drove him to his knees. Snow and blood mixed beneath him, freezing and warm at once.
"It's over," the creature hissed, raising its claw for the killing blow.
Something inside Luther broke.
Not his will. Not his spirit.
A barrier. A limitation he hadn't even known was there.
Power flooded through him—not from outside, but from within. His cultivation, which had stagnated at peak innate stage for fifteen years, suddenly surged. The understanding he'd been grasping at, the insight that had eluded him all these years, crystallized in an instant of absolute clarity.
The sword in his hand began to vibrate, energy flowing from his core, through his meridians, into the blade itself.
Sword Qi.
The realization hit him like lightning. He'd broken through. In the moment of life and death, facing overwhelming odds, his understanding of the sword had transcended mere technique and touched something deeper. Something fundamental.
The blade in his hand erupted with silver-white light, cold and pure as moonlight.
"What—" the transformed cultist began.
Luther moved.
Moonlight Severance—a technique that existed at the threshold between sword mastery and sword Qi. His blade traced an arc through the air, and the arc itself became solid, became real, became a cutting force that existed independent of the steel.
The crescent of silver light caught the transformed cultist across the torso. For a heartbeat, nothing happened. Then the creature's body split, the two halves falling in opposite directions with a wet, heavy sound. Black ichor fountained across the white snow.
The remaining cultists froze, staring at their companion's corpse with expressions of absolute disbelief.
Luther stood, his blade still glowing with Sword Qi, blood streaming from a dozen wounds. His vision swam from blood loss. His legs trembled with exhaustion. But his eyes were cold and empty and utterly merciless.
"Who's next?" he asked quietly.
The advanced-stage cultist turned and ran. The remaining initial-stage one followed immediately after, their nerve completely broken.
That left only the mid-stage cultist, who stood frozen between terror and duty. Luther took a single step forward, and that was enough. The cultist bolted, disappearing into the smoke and darkness.
Luther stood alone in the square, surrounded by bodies and blood. His sword's glow faded, and with it went the last of his strength. He swayed, blood loss making the world tilt sickeningly. Even with Sword Qi, his body was failing. He'd won, but the cost had been severe.
Vanessa. Reo.
He had to find them. Had to make sure they'd escaped. Had to—
A presence appeared at the edge of the square.
Luther turned, raising his sword despite the agony it caused, despite the way his arms shook with the effort. His vision swam, but he could make out a figure approaching slowly, unhurried.
The man wore robes of deep crimson, not the white and gold of the other cultists. He was old—seventy at least—with skin like weathered leather and eyes that had seen too much. But his movements were fluid, graceful, without a hint of infirmity.
The pressure radiating from him was immense. Crushing. Absolute.
Golden Body stage.
Luther's heart plummeted. He'd heard stories of cultivators at this realm. They were monsters in human skin, capable of destroying entire armies single-handedly. His father was Golden Body stage. And so was this man.
"Impressive," the old man said in a voice like grinding stone. "You broke through to Sword Qi in the middle of combat. Your father's blood runs true."
Luther said nothing, trying to remain standing despite every instinct screaming at him to collapse.
"My name is Ankit Singh," the old cultivator continued. "Elder of the Dawn of Light's Southern Branch. And I believe—"
He gestured, and figures were pushed forward from the shadows behind him.
Vanessa and Reo.
Luther's world stopped.
His wife's face was pale but unmarked. Her wrists were bound with glowing rope—suppression formations. Reo clung to her, silent tears streaming down his cheeks. Neither appeared injured, but the terror in their eyes was absolute.
"—I have something that belongs to you," Ankit Singh finished.
The sword wavered in Luther's grip, then slowly lowered. All the fight drained out of him in an instant. He'd won his battle. Achieved breakthrough. Survived impossible odds. Killed four cultists and sent the others fleeing.
And it meant nothing.
"Let them go," Luther said, his voice rough with exhaustion and desperation. "Take me. Let them go."
"I'm afraid we need all three of you," Ankit Singh replied. "Your father is... difficult to negotiate with. But even he won't sacrifice his son, daughter-in-law, and grandson."
"If you harm them—"
"We won't." The old cultivator's tone was sincere, which somehow made it worse. "That would defeat the purpose. You'll be treated as guests until the exchange is complete. I give you my word."
Luther stared at Vanessa. At Reo. His son's small face was streaked with tears and terror, and Luther felt something inside him crumble to dust.
He'd failed. Despite everything—despite his power, despite his breakthrough, despite fighting like his father had trained him—he'd failed to protect them.
The sword slipped from his fingers, clattering against the cobblestones with a sound like broken dreams.
"I surrender," Luther said quietly.
Cultists emerged from the shadows, moving to secure him. Luther didn't resist as they bound his hands with the same glowing rope. His eyes never left his family.
Vanessa's face was frozen in anguish. She'd tried to run, tried to hide, tried to protect their son. And she'd been caught. Cornered. Forced to make the same choice Luther had—surrender or watch Reo die.
As the cultists brought Luther closer, he met her eyes. So much passed between them in that look. Grief. Love. Rage at the unfairness of it all. And beneath it, something else—a silent promise that this wasn't over, that they would survive this, that somehow they would find a way back to each other.
Reo reached out a small hand toward his father. "Dad...?"
The word was barely a whisper, confused and terrified. He didn't understand why his father was hurt, why strangers in robes were tying his hands, why his mother was crying silently.
Luther managed a weak smile for his son despite the pain radiating through his entire body. "It's okay, Reo. Everything's going to be okay."
The lie tasted like ash in his mouth, bitter and choking.
Ankit Singh nodded to his subordinates. "Secure them. We leave for the compound immediately. The Sealing Formation will drop in another hour—we need to be gone before the Cultivator Association arrives."
As cultists surrounded them, forming a protective ring, Luther looked at his family one more time. The worry and pain in his chest had become a physical weight, crushing him more thoroughly than any cultivation pressure could.
They were together, yes. Alive, yes.
But captured. Prisoners. Hostages to be used against his father in some game of politics and power Luther barely understood.
The snow continued to fall, covering the blood and the bodies and the remnants of Christmas celebration. In the distance, a building collapsed with a sound like thunder.
Southern Town had fallen.
And with it, the last fragments of Luther's ordinary life.
Far to the south, in a command center carved from black stone, a communication crystal began to pulse with urgent light.
A man stood from his desk, his face carved from granite and discipline. Oliver Malik, Supreme Commander of the Southern Region Military, reached for the crystal with a hand that had ended thousands of lives.
The message that came through was brief. Precise. Devastating.
Southern Town compromised. Dawn of Light cultists confirmed. Luther Malik, Vanessa Malik, and Reo Malik captured. Status: Alive. Demands to follow.
The crystal cracked in Oliver's grip, fragments falling to the floor like tears of glass.
For the first time in thirty years, the Supreme Commander's perfect control wavered.
"Mobilize the Crimson Guard," he said, his voice cold as death itself. "Tell them to prepare for war."
Behind him, subordinates scrambled to obey.
Oliver Malik stared at the broken crystal in his hand, and in his eyes burned something that hadn't been there in decades.
Fear.
Not for himself. Never for himself.
But for the son he'd pushed away, the daughter-in-law he'd never met, the grandson whose face he'd only seen in photographs, and the reckoning that was coming for those who'd dared to touch his blood.