The transport moved through the frozen wasteland like a ghost, its suppression formations muffling sound and masking its presence. Luther sat with his back against the cold metal wall, hands still bound, Vanessa and Reo pressed close beside him. The cultists had placed them in the rear compartment, away from the pilot's cabin.
Special treatment for special hostages.
Through the narrow window, Luther watched the landscape blur past. They were heading southeast, away from Southern Town, deeper into the wasteland territories where government control grew thin and ancient dangers still lurked.
Sixty kilometers. Maybe more. He tried to track their direction, to memorize landmarks, but exhaustion and blood loss made everything swim together.
Beside him, Reo had finally cried himself into an uneasy sleep, small body twitching with nightmares. Even now, in unconsciousness, his small fingers clutched at Vanessa's sleeve with desperate strength. His face was pale, lips moving silently around words Luther couldn't hear.
Dad. Don't go. Please.
Vanessa held him close, one hand stroking his hair in an endless, soothing rhythm. Her face was composed, but Luther could see the tension in her jaw, the way her free hand clenched and released in her lap.
Their eyes met, and in that look passed everything words couldn't say.
We're still alive. We're together. That's something.
The transport lurched as it hit rough terrain, and through the window, Luther saw their destination.
The ruin rose from the wasteland like a wound in reality itself—a massive complex of twisted spires and impossible architecture that seemed to shift when viewed directly. Angles that couldn't exist but did. Shadows that fell in the wrong directions. The air around it shimmered with residual energy, and even through the transport's walls, Luther could feel the pressure of ancient power pressing against his skin like phantom hands.
The smell hit him when the doors opened—old incense and decay, copper and something sweet that made his stomach turn. The temperature dropped ten degrees the moment they stepped outside, and the air tasted wrong. Metallic. Bitter.
Grade Five ruin. Heavenly Demonic Sect.
Luther had heard of it—not the sect itself, but the ruin classification. Grade Five meant the highest cultivation level inside had reached Golden Body stage before whatever ancient civilization had been sealed away. The ruins had only started appearing eight hundred years ago, when cultivation itself had returned to the world after millennia of absence. No one knew what the sects had been, what their people had believed, or why they'd vanished. Just that their power had been real, and their legacy remained dangerous.
The Dawn of Light had clearly cleared it. Conquered it. Made it their own.
The transport descended into the ruin's entrance—a yawning mouth in the earth that led down into processed chambers and corridors. The architecture was wrong, angles that shouldn't work but did, spaces that felt larger inside than out. Whispers seemed to echo from the walls themselves, though whether they were real or remnants of ancient formations, Luther couldn't tell.
They were brought to a building near the center of the complex—a house, or something approximating one, built in the old style with curved roofs and paper walls. Incongruous against the demonic architecture surrounding it, like someone had tried to create a home in hell.
Cultists escorted them inside, through hallways lined with protective formations that hummed with power, into a room that was surprisingly comfortable. Two beds with clean linens. A low table with cushions. A window that looked out over the ruin's interior courtyard. A small washroom visible through a side door.
Still a prison, but a gilded one.
The door closed behind them with a soft click and the subtle hum of locking formations engaging. Luther tested it with his shoulder—solid. The formations were strong enough to hold even an innate-stage cultivator.
They were alone.
Luther stood for a moment, testing his weight on legs that wanted to buckle. Blood had soaked through his coat and shirt, drying into stiff patches. Every movement pulled at half-healed wounds.
He turned to Vanessa, who was gently laying Reo on one of the beds.
"Are you okay?"
She nodded, adjusting the blanket around their son with careful precision. "Are you?"
Instead of answering, Luther crossed to her. She rose and wrapped her arms around him, careful of his wounds. He held her back, breathing in the scent of her hair—jasmine, even now—feeling the solid warmth of her body against his. For a long moment, they just stood there, drawing strength from each other.
"We're alive," she whispered against his chest.
"We're alive," he agreed.
They separated slowly. Luther looked down at Reo, who whimpered in his sleep. The boy's face was tight with distress, eyebrows drawn together, small mouth trembling.
"Dad..." The word came out broken, confused. "Dad, please..."
Luther knelt beside the bed despite the protest from his wounds. He smoothed back Reo's sweat-dampened hair with gentle fingers. "I'm here, son. I'm here."
But Reo didn't wake. The nightmare held him fast.
Vanessa knelt beside Luther, her hand joining his on Reo's forehead. "He saw too much tonight."
"I know." Luther's voice was rough with guilt.
"It's not your fault."
"Isn't it? I should have gotten you both out. Should have—"
"Luther." Vanessa's hand cupped his face, forcing him to meet her eyes. "We're alive. All three of us. That's what matters."
He wanted to believe her. Wanted to accept the comfort she offered. But the image of Reo reaching for him, calling out while Luther walked away, was burned into his mind.
"I need to meditate," he said quietly, standing. "Try to heal. Be ready for whatever comes next."
Vanessa nodded, returning her attention to Reo. Luther moved to the other bed and settled into a cross-legged position, hands resting on his knees in the traditional formation his father had drilled into him decades ago.
He closed his eyes and sank inward.
His inner world opened before him—a vast space mapped by meridians and energy channels, the landscape of his cultivation. The pathways opened by his breakthrough to Sword Qi were immediately obvious—raw, inflamed, like fresh wounds carved through his spiritual body.
Luther began to circulate his qi carefully, following the patterns of the Crimson Phoenix Breathing Method his father had taught him. Energy flowed through his channels, sluggish at first, then gradually warming as it moved.
When the qi reached his shoulder wound, pain flared white-hot. He gritted his teeth and pushed through it, forcing the energy into damaged tissue. Cell regeneration accelerated, knitting torn muscle fiber by fiber. It felt like someone was pressing hot coals against his skin from the inside out.
Sweat beaded on his forehead. His breathing grew labored.
The wound on his back was worse. The claws had cut deep, scraping bone. Circulating qi there felt like dragging broken glass through his meridians. Luther's hands clenched involuntarily, nails digging into his palms.
Focus. Breathe. Circulate. Heal.
His father's voice, remembered from a thousand training sessions. Cold. Demanding. Uncompromising.
Pain is information. Process it. Use it. Don't let it use you.
Luther pushed deeper, finding the new pathways his Sword Qi breakthrough had opened. They were beautiful—perfect channels of silver-white energy that sang with potential. But they were also unstable, like cracks in a dam threatening to burst.
He carefully consolidated them, reinforcing the walls, smoothing rough edges. The work was delicate, exhausting. One wrong move could cripple his cultivation or cause a qi deviation that would leave him worse than dead.
Time lost meaning. There was only breath and energy, pain and healing, the slow knitting of broken things.
When Luther finally opened his eyes, his shirt was soaked with sweat but the pain had receded to a manageable ache. Not healed—that would take days or weeks—but functional. He could fight if needed.
He stood, testing his movements. Stiff but workable. His shoulder protested but held. The wound on his back pulled tight but didn't tear open.
Good enough.
He moved to the window and looked out over the courtyard. The ruin stretched into shadows and crimson light from the formations that kept it stable. Cultists moved through the space with practiced efficiency—patrols, supply runners, trainers drilling younger members in combat forms.
This wasn't just a hideout. This was an established military installation.
"Luther?"
He turned. Vanessa had moved closer, leaving Reo to sleep. Her eyes questioned him.
"What's wrong?"
"I don't know how this night will go," he admitted quietly. "My father will come. I know him. He'll mobilize the Crimson Guard and come for us. But Ankit Singh is Golden Body stage, same as him. And this ruin..." He gestured at the impossible architecture visible through the window. "It's their territory. Their advantage."
She crossed to him and took his hand, lacing her fingers through his. Her touch was warm, grounding. "Whatever happens, we face it together."
The simple statement settled something in his chest. Luther squeezed her hand, feeling some of the worry ease. But not all of it. Not enough.
Vanessa seemed to sense his lingering tension. She guided him to sit on the cushions by the low table, pulling him down beside her. Their hands remained joined.
"Do you remember when we first met?" she asked softly.
Luther's lips quirked into something almost like a smile. "How could I forget?"
"Tell me. I want to hear it again."
He leaned back against the wall, letting the memory surface. "It was fifteen years ago. After my final fight with my father. I left home that night, swearing never to return. Swore I'd make my own path, be my own man." His thumb traced circles on the back of her hand. "I wandered for months without direction. Just moving. Running, really. Trying to outrun his shadow."
Vanessa listened quietly, a small smile on her lips. She'd heard this story before, but she never tired of hearing it from his perspective.
"One day, I felt something pull at me. An energy signature I couldn't identify. I followed it and found myself standing before a ruin entrance I'd never seen before, in a part of the wasteland I was certain I'd never visited." His expression grew distant. "When I entered, I saw the number carved into the entrance stone. Grade Ten."
"I was terrified. Grade Ten ruins are legends. Places where even Golden Body cultivators can die. Where the laws of reality break down. I thought about turning back, but something kept pulling me forward. Some instinct. Fate, maybe."
He continued, his voice softening. "I fought through the outer defenses—guardians that were barely holding together, formations that had decayed over millennia. I was injured a dozen times. Lost half my supplies. But I made it to the center."
"And do you know what I found in that supposedly deadly Grade Ten ruin? Nothing. Just an empty chamber, perfectly preserved, with an ice coffin in the middle. And you, sleeping inside it."
Luther's expression became tender. "I thought I was hallucinating from blood loss at first. No one that beautiful could be real. I stood there for ten minutes just staring, trying to figure out if you were an illusion. A trap. Some kind of final test."
"Then the coffin opened. On its own. The ice just melted away. You sat up, looked directly at me, and said—'Oh good, you're here. I was starting to worry my husband wouldn't make it in time.'"
Luther laughed, the sound rough but genuine. "I nearly had a heart attack! You hadn't even asked my name! I thought I'd awakened some kind of ancient psycho zombie or something."
Vanessa hit his arm—hard enough to make him wince.
"You just kept calling me 'husband' over and over, completely certain about it. When I finally managed to ask why, you said your father told you that whoever opened the coffin would be your future husband. As if that explained everything!" He shook his head, grinning despite everything. "I was standing there bleeding from a dozen wounds, exhausted, terrified, and you were already planning our wedding."
"I tried to run away three times."
"But you always came back," Vanessa said softly.
Luther's expression softened. "Yeah. I did." He squeezed her hand. "Best decision I ever made."
They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, the memory a warm spot in the cold night.
Then Luther's gaze drifted to where Reo slept. The boy had stopped whimpering, but his face was still tight with distress.
"How is he?" Luther asked quietly.
Vanessa's smile faded. "He's exhausted. The fear and trauma finally caught up with him. He might sleep through the night, or..." She paused. "Or he might wake up screaming."
Luther's jaw tightened. "I hope it doesn't affect him badly. Long term, I mean."
"Me too." Vanessa stood and moved to their son's bedside. She looked down at him for a long moment, something complex moving across her face. Then she reached up and unclasped the necklace she always wore.
Luther straightened. He'd seen that necklace every day for fifteen years, but she'd never once removed it. Never explained its significance.
The chain was delicate silver, almost impossibly fine. But the pendant—a golden stone that seemed to hold light within its depths—was something else entirely. It pulsed faintly as Vanessa held it, warm light radiating from its core.
"Vanessa? That's..."
"My family heirloom." Her voice was barely above a whisper. She held the necklace up, and the stone caught the dim light, glowing brighter. "My father gave it to me before he sealed me in the ice coffin and sent me to this realm."
She'd never mentioned it. Never spoken of it. In fifteen years of marriage.
Luther stood and moved to her side. "What is it?"
"I can't tell you everything. Some things..." She looked at him, and her eyes were ancient, burdened with knowledge he couldn't fathom. "Some things are dangerous to know. Even speaking my father's name aloud could cause problems."
"Problems?"
"This realm isn't... equipped to handle information about him. Just mentioning his title could cause resonance. Instability." She looked back at the golden stone. "Reality here is thinner than you think, Luther. More fragile. My father exists on a level that could break it just by being acknowledged."
Luther felt cold settle into his bones. He'd known Vanessa had secrets. Known she was different. But hearing it stated so plainly...
"What is the necklace?" he asked instead.
"An Origin Artifact." Vanessa's hands trembled slightly as she spoke. "Forged at the beginning of an era, when reality itself was still malleable. When bonded with a compatible soul, it can save a life. Change a destiny. Rewrite fate itself."
She looked down at Reo, and her expression cracked.
"But the bonding is dangerous. The artifact chooses its wielder, not the other way around. My father is the only person in recorded history to successfully bond with an Origin Artifact. Everyone else who tried..." She swallowed. "Let's just say the artifact was unmoved by their efforts."
"Then why—"
"Because we don't know what's going to happen tonight." Her voice broke slightly. "Your father is coming. There will be battle. Golden Body cultivators clashing. We could die in the crossfire. We could be executed. We could be separated. I don't know."
She knelt beside Reo's bed, the necklace still in her hands.
"But if something happens to us, I need him to have every advantage. Every chance. Even if it's a small one."
Luther knelt beside her. "Will it hurt him?"
"No. Origin Artifacts don't harm those they accept. They simply... choose. Or they don't." Her voice grew quieter. "If he meets the artifact's requirements, it will bond with him and protect him. If he doesn't, it will remain dormant. A seed of possibility, waiting."
She placed the necklace around Reo's small neck. The golden stone settled against his chest, and for a moment, it pulsed with warm light. Reo stirred in his sleep, lips parting around a soft sigh.
Then Vanessa began to whisper. The words flowed in a language Luther didn't recognize—ancient, musical, with harmonics that shouldn't come from a human throat. The air around them shimmered. The necklace glowed brighter, then brighter still, until Luther had to look away.
When he looked back, the necklace was gone. Invisible. Hidden by whatever spell Vanessa had woven.
She sagged slightly, exhausted by the effort.
Luther caught her, supporting her weight. "Are you alright?"
"I'm fine. Just... tired. That spell isn't easy." She leaned against him. "Thank you for not pressing. For not asking questions you know I can't answer."
"Your secrets are yours to keep," Luther said quietly. "I've never pressed, and I won't start now."
"Not all of them. Not anymore." She looked up at him, eyes glistening. "Thank you. For respecting my privacy all these years. For never pushing."
She wrapped her arms around him tightly, burying her face in his chest. Luther held her back, one hand stroking her hair.
They knelt together beside their sleeping son in silence, a small family holding onto each other in the darkness.
Reo's hand moved in his sleep, fingers curling around an imaginary grip. His lips formed words too quiet to hear. On his chest, beneath skin and spell, the Origin Artifact pulsed once with golden light before falling dormant.
Outside, night deepened over the ruin.
Sixty kilometers to the northwest, the A3-Bullet military transport broke through the sound barrier with a sonic boom that rattled windows across three cities.
The sleek aircraft was reserved for only the highest-ranking officials, capable of reaching anywhere in the Southern Region within minutes. Its hull was inscribed with speed formations and defensive arrays that made it nearly indestructible. It cut through the sky like a silver arrow, leaving a trail of displaced air that shimmered with residual energy.
In the command cabin, Oliver Malik sat with perfect stillness, his face carved from stone. He hadn't moved since takeoff. Hadn't spoken. His hands rested on his knees in the meditation position, but his eyes were open, staring at nothing.
Around him, the elite soldiers of the Crimson Guard checked their equipment with practiced efficiency. Red armor gleamed under the cabin lights. Weapons hummed with stored formations. Each soldier moved with the precision of someone who'd trained until combat was as natural as breathing.
They'd received the distress signal forty-three minutes ago. By the time Oliver had mobilized, precious time had already been lost.
But the A3-Bullet made up for it.
Four minutes after takeoff, they reached Southern Town.
The pilot's voice came through the speaker: "Sir, approaching destination. Preparing for landing."
Oliver stood. Around him, the Crimson Guard rose as one, a wave of red armor and killing intent.
The transport descended through the clouds, and the sight below made even hardened soldiers pause.
Southern Town was devastated. Buildings collapsed or burning, their flames painting the snow orange and red. The town square—which should have been filled with Christmas celebration—was a crater of broken stone and frozen blood. The Christmas tree lay split in half, its lights dark and shattered like broken dreams.
The Sealing Formation's crimson dome was gone, dissipated when the cultists had withdrawn.
Oliver's jaw tightened fractionally—the only outward sign of emotion.
The transport landed in the square with barely a whisper of displaced air, its formations dampening sound and impact. Before the ramp fully descended, Oliver was moving, his long coat billowing behind him as he strode into the ruins of his son's town.
Crimson Guard soldiers fanned out immediately, their movements so synchronized they seemed like parts of a single organism. Within seconds, they'd established a perimeter, set up scanning equipment, and begun cataloging the scene.
The Guard were the elite of the elite—cultivators who'd reached at least advanced innate stage, trained personally by Oliver himself. Each one was worth a hundred normal soldiers. Each one would die before failing their commander.
Captain Yuna approached at a run, her armor marked with the insignia of her rank. She saluted sharply, fist to chest.
"Sir. Initial assessment complete."
"Report."
Captain Yuna's voice was crisp, professional, showing no emotion despite the carnage around them. "Structural damage extensive. The town center sustained massive cultivation-based attacks. Multiple buildings show signs of demonic energy. The Christmas tree was bisected by a blade technique—single cut, analysis suggests Sword Qi level."
Oliver's expression didn't change, but something in the air around him grew colder.
"Casualty count?" His voice was perfectly level. Controlled.
"Five hundred civilian deaths confirmed. Two hundred heavily injured. Approximately one thousand with moderate to slight injuries. The local hospital is overwhelmed. We've deployed our medical division to assist."
Oliver was silent for three heartbeats. Then: "Compensation packages?"
"Being processed, sir. Standard protocol—full financial support for affected families, reconstruction assistance, trauma counseling services."
"Double it."
"Sir?"
"Double all compensation packages. These people lost their homes on Christmas. Lost family. They'll need more than 'standard protocol.'" Oliver's eyes swept across the devastated square. "And make sure Mayor Caldwell has everything he needs. No delays. No bureaucracy."
"Yes, sir."
Captain Yuna pulled up a holographic display from her wrist unit. "Moving to tactical assessment. We found bodies of all fifteen personal guard members you assigned to your son's protection."
A muscle twitched in Oliver's jaw.
"Fourteen died in combat throughout the town. One was found in the safe house corridor, killed by sword technique consistent with your son's training patterns. Post-mortem analysis reveals he was a cultist infiltrator using advanced disguise techniques."
For a brief moment, something flickered in Oliver's eyes. Pride, perhaps. Or regret that he hadn't been there to see his son identify and eliminate the threat.
"Your son engaged multiple opponents in this square," Captain Yuna continued. The holographic display shifted, showing a three-dimensional reconstruction of the battle. Ghostly figures appeared—blue for Luther, red for the cultists.
Oliver watched without comment as the combat played out in accelerated time.
"Initial exchanges show significant rust," Yuna narrated. "Movement patterns consistent with someone who hasn't fought seriously in years. Multiple wounds sustained here, here, and here." The ghost-Luther took hits, stumbled, barely recovered. "But technical proficiency improved rapidly as the fight progressed."
The display showed Luther's forms flowing together, defensive transitions into aggressive strikes, the gradual return of skill.
"Approximately three minutes into combat, he achieved breakthrough." The ghost-Luther's blade erupted with silver-white light. "Sword Qi manifestation. Used it to eliminate the peak-stage opponent who'd undergone demonic transformation. Clean bisection. The other combatants fled immediately after."
Oliver's hand clenched slowly into a fist. His son had achieved Sword Qi. The breakthrough Oliver himself had taken thirty years of dedicated training to accomplish. Luther had done it in minutes, under duress, facing death.
His son's talent had always been monstrous. It's why Oliver had pushed him so hard. Why he'd demanded perfection.
And why their final fight had been so bitter.
"The Golden Body stage cultivator never engaged directly," Captain Yuna continued. "Our reconstruction shows he captured your son's wife and child in a separate location—" the display shifted to show Vanessa and Reo being cornered in a different building "—then used them to force surrender."
The ghost-Luther's sword fell from his hands. He collapsed to his knees. Was bound and taken away with his family.
Oliver stared at the reconstruction for a long moment. Then he reached out and closed his hand, and the holographic display shattered like glass, fragments of light dissolving into nothing.
Before Captain Yuna could respond, another soldier approached at a run.
"Sir! All surviving citizens have been evacuated to the emergency shelters. Mayor Caldwell is requesting orders regarding—"
"Tell Caldwell he has full authority to coordinate with our medical division. All citizens receive complete treatment—no triage, no expense limits. Compensation packages will be distributed within forty-eight hours. Government engineers will handle reconstruction." Oliver's tone was absolute, brooking no argument. "And tell him..."
He paused, looking once more at the destroyed square, at the blood still staining the snow.
"Tell him I'm sorry. This happened because they wanted to hurt me. The people of Southern Town paid the price for my enemies' hatred."
The soldier saluted and departed.
Oliver turned back to Captain Yuna. "Tracking?"
"We have a directional trace on the Golden Body cultivator's signature. It leads southeast into the wasteland territories." She manipulated her wrist display, and a map appeared. "We're working on pinpointing the exact location. Preliminary scans suggest a ruin site approximately—"
"How long until you have exact coordinates?"
"Ten minutes, sir."
"You have five."
Captain Yuna's eyes widened fractionally, then she saluted and rushed toward the scanning team, barking orders.
Oliver stood alone in the center of the square, surrounded by his elite soldiers and the destruction wrought by his enemies. His face remained impassive, showing nothing of the storm raging behind his eyes.
His son. His grandson. His family.
Taken. Used as leverage. Pawns in a game of politics and power.
A subordinate approached cautiously, a young lieutenant who'd only recently joined the Crimson Guard. "Sir? Your orders?"
Oliver Malik turned, and the lieutenant actually took a step back at the look in his commander's eyes.
"Prepare for full combat deployment," Oliver said quietly. "Lethal force authorized. No prisoners unless they surrender immediately. Priority one is extraction of the hostages. Priority two is elimination of all Dawn of Light personnel in the area."
"Sir, if there's a Golden Body stage opponent—"
"Then I'll handle him personally." Oliver's voice dropped to something barely above a whisper, but every soldier in the square heard it clearly. "And when I'm done, the Dawn of Light will remember why they stopped operating openly in the Southern Region. They'll remember why they hide in ruins and shadows."
He looked up at the dark sky, at the stars barely visible through the smoke.
"They'll remember why they fear the Crimson Commander."
In the command center of the Heavenly Demonic Sect ruin, Ankit Singh stood before a wall of detection arrays, his weathered face illuminated by their amber glow.
The arrays showed multiple signatures approaching from the northwest. Fast. Very fast.
"Elder?" A subordinate's voice trembled slightly. "The signatures. They're—"
"I know what they are." Ankit's tone was calm, almost meditative. He'd been expecting this. Had planned for it, even. "Oliver Malik and his Crimson Guard."
"They're moving faster than anticipated. The A3-Bullet transport. They'll be here in—"
"Minutes. Yes." Ankit turned from the arrays to face his assembled commanders. "Activate all defensive formations. Deploy combat teams to perimeter positions. Bring the hostages to the central courtyard."
"Elder, with all due respect—" One of the commanders, a woman with innate-stage cultivation and scars across her face, stepped forward. "Fighting the Crimson Commander in direct combat is—"
"Suicide?" Ankit smiled faintly. "Perhaps. But we're not fighting to win. We're fighting to buy time."
"Time for what?"
"For the Supreme Elder to complete his work." Ankit's eyes grew distant. "Everything we've done—the capture, the location choice, the timing—it all serves a greater purpose. We just need to hold Oliver Malik here for twenty minutes. After that..."
He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to.
The commanders exchanged glances, then saluted as one.
"Understood, Elder. We'll hold the line."
"Good." Ankit turned back to the detection arrays. The signatures were closer now. Close enough that even non-cultivators could feel the pressure building in the air. "And commander Indra?"
The scarred woman paused at the door. "Yes, Elder?"
"When the fighting starts, keep the boy separate from his parents. That part is critical."
"The child?" She frowned. "Why—"
"Because we need insurance." Ankit's expression was calm, calculating. "If Oliver breaks through our defenses faster than anticipated, we need leverage. Keep the boy separate. That way, even if the parents are rescued, we still have the child to negotiate with."
Commander Indra's eyes widened slightly with understanding. She nodded once, sharp and decisive. "Understood. The boy stays separate."
"Exactly." Ankit turned back to the detection arrays. "Oliver Malik doesn't negotiate when he has all the cards. But if we hold his grandson..." He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to.
Commander Indra saluted and left, her steps quick and purposeful.
Alone in the command center, Ankit Singh stared at the approaching signatures and allowed himself a moment of calculation.
Oliver Malik was a force of nature. Fighting him directly was suicide. But if they could buy enough time—twenty minutes, maybe thirty—the Supreme Elder would complete his work. After that, it wouldn't matter who won this battle.
The pieces were in motion. The trap was set.
The detection arrays flared bright red.
The Crimson Guard had arrived.
In their room, Luther jerked away from the window.
"They're here."
Vanessa stood quickly. "Who?"
"My father's army." Luther's expression was grim. "I can feel his cultivation pressure even from here. It's like standing at the edge of an avalanche."
The sound grew louder—engines, boots on stone, the synchronized movement of hundreds of trained soldiers.
Through the window, they could see cultists rushing to defensive positions. Formations activated throughout the ruin, filling the air with layers of colored light. Commands echoed across the courtyard.
And beyond the walls, approaching like an unstoppable tide, came the unmistakable presence of Oliver Malik's cultivation—vast, overwhelming, absolute—rolling across the wasteland like an avalanche of cold fury.
Luther and Vanessa stood together, watching the storm approach.
Behind them, Reo stirred. His small hand moved to his chest, touching the place where the hidden necklace rested. For a moment, golden light flickered beneath his skin.
Then his eyes opened—wide, confused, afraid.
"Mom? Dad?" His voice was small and broken. "What's happening?"
The battle for the Heavenly Demonic Sect ruin was about to begin.