Chapter 99 – Abyss Canon Sutra
The underground training hall lay silent, the faint echoes of dripping condensation the only sound within its cavernous expanse. The walls were lined with reinforced essence crystals, their faint blue glow giving the chamber a cold, tranquil sheen. It was a place carved for focus, discipline, and breakthroughs—Ruby and Minji's personal sanctuary, meant for times when the chaos of the outside world threatened to spill into their cultivation.
Tonight, however, it was empty. Ruby and Minji had already gone hunting deep into the Expanse, leaving behind an untouched, quiet chamber. And so, Kai stood at its center, alone.
He breathed in deeply.
Good. No interference. No risk of clashing essence fields.
Minji had warned him once that cultivating essence arts in proximity was like forcing two storms into the same sky—they could merge, but more often they clashed, birthing disaster. This hall would do.
From within his robe, Kai withdrew a folded piece of aged parchment, the note Zambandari had left him. Its handwriting was identical to the one Moon had received, almost as if the old master had already foreseen the separate paths. His heart thudded as his eyes traced the lines again.
Abyss Canon Sutra.
Seven-star essence art.
Kai's breath hitched.
Seven-star !!
He had half-expected something lesser, something fitting his own doubts. Yet here it was—a technique so ancient and profound it practically hummed against his fingertips.
He sat cross-legged on the cold stone floor, closing his eyes. He willed his awareness inward, into the sea of his essence. Soon, words and concepts unraveled in his mind, not as mere instructions but as visions—stories told by water itself.
The Abyss Canon Sutra was not about summoning torrents or floods. It was about understanding. Every drop of water, the Sutra whispered, carried its own story, its own imprint of where it had been, what it had touched, the lives it had witnessed.
A river carried sorrow and patience.
Rain carried rebirth and cleansing.
A tear carried grief.
An ocean carried infinity.
By listening to those imprints, Kai could replicate not the form of water, but its essence of memory.
His mind reeled at the possibilities. Then the Sutra revealed its techniques:
1. Echo Tide.
The ability to touch the liquid within a person's body and sense every lingering echo of their emotions—their anger, fear, confidence, hesitation. A battlefield gift: the ability to predict, to anticipate, to know one's foe before they even moved.
Kai shuddered. That level of intimacy with an opponent… terrifying.
2. Still Abyss.
A dome of condensed liquid essence, woven not to crush but to silence. Within it, sound would cease, light would dim, touch would vanish. Blindness and deafness, total sensory deprivation. A cage that broke minds faster than bodies.
Kai's lips tightened. This was no mere shield; it was psychological warfare.
3. Hydro Oath.
Water compressed to its absolute limit, then released at terrifying speed. A strike sharper than blades, faster than arrows, carrying the inevitability of tides.
This one he could almost feel pulsing in his veins, his meridians stirring as though recognizing the Sutra's flow.
Kai opened his eyes, heart pounding. For a moment, pride threatened to rise within him. A seven-star art, gifted to him. But he pushed the feeling down, locking it away.
No. Joy is a distraction especially at this moment. Kai would never indulge it but let's not talk about Moon .
Instead, he began to circulate his essence, following the Sutra's flow. The sensation was alien compared to Moon's path—it wasn't violent lightning tearing through channels, but something subtler, smoother. Like ink spreading across parchment, seeping into every crevice. His veins felt heavy, as though they carried oceans, and yet weightless, like mist drifting into the sky.
The Abyss Canon Sutra had begun to take root.
Solmara Galaxy – Hale Headquarters
The Hale Clan's main headquarters was a marvel of both architectural power and ancestral pride. Rising above the capital of Solmara Prime, its crystalline spires seemed to pierce the fabric of the galaxy itself, glittering like spears of frozen starlight. Countless banners of the Hale insignia—orange flames encircling a midnight sun—fluttered along its towers, their folds whispering of centuries of victories and sacrifices.
The clan's history hung over the city like a weight: every citizen, every soldier, every heir knew the Hale name was synonymous with conquest and supremacy. Yet within those walls, expectations were as merciless as the void.
At the very heart of the central spire lay a chamber feared by even the most seasoned of the clan's warriors—the Matriarch's Office.
It was not large, not ostentatious. The walls were austere, constructed of obsidian laced with veins of argent essence. Maps of star systems stretched across one side, each cluster marked with Hale banners of conquest. Another wall bore portraits of heirs long gone—faces immortalized in oils and strokes, their gazes sharp, unyielding. Some bore smiles, others grim resolve. None looked weak.
At the center sat a desk, black and glossy, as though carved from the void itself. Behind it, poised like an empress judging the fate of an empire, was Verina Hale.
Her aura was not loud; it did not flare recklessly like the arrogance of young warriors. It was quiet. Silent. Yet that silence was suffocating, like the calm pressure before a collapsing star. Merely sitting in her presence was enough to make lesser men forget how to breathe.
Across from her sat Kaleb Hale.
The once-proud heir who had so arrogantly declared himself above his peers now sat with his back stiff, his hands gripping the arms of his chair so tightly that the veins in his forearms bulged. His body trembled, though he willed it to stillness. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, the sound loud in the crushing silence.
The weight of her eyes on him was unbearable.
Then, Verina spoke.
"Arrogance," her voice cut through the chamber like a blade of tempered steel—low, smooth, and yet unyielding, "has broken generals greater than you. If legends—legends who carved history with their bare hands—could fall to it, what makes you think you are exempt?"
Her words did not rise in volume, yet they struck like thunder in Kaleb's ears.
His lips parted, his voice strained and dry. "M–Ma'am, I am… extremely sorry for last time. I was… overwhelmed after defeating Fengjin. I didn't mean—"
Her hand rose, elegant and precise, halting him. The apology withered in his throat.
"I don't care why." Her gaze narrowed, twin blades of scorn. "Your excuses. Your victories. They are worth less than ash to me."
Kaleb's chest tightened. Sweat rolled down his spine.
"I only ask one thing," she continued, her tone almost casual, but each word a hammer striking his pride. "Did you forget Sam's slap?"
The name hit Kaleb like a physical strike. His jaw clenched, his teeth grinding against each other as humiliation seared through him. His memory replayed the scene—Sam's hand cracking across his face, his pride shattering before his peers.
Verina's voice softened, not in kindness, but in the way one might lower their tone before delivering poison.
"Sam was one of the finest students I ever guided. His talent was not extraordinary, but his discipline, his devotion—those were flawless. Do you think his legacy will be dirtied by your shallow pride?"
Kaleb's fists tightened until his knuckles whitened. "No, ma'am."
"Good."
She leaned forward, her golden eyes boring into his soul. "Challenging his position is one thing. But proving you have even thirty percent of his effort?" Her voice dropped to a whisper sharp enough to cut flesh. "That… remains to be seen."
Then she rose.
The temperature in the chamber seemed to plummet. Her aura unfurled like a tidal wave, swallowing the air. Kaleb gasped, his lungs constricted as though the weight of a planet had dropped upon his chest. The floor groaned beneath the invisible force.
"Do not delude yourself, Kaleb. You are not the only heir. You are merely this generation's top heir. Before you came, there were twenty generations of heirs—each producing geniuses, each birthing monsters of war. Do you know where they are now?"
Her gaze was merciless, drilling into him.
"Some are bones buried in the Expanse. Others are nothing but forgotten names, their arrogance, their executioner. That is the path of heirs." She paused, letting the silence drive the weight into him. "And remember this—if you were not Rovan Hale's son, I would not waste even a heartbeat guiding you."
Kaleb's heart pounded like a drum of war. He wanted to rise, to scream, to prove her wrong—but the instinct for survival chained him to silence.
"Stand," she commanded.
He obeyed instantly, his legs trembling as he pushed himself upright.
Verina's aura intensified. Space around her seemed to warp, her very presence pushing against the laws of physics. She no longer felt like a woman—she was a force, a storm condensed into flesh.
"Thus begins your hardship."
It was not sparring. It was execution disguised as training.
Verina moved first. A flick of her wrist sent waves of planetary-level essence crashing into Kaleb like meteor storms. His defenses shattered instantly, his body flung across the chamber. He slammed into the wall, stone cracking under the impact, blood filling his mouth.
"On your feet."
Kaleb staggered upright, ribs burning, vision blurring. His pride screamed at him to surrender nothing, so he charged. He poured his essence into a strike, his fist blazing with Hale flame.
Verina didn't dodge. She simply stepped forward. One palm met his strike and dissolved it like mist in sunlight. Her other hand crashed into his chest, sending him flying again.
"Again."
Blood dripped from his lips as he crawled back. His body screamed in agony, but his mind—terrified, humiliated—refused to stop. He launched himself once more, flames roaring, but her power was an ocean against his candle. She overwhelmed him with the weight of ten thousand battles he had never fought.
Every clash was a reminder.
Every strike was a lesson.
Every bruise was carved into his bones with one truth: Power without humility is hollow.
Hours bled into days. Each session broke him further. His muscles tore, his essence pathways screamed, his pride was shredded. Yet Verina never allowed him to collapse completely. Every time he thought he would die, she pulled him back from the edge. Not out of mercy—out of necessity.
She was shaping him. Tempering him. Forcing the arrogance out of him like a blacksmith hammering impurities from steel.
Kaleb Hale, heir of the Hale Clan, had become little more than a battered student before his matriarch.
And deep in his heart, beneath the humiliation and pain, a seed of realization began to form.
If he did not change, he would be nothing more than another name erased from the Hale records.
Shifting Expanse
The Expanse was a place where time did not flow the way it did in ordinary worlds.
And at the center of barren plateaus knelt James Hale.
His body was battered beyond recognition. His tunic was torn in half a dozen places, blood seeping into the fabric. His arms were covered with shallow cuts, some still raw, others barely scabbed. His breath came ragged, each inhale sharp, each exhale trembling with exhaustion.
Yet his grip on the sword before him did not waver. His knuckles were pale, the tendons of his forearms bulging as he clung to the weapon like it was his lifeline. The blade itself was buried into the ground, trembling faintly as essence storms swept across the plateau, tugging at its steel.
The world around him howled. Winds of pure essence lashed at him, burning his skin, whipping his hair into his face. The sky cracked with distant bolts of energy, beasts roared in the far-off distance, but James… James did not move.
His eyes burned.
Not with exhaustion, not with despair, but with a single, relentless focus.
"Daren…" he whispered, his voice hoarse, his throat dry. The name was like venom on his tongue. His lips curled, the corners of his mouth twitching with something between hatred and determination. "No matter what it takes… I'll defeat you."
The words echoed against the empty plateau, swallowed quickly by the storms, but they reverberated in his chest, louder than thunder.
James closed his eyes for a moment, letting his body tremble. Memories pressed against him like a tide he could not stop.
He remembered Daren's face. That cold . The effortless superiority. The disdainful glance that cut deeper than any blade. The battle where Daren had stood untouchable, while James bled, crawled, begged for the strength to rise.
The humiliation still seared his soul.
He remembered the way others looked at Daren—with awe, with fear, with reverence. And the way they looked at him— never the chosen, never the prodigy. Always the last, the shadow, the almost.
"Almost strong."
"Almost talented."
"Almost worthy."
The words of clan elders stabbed at his mind. The pity in their eyes. He had felt invisible. Forgotten.
But not anymore.
Daren had become his purpose. His rival. His demon. His finish line. His executioner. His everything.
Every ounce of James's will condensed into a single vow:
He would surpass Daren.
His hands trembled, but he forced them to move. He pulled his blade from the ground and stood. His legs buckled, pain searing his muscles, but he refused to fall. He raised the weapon, pointing it at the horizon.
The winds screamed louder, as though mocking him.
He slashed. Once. Twice. A dozen times. Each swing carried not elegance, but raw, desperate determination. His body screamed in protest—ligaments tearing, muscles spasming—but his will drowned out the pain.
With every cut, he whispered the same word.
"Daren."
Slash.
"Daren."
Slash.
"Daren."
Blood seeped from his palms where the hilt tore open skin, but he didn't loosen his grip. Each drop fell onto the rocky ground, merging with the pulsing veins of essence below.
It was the side he always hid from others .
He didn't see the blood. He didn't feel the pain. He only saw him.
Daren's smirk. Daren's dominance. Daren's effortless victories.
Each swing was a blade cutting not the air, but the image of his rival. Each strike was a scream of defiance against the universe itself.
And yet, beneath that hatred, another emotion stirred.
Fear.
James didn't want to admit it, but it gnawed at him. The memory of standing before Daren, powerless. The suffocating despair of realizing the gap between them was not a step, not even a climb, but a chasm wide as galaxies.
What if he could never bridge it?
What if every drop of sweat, every scar, every ounce of pain he endured still wasn't enough?
The thought clawed at his mind. For a heartbeat, the blade in his hand wavered.
But then—his jaw clenched. His eyes hardened.
"No," he growled, his voice trembling, almost feral. "No. I won't accept that. I can't. I'd rather die in this Expanse than live under his shadow forever."
Lightning cracked across the sky, as though answering his roar. The plateau trembled. The essence storms surged around him, but James screamed into the void, his voice raw and guttural.
"I WILL SURPASS HIM!"
His aura exploded outward, ragged but fierce, spreading like fire in dry grass. It was not refined, it was not perfect—but it was his. His fury, his desperation, his vow condensed into essence.
The beasts lurking at the edges of the plateau stirred, sensing his intent. Their glowing eyes watched from the shadows, but they did not approach. For at that moment, James was more beast than man.
He sank to his knees once more, sweat dripping from his face, blood staining his arms. His breath came in shudders, but his gaze was steady. His blade remained upright, anchored into the earth.
This was not practice.
This was not training.
This was survival.
Not survival against the Expanse's dangers—no, that was secondary. The true survival was within himself. The survival of his will against despair. The survival of his soul against the shadow of Daren.
Every strike he practiced, every cycle of essence he forced through his battered meridians, carried the same thought:
Daren.
Not to match him.
Not to stand beside him.
But to crush him. To erase that smirk forever. To stand above him and declare that James was not "almost." He was inevitable.
The winds howled. The storms raged. The twilight sky stretched endless.
And James remained unmoved.
His path was carved.
To be continued…