The Clark family.
Though they could not stand shoulder to shoulder with the ancient demi-god clans, they were far from weak.
They had carved their own path to power.
Their foundation lay in herbs.
Generations ago, during the first Rift War, a Saint Realm ancestor of the family had stumbled upon an ancient manual. What seemed insignificant at the time became the cornerstone of their rise.
It was incomplete. Fragmented.
But over generations, countless experts dedicated their lives to deciphering it—piece by piece, line by line.
What it contained…
Was knowledge.
Detailed records of rare herbs, cultivation methods, environments, combinations—secrets that others didn't even know existed.
With it, the Clarks transformed.
From a small herb-gathering family…
Into a giant.
They poured resources into expansion, secured trade routes, built networks—and over decades, they flourished.
Today, the Clark family stood at the peak of first-rate powers.
Three Saints.
Over a dozen Emperors.
Hundreds of Grandmasters.
The only thing they lacked… was a demi-god.
And that alone kept them from stepping into the highest tier.
—
Several thousand kilometers from the Imperial Capital—
Hidden beneath drifting white clouds—
Lay the Great Herb Valley.
Birdsong echoed faintly through the air.
The entire region was wrapped in layers of barriers and protective formations, their runes flickering like stars embedded in glass.
Within the valley, countless herb fields stretched across the land.
Some vast. Some small.
All meticulously maintained.
Even Emperor Realm experts personally oversaw the most precious gardens.
This was no ordinary place.
This—
Was the foundation of the Clark family.
They controlled nearly sixty percent of the Southern Continent's herb supply.
Medicinal herbs. Poison herbs. Cultivation resources.
Everything.
The profits alone reached staggering heights each month.
—
At the heart of the valley stood Herb Saint Mountain.
The true residence of the Clark family.
Villas dotted its slopes, layered among dense fog that never seemed to disperse.
But that fog—
Was no natural phenomenon.
It was spiritual energy, so dense it had condensed into mist.
Formations upon formations had been laid here, crafted by high-ranking alchemists and rune masters at immense cost.
The result—
A cultivation paradise.
Even across the entire Southern Continent, few places could rival it.
—
Alice Clark.
A direct descendant of the main lineage.
And the most spoiled child in the entire family.
Her parents had died exploring a rift when she was still young.
Since then, her grandfather—Boris Clark, the current family head and a Saint Realm expert—had raised her himself.
He doted on her endlessly.
Anything she wanted—
She got.
He shielded her from grief, from hardship, from reality itself.
But kindness without restraint breeds something else.
Arrogance.
Over time, Alice grew accustomed to getting her way.
People were beneath her.
Rules didn't apply to her.
At first, her demands were harmless.
Expensive clothes. Rare trinkets. Exotic foods.
But lately—
They had begun to cross a line.
Now, she demanded the meat of rare spirit beasts—creatures not easily hunted, some even protected or dangerously powerful.
Many in the family resented her.
But none dared oppose her.
Because behind her—
Stood a Saint.
—
When Boris returned from a trip to the Imperial Capital, he barely had time to settle before noticing something strange.
Alice was sitting just outside his residence.
Waiting.
Her condition was… unsettling.
Her face was pale.
Her hair messy.
Several dishes of food sat nearby—untouched.
It looked as though she hadn't eaten properly in days.
Boris frowned slightly and walked over.
"Alice," he said, his tone softening, "what's wrong?"
At the sight of him, her composure cracked.
She began complaining immediately—about how she had wanted a specific type of spirit fox meat…
…and how the people she sent had failed her.
Not only failed—
They had returned injured.
Ambushed. Driven back.
The more she spoke, the deeper Boris's frown became.
This wasn't a simple request anymore.
This had turned into a problem.
Still—
He didn't scold her.
Instead, he sighed quietly and pulled her into his arms.
"Alright," he said gently. "Enough of that."
"Come. You look terrible."
"Let's get you cleaned up first. Then we'll talk."
—
After being attended to by servants, Alice returned looking somewhat more presentable, though her expression still carried lingering dissatisfaction.
She sat beside Boris in the main hall, her head resting lazily against his arm.
Below them—
A small group of people knelt.
The very team she had sent out.
They trembled slightly, heads lowered, not daring to meet his gaze.
Boris sat at the head of the hall, his expression now calm—but his eyes carried a quiet weight.
"What happened?" he asked.
One of them spoke, voice unsteady, recounting the encounter.
The ambush.
The resistance.
The failure.
And—
The boy.
The one who had interfered.
As the story unfolded, Alice's eyes grew colder.
"That bastard ruined everything," she snapped. "I want him brought here."
A pause.
"Alive."
Her lips curled slightly.
"I'll deal with him myself."
Boris watched her for a moment.
Then nodded.
"Very well."
His voice was calm.
Decisive.
He turned his gaze toward the kneeling group.
"Make a portrait," he ordered.
"Find him."
A brief pause—
"No more than a week."
His tone didn't rise.
But the pressure in the room thickened instantly.
"And when you do…"
He leaned back slightly, eyes half-lidded.
"Bring him to her."
The implication was clear.
Failure—
Was not an option.
The group bowed deeply, voices overlapping as they acknowledged the order.
Within moments, they hurried out.
And just like that—
A hunt began.
Somewhere far from the valley—
Unaware—
Stephen had just gained the attention of a force far more dangerous than he realized.
And this time—
It wouldn't be as simple as a grudge between disciples.
If you want, next chapter we can tighten the tension by overlapping this with Stephen's breakthrough attempt so both threads start converging.