Meanwhile on the Everlasting Continent, a humanoid dragon opened his eyes. An eerie, internal light shone from within him. The room was simple — a few small couches, a wooden table — and several figures sat in low conversation.
"First Elder, how was your cultivating?" one attendant asked.
"It was good. I feel my opportunity will come — I'll break into the next minor realm." The First Elder's voice was calm. "Has anything new happened?"
"No. Except the Nine Dragon Empress has been meeting with the phoenix clan leaders. Apparently one of their elders asked Xenesis to join an upcoming operation."
A slight grin flickered across the First Elder's face.
Dragons and phoenixes had a long history of conflict, overt and covert. Even their joint efforts to suppress certain nations and control economies did little to erase the old rivalries. Nothing pleased the First Elder more than seeing two of the strongest overlords at odds.
"In that case I'll retreat to seclusion and try to break this bottleneck. Tell me if the Grand Elder or our Empress needs me."
"Yes, First Elder." The attendant bowed and left.
Aside from the attendant, the younger dragons under the First Elder only sneered.
Their disdain was plain: he schemed where they fought, he preferred plots over glory, and he lacked the proud ferocity expected of a dragon of his rank. To them he looked less like a true dragon and more like an interloper.
—
"Young master, are you leaving for another mission?"
"Unfortunately, yes." Sifir rubbed his Beyond-Blue hair until it tousled messily.
"Stop that, young master! Do you know how long it takes to do my hair?" Beyond Blue pouted. "Do you know what this mission will be like?"
"I don't, Beyond Blue." Sifir tilted his head and inspected the token in his hand. "What kind of bag did the patriarch give me? This is more like a dimensional pouch than a bag."
"Do you think the patriarch gave you the wrong one?" Beyond Blue asked.
Sifir shrugged. "Who knows. Beyond Blue, fetch the usual supplies from the clan warehouse. Get essence containers and several pairs of clothing."
Beyond Blue nodded and left. Sifir considered his stock of spirit fruits and rare plants — the body cultivation method he practiced demanded enormous resources, and breakthroughs were painfully difficult. He had one hour before he had to report. He wouldn't be early, but he wouldn't be late. Some might call that reckless; others, cunning.
When Sifir arrived at the meeting place it looked casual: a modest building, roughly four hundred square feet, fenced and guarded. Most guards cultivated at the initial Earth Realm and were likely middle-to-late Refinement fighters — enough to handle ordinary threats, but little else.
He approached the gate. Guards questioned him.
"Halt! What business do you have here?"
"I, Sifir Midnight, have been summoned by the Elder." He tossed a token. The guards checked its sigil and, convinced, let him pass.
Sifir never relaxed. Eyes followed him through the courtyard. Before he reached the door he sent a small energy pulse, checking for traps and formations.
Inside, three figures watched a floating screen. "A cautious one," the man in the orange cloak sneered. "Caution won't save your life," said with a murderous aired.
"Being safe is better than sorry," the purple-cloaked watcher replied. "Reckless behavior gets you killed," she let out a cold chuckle.
"Let me at him," the orange-cloak said with malice. "He won't regret it" with sinister intent.
A low, husky voice greeted him. "The Elder will be with you in a moment. I'll brief you on the unit you're assigned to and the items on the table."
Sifir said nothing. On the side wall hung three masks, each pulsing faintly with spiritual energy. They weren't just for disguise — Sifir could sense their aura signature. Each mask possessed a will of its own.
The red oni mask emanated fiery aggression, its spiritual flame testing the will of anyone who dared touch it. The green dragon mask radiated overwhelming pride and vitality, almost arrogant in its divine aura. But the black mask... it was different. It was quiet.
Too quiet.
The longer Sifir looked at it, the more he felt something pulling at his soul.
The black mask seemed to swallow light, its surface a void that bent the glow of the room. Two long fangs extended from the jawline — almost as if the mask were smiling faintly. Faint ripples of cold darkness pulsed beneath its surface, resonating with the subtle darkness in Sifir's own cultivation core.
The husky-voiced man grinned. "Most avoid that one. They say it's cursed — forged from a beast that devoured its own spirit. But if you're brave enough, take it."
Sifir said nothing, simply extended his hand. The instant his fingers brushed the edge of the mask, a deep vibration echoed in his mind — a whisper without words. For a brief moment, his surroundings dimmed, and he saw an indistinct figure: a warrior cloaked in night, standing over a mountain of corpses. The vision faded as quickly as it came.
Sifir opened his eyes, calm but inwardly sharp. "I'll take the black one."
"Your funeral," the attendant muttered. "But remember the rule — once you choose, it bonds to you. It marks your aura signature and conceals your identity even from divine sense. That is the price for anonymity."
The mask's fangs shimmered faintly before dulling, as if acknowledging a new master. Sifir tucked it under his arm, his expression unreadable.
-
The chamber beyond was circular, its walls carved with runes that suppressed qi fluctuations. At the center sat the Elder, his posture straight, eyes half-lidded — calm yet dangerous, like a blade hidden in velvet.
As Sifir stepped inside, the black mask on his face released a faint hum, syncing with his qi circulation. He felt it probing him, testing his strength, as though measuring his worth. But he allowed it. A weapon only obeys when it knows its wielder's will.
"Good," the Elder said, voice low and heavy. "Now all are present. Unit 04 — codename Quiet Storm — stands assembled."
He clapped softly, and three figures stepped forward, each releasing their own spiritual aura briefly, enough to assert dominance.
Death Sword was the first to move.
His aura was sharp, metallic, and suffocating — pure killing intent forged through countless battles. He wore a crimson cloak spattered with faint patterns resembling dried blood. His armor was simple but practical, each piece reinforced by spiritual inscriptions for speed and durability.
Two twin blades rested on his back, their edges faintly trembling as if eager to draw blood. Even his scarlet demonic mask seemed alive, eyes glowing faintly with killing light.
"I am Death Sword, field commander of Quiet Storm. You follow my orders, and you might survive."
The next to step forward was Purple Night,
graceful yet dangerous. Her qi was cool and seductive, like the moonlight before a storm. Her purple and black attire shimmered faintly with movement, laced with protective sigils and light illusions — a perfect balance of beauty and lethality.
Her mask, carved in sleek demonic elegance, bore a faint glowing sigil on the forehead — a mark of psychic affinity. When she spoke, her voice was smooth but authoritative.
"I am Purple Night, captain and tactician. When I speak, you listen. Death Sword leads, but I decide when you live."
She flicked her wrist, and a talisman of condensed spirit energy unfurled briefly from her sleeve before fading.
The final figure stomped forward, heavy-footed and grinning.
Jagged Black - a mountain of muscle and
attitude. His aura crackled with violent energy, raw and unstable, like magma forced into human form. Two machetes, broad and serrated, hung at his sides,
humming with killing qi.
His orange-black mask was chipped along the edges, giving him a savage look.
"Name's Jagged Black," he said, tone dripping mockery. "Don't slow me down, little grunt."
The Elder raised his hand and silenced the growing tension. "Enough. You'll have plenty of time to test each other's tempers in the field."
His cold gaze swept over them all. "Your mission: infiltration and sabotage. Target — Twin Moons City, a neutral hub between human and dragon borders. You will gather intelligence on the Dragon Clan's economic and military activity there, identify hidden holdings, and—" the Elder's lips curved "—create chaos."
He paused, his gaze settling on Sifir.
"Since you're from the Midnight Clan, you may choose your own codename."
Before Sifir could respond, Jagged barked a laugh. "Dead Night! Fits perfectly— quiet and lifeless."
Sifir tilted his head, his tone almost lazy. "You know, Jagged, when night falls, even black turns invisible. Remember that."
The air turned sharp. The Elder's amusement flickered, but a mental message intruded — "Keep him alive. Orders from above." His expression hardened.
"Enough," the Elder snapped. "Speak again, Jagged, and I'll refine your soul."
Jagged froze. Even Death Sword looked slightly impressed. Purple Night's lips curved faintly beneath her mask — intrigued by the new arrival who could provoke both fool and Elder alike.
Finally, Sifir spoke.
"My codename is Fall Night."
The Elder gave a thin smile. "So be it. Unit 04 — Quiet Storm — departs at dawn. Remember your mask, your silence, and your purpose."