Vaen stood at the edge of Tir'khal Basin, wind howling across jagged ridges like whispers of secrets. Dust lined his boots, and his robes bore the wear of days of traveling through thorn scrub, false roads, and dead ends.
He scowled, eyebrows furrowed. " That damn thing should be here. I can sense it."
He'd trudged across the basin for hours, slope after slope, tracing half-buried runes beneath moss and shattered earth. At first, it was merely residual lines of formation—ancient and not completely dead —but as time passed, the pieces came together. The shifts in landscape that were difficult to discern, symbols carved into rocks that had been eroded away, the subtle rhythms when he tapped into Origin Qi.
A formation.
A humongous one.
Dimensional Eyes vibrated softly as they rolled back to work. To everyone else, this was merely another folded-up piece of country, but to Vaen, the superimposed network of formation lines began to pulse like routes under skin. Not one—but hundreds. Twisted, stacked, ancient. It was no ornamentation. The whole basin was the key.
Vaen crouched near a flat rock at the center of a cracked clearing. Carvings ran along its edge in a spiraling pattern. He touched the groove lightly. It lit up—dim, fading, like the last spark of a dying fire.
"You're still alive," he muttered.
He created a beast-core and supplemented it with a sliver of Tenebris Energy, holding it over the runes. The runes vibrated in return—very quietly. A little more slivers, and the air shimmered. Lines on the basin floor pounded like a pulse.
A path was established.
Vaen's lips curled into a small smile.
He walked along the glowing trail, twisting through sharp ravines and sloping ridges. The path took him toward the north end of the basin, where the ridgeline fell away sharply. The light grew brighter the farther he went.
And then he saw them.
A wide plateau, bordered by jagged cliffs. At its center—an operating teleportation site. Dozens of hooded men stood frozen along its edge, none of them willing to go in yet.
He hid behind a boulder and studied the gathering. Insignias sewn onto sleeves or pinned into cloak brooches identified them. Noble houses. Aristocrats. Some from famous chaos region families. One insignia belonged to the Rakuun Clan, renowned for an origin beasts bloodline.
Not everyone has an origin beast bloodline. Others had to make their way with demonic and ferocious beast bloodlines
No face was visible. No voice was heard.
They all waited.
He narrowed his eyes.
The teleportation circle was the true entrance.
Dimensional Eyes flashed once more. They were all predominantly late Foundation Establishment to Stage 2 Golden Core. Veterans, old guards, experienced adventurers. No one is young. No Nascent Soul presence. Which is a good sign. The kind of people who'd live long enough to not bother with little riches.
Then he saw her.
Still in her masculine disguise. Still enveloped in that same plain cloak. But her posture, the way she stood—still as a mountain, vigilant like a drawn sword—gave her away. He did not need to use his vision again. It was her. The Golden Core cultivator who had dressed as a man of the Oasis Tent. Silent and deadly.
She stood with no insignia. Alone as him. The hood deep into darkness fell across her face.
Wily woman, he thought. Likes to stay out of the web.
That implied something. A figure like that wouldn't take the trouble unless she was looking for more than abandoned remains. And if she was here, then this ruin was not run-of-the-mill. Not by any means. Well, something should be here to attract young talent which is rare even in the central regions.
Vaen adjusted his cloak and stepped out, receiving no attention. All of them were focused on the formation.
Being among them was like entering peaceful water—quiet ripples, but no one looked. He took his place near the edge, opposite her.
The formation throbbed once, gentle and rhythmic. Still not working. Still waiting.
He folded his arms, eyes staring at the ancient script along the outer edge. The building used hybrid runes—half of it the old elemental signs, the other half of Arcane grammar.
Definitely Arcane construction.
No doubt now—this was the portal to their secret world. Likely a pocket dimension, sealed and maintained in suspended animation.
What caught him off guard was that no one jumped in. Were they waiting for a cue? A key? An amplifier strong enough to trigger the teleportation?
Or were they all guessing, afraid to be the first?
He peered over the stone edge. A small impression at the top rim caught his notice. He walked over, sank into a crouch, and inspected it.
Three concentric circles with the symbol of "Thirst for the fallen's blood."
It required an origin Qi trigger infused with blood.
Right. Magical elves loved symbolic passages. This must have been a trial gate—meant to challenge anyone seeking to pass through. But none of these people seemed to be going to bleed first.
He turned and surveyed the crowd. Still silent. Still waiting.
He exhaled slowly, his breath a faint mist even though the air was warm. It was not cold—it was the creation reacting to proximity. To power.
If the destruction held even a fragment of Arcane lore, it would improve his cultivation pathway immensely. Their use of Qi, spirit, and formation was centuries in advance of anything his own realm used. Even a lingering vestige technique would be worth his while.
It wasn't simply about power, however. It was about discovery.
Vaen stood guard at the gate, mind drifting back to the night he met General. Back to the center of the forest. The moment the tenebris energy merged with his soul and everything changed.
His power wasn't built to follow. It was built to break the rules. To forge new laws.
This world might hold something the world didn't want him to have.
Which made it all the more appealing.
He didn't come close to the trigger yet. Not today.
He stepped back from the perimeter of the formation, joining the silent group once more.
Let another person look on. Let another person wait.
Vaen could wait.
And if waiting wouldn't do?
He'd bleed first.