The palace hall trembled, its obsidian walls slick with the blood of the fallen.
The runes, once blazing blue, now flickered crimson, casting an ominous glow over the carnage.
Lady Blu knelt on the cold floor, her sword clattering beside her, her body wracked with pain.
The statues lining the platform had opened their eyes, their gazes alive with a power that crushed the hall.
An unprecedented pressure bore down, forcing every soul to their knees.
Practitioners of lower cultivation clutched their heads, blood streaming from their ears, some collapsing unconscious.
Even the clan leaders, titans of Dark Star City, groaned under the weight, their knees buckling as they sank to the platform.
Blu's chest heaved, her Ninth Lord cultivation straining against the force.
It was like a mountain pressing on her soul, relentless and unyielding.
She coughed, blood splattering the obsidian, her vision swimming.
What are these things? she thought, fear clawing at her heart.
The statues stood motionless, their stone weapons glinting under the crimson light, yet their presence was a storm, a force beyond mortal comprehension.
No one knew how long it lasted—an eternity compressed into moments.
The pressure vanished as abruptly as it had come, the statues' eyes closing, their power retreating.
The hall fell silent, save for the ragged breaths of the survivors.
Blu staggered to her feet, her legs trembling, her sword heavy in her hand.
She scanned the hall, her gaze landing on the platform's center.
A gasp escaped her lips.
Where the clan leaders had stood, a pile of bodies now lay, sprawled in a grotesque heap.
Slaves—the ones sacrificed by the Twilight Lord Sect during the ritual.
Some were dead, their bodies mangled, limbs missing, faces frozen in agony.
Others clung to life, their breaths shallow, their eyes glazed with pain.
How are they here? Blu thought, her mind racing.
The obsidian swallowed them… didn't it?
The clan leaders rose, their expressions a mix of shock and suspicion.
They approached the slaves, their spiritual senses probing for answers.
Blu watched, her heart sinking as she recognized the futility.
The slaves were broken, their bodies and spirits shattered by the ritual.
After a tense silence, the Dark Cloud leader waved a hand dismissively.
"Clear the hall," he said, his voice cold.
"Remove the sect's corpses and these slaves."
"This place belongs to the united clans now."
A grizzled warrior bowed, his armor clinking.
"Great Ones, what of the living slaves?"
The Lunar Phoenix leader glanced at the pitiful figures, his eyes devoid of pity.
"Take them with us," he said.
"If they survive, send them to the servants' quarter."
"Extra hands are never wasted, even if they're half-dead."
Blu's stomach churned, but she held her tongue.
To the clans, slaves were resources, their lives measured in utility.
She turned away, her gaze lingering on the statues, their closed eyes no less menacing.
What power lies within them? she wondered, a chill running through her.
And why did they awaken?
The hall buzzed with activity as practitioners began the grim task of clearing the dead.
Corpses were dragged away, the floor slick with blood and ash.
The living slaves were hoisted onto carts, their moans barely audible over the creak of wheels.
Among them was Song, his body limp, his tattoo hidden beneath a bloodstained rag.
He stirred faintly, his mind a fog of fragmented memories—the obsidian swallowing him, the void, the old man, the Fruit of Raging Fire.
Pain lingered in his bones, a reminder of the transformation that had nearly broken him.
His tattoo, now a fiery ring around his wrist, pulsed with unfamiliar power, but he was too weak to notice.
The cart jolted, its wheels creaking over uneven stone.
Song's eyes fluttered open, but a blindfold blocked his vision, plunging him into darkness.
Where am I? he thought, panic rising.
His body ached, each movement a struggle against the weight of exhaustion.
The creak of the cart was relentless, a monotonous rhythm that drowned his thoughts.
He tried to piece together what had happened— the fox-beings, the ritual, the obsidian's cold embrace.
But beyond that, his memories were a haze, a jumble of fire and pain.
Was the old man real? he wondered, his heart racing.
Or was it all a dream?
He shifted, his elbows digging into the cart's rough wood, and reached for the blindfold.
A hand stopped him, gentle but firm.
"Shh, don't move," a soft female voice said, close to his ear.
"You're safe."
Her hands pressed him down, easing his head back onto the cart's floor.
The voice was calm, almost soothing, but it carried an edge of authority.
Song's instincts screamed to resist, to demand answers, but his body betrayed him, too weak to fight.
Safe? he thought, skepticism warring with exhaustion.
After everything, how can I trust that?
The woman's touch lingered, her fingers brushing his shoulder, grounding him in the moment.
He wanted to ask who she was, where they were going, but his tongue felt heavy, his thoughts sluggish.
The cart's rhythm lulled him, and the pain in his body dulled to a distant ache.
Just for now, he told himself, his defiance flickering.
I'll rest… but I won't forget.
Darkness claimed him, a deep, healing sleep that silenced his questions.
When he woke again, the world was different.
No creaking cart, no blindfold.
He lay on a soft straw mattress in a small, sparse room.
The walls were bare, the only furnishings a wooden bed and a simple table.
On the table sat a set of clean white clothes, neatly folded, their fabric crisp and unfamiliar.
Song blinked, his senses sharpening.
He was naked, his old, filthy rags gone, replaced by nothing but his own skin.
His right arm, where his Tattoo of Dominion lay, was wrapped in a thick gray bandage.
What happened to me? he thought, his fingers brushing the bandage.
The room was quiet, save for the faint hum of distant voices beyond the walls.
He rose, his body protesting with every movement, but the pain was bearable, a shadow of what it had been.
Grabbing the clothes, he dressed quickly, the white fabric cool against his skin.
The tunic and trousers were plain but sturdy, a far cry from the tattered scraps of his slave days.
He approached the wooden door, noting the absence of a lock.
Not a prisoner? he thought, hope stirring.
He pushed the door open, stepping into a spacious courtyard.
The walls formed a pentagon, painted a deep green, dotted with numbered doors identical to his own.
In the center stood an ancient stone, its sides mossy, its top grayed by time.
Three carved benches of redwood encircled it, their polish gleaming under the sunlight.
On one bench sat a dark-haired girl in a white qipao, her face youthful but her eyes tinged with sadness.
She stared into the distance, lost in thought, until her gaze landed on Song.
Her expression shifted, a warm smile breaking through the melancholy.
"Greetings, brother!" she said, standing gracefully.
"I'm Rill, senior servant of the servants' quarter. How may I address you?"
Her voice was bright, but Song caught a flicker of something deeper, quickly hidden.
"Song," he replied, caught off guard by her warmth.
Rill's smile widened, and she launched into a practiced speech, her tone almost mechanical.
"Brother Song! It's an honor to serve the great forces of Dark Star City."
"Not only is it prestigious, but it's also a rare opportunity for a young man like you."
"You'll serve while cultivating martial arts, and with success, you could even join a great force someday!"
She faltered, coughing mid-sentence, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment.
Clearing her throat, she continued, her enthusiasm returning.
"We're in the servants' quarter, in the central district called Media."
"The Magistrate will assess your qualifications, allowing you to start work."
"Work earns merit points and access to the martial library, with hundreds of thousands of cultivation and combat texts—the largest in the region!"
Her eyes sparkled, her hands gesturing wildly, as if painting the grandeur of the city.
Song listened, his mind racing.
The offer sounded tempting—stability, training, a path forward.
But his past as a slave made him wary.
He needed to know one thing.
"Miss Rill," he said, interrupting her, "am I still a slave? Can I leave if I don't want to be a servant?"
Rill froze, her smile fading, replaced by a look of hurt.
"Why would you want to leave?" she asked, her voice sharp.
"The outside world will enslave you again in an instant."
"With your First Lord strength, you'd never survive the Great Forest or the Old Mountains."
She crossed her arms, her gaze stern.
"The clothes you're wearing belong to the quarter. You'd have to return them, leaving you with nothing."
"Here, you'll be fed, clothed, trained. Out there? You'll have nothing. Why would you go?"
Song held her gaze, his jaw tight.
Her words made sense, but he needed to hear it.
"I'm not a slave here?" he pressed.
"You're not," Rill said, waving a hand dismissively.
"Go wherever you want."
Song exhaled, relief washing over him.
Freedom, even if limited, was more than he'd had in years.
"I'll stay," he said, raising his hands to calm her.
"You're right, Miss Rill."
"Good," she nodded, her smile returning.
"And stop calling me 'Miss'! I'm Rill, senior servant. I'll get in trouble if anyone hears that."
"Got it, Rill," Song said, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
Her mood shifted again, her eyes lighting up as she pointed to his bandaged arm.
"Your Tattoo of Dominion," she said, her voice brimming with curiosity.
"I've never seen one like it. Even with one stripe, its shape is… unusual."
Song frowned, his fingers brushing the bandage.
Unusual? he thought.
It had been a simple stripe before the ritual, before the void.
He unwrapped the bandage, his heart racing.
The tattoo was transformed—a thick, fiery ring encircling his forearm, three times larger than before, its edges pulsing with a faint red glow.
"What…" he muttered, stunned.
"When they brought you here, it was blazing," Rill said, her eyes wide.
"We had to use a restraining bandage to contain it. I've never heard of anything like it!"
Song stared at the ring, memories of the Fruit of Raging Fire flashing through his mind.
The old man's words echoed—potential, talent, raised to near limitless heights.
Is this real? he thought, his pulse quickening.
Rill's voice broke his thoughts.
"Even the Dark Cloud Clan leader who brought you here was intrigued," she said, her tone excited.
"He called it an elemental awakening, triggered by extreme stress."
"But with only one stripe, it's a pity. With three, you'd be a prime disciple of a great force!"
Song's chest tightened.
The tattoo was proof of his transformation, but he was still a First Lord, still weak in their eyes.
Yet, the fire in his soul burned brighter than ever.
I'll prove them wrong, he vowed, his defiance flaring.
"I'll take you to the Magistrate," Rill said, her voice cheerful.
"You'll register and start your duties tomorrow."
"Lead the way," Song nodded, his resolve hardening.
As they moved toward the courtyard's green gates, a faint hum vibrated through the ground, unnoticed by Rill.
Song's tattoo pulsed, a warning stirring in his gut.
Something's not right, he thought, his eyes scanning the courtyard.
The ancient stone in the center seemed to glow faintly, its mossy sides hiding a secret that chilled his soul.
To be continued…