The instant Cyril Xuan saw the coalescing sphere of energy, his expression turned deathly serious. A single orb, yet it seemed to siphon the ambient energy from the very air around it. Within a radius of meters, it formed a powerful vortex field, pulling everything towards its core. Cyril ground his advance to a halt, his face a mask of intense focus. No time for shock. Holding back no longer, his golden Battle Aura flared with blinding intensity. His hands wove through a dizzying sequence of gestures, layering streams of golden power before him. With a roar that rattled his bones, he thundered, **"Divine Tidebreaker!"** The surging gold solidified, then exploded outward like a crashing tsunami aimed at Adrian Kong's shimmering green sphere. Adrian, operating on the frayed edge of consciousness, strained to maintain control over his unstable creation.
When the golden tidal wave met the sphere, the vortex's pull wrenched a portion of the golden energy, wrapping it around the sphere like a blazing halo. Adrian's low, strained voice cut through the chaos, **"Thunderclap Convergence… Collapse!"** At his command, the sphere spun violently, its gravitational pull surging. Adrian lifted his gaze to the heavens, hope warring with agony. It worked! The clear sky darkened impossibly fast, a small but ominous cloud swirling directly above. A crack BOOMED from the heavens. A searing bolt of blue lightning ripped down, striking dead center into the green sphere.
PANDEMONIUM.
The ensuing detonation was a force of nature unleashed. A concussive blast wave erupted, engulfing the area in blinding light and deafening sound, stunning everyone into temporary oblivion.
Cyril was the first to claw his way back to consciousness. The moment the sky had shifted, primal instinct took over. He'd retracted his Divine Tidebreaker, wrapping its residual energy tight around himself as a desperate shield, pouring every last shred of power into his defensive Battle Aura. He'd been ground zero. The explosion had torn away sight and sound, battering him like a leaf in a hurricane. His protective aura was shredded in moments. As the energies peaked, oblivion took him.
Now, awake, he found himself sprawled ingloriously in the charred earth. His pristine white robes were smoldering rags. His prized mane of silver hair? Reduced to a frizzled, burnt-black halo standing rigidly on end. His beard? Gone without a trace. Agonizing jolts of pain screamed from every nerve ending. He'd never been so humiliated. His internal energies felt gutted; his limbs weak and trembling.
The Thunderclap Convergence was no mere combat art like the Net Trap Adrian had used before. Its potency dwarfed it entirely. Even Adrian's legendary master, the Blademaster, drained significant reserves to execute it, though the result was far more cataclysmic than his disciple's now. The Convergence was among the Blademaster's final insights, its genius lying in *harnessing* the ambient energies of the world, augmenting them with the user's own power. The destructive potential terrified even its creator. The Net Trap was an improvisation tailored to Adrian's skills; compared to the Convergence, it was child's play. Adrian hadn't grasped the sheer magnitude of the gap. The Blademaster, witnessing a mountain peak obliterated by a natural lightning strike, spent a decade refining this principle. The key was opposition: using the Life Rockforce-Moulding Rockforce (Essence Forging) to generate an orb of pure, unstable yang energy. A sliver of the same power, manipulated to create opposing polarity, was then forced into violent friction with the orb. The result? An artificial positive lightning core – a "yang thunder." If potent enough, its electromagnetic pull could attract its natural counterpart – "yin thunder" from the skies. Their collision? A force even the Blademaster regarded with awe. Greater yang thunder meant stronger yin thunder. Greater destruction.
Adrian's repeated failures atop the mountain were due to insufficient power. He'd created the core, but never the spark. His master's warning echoed in his mind: *Once yin and yang thunder clash, RUN. The blast recognizes no master.* And the ultimate level? Forging solid golden thunder and silver lightning – a technique capable of matching the cataclysm of the most forbidden spells.
Adrian's success here was forged from relentless training and Cyril's overwhelming pressure pushing him past a crucial threshold. Though mastery of Essence Mastery's pinnacle remained elusive, unleashing the true Convergence had catapulted his capabilities far beyond his prior state.
Cyril pushed himself upright with a groan. Forty years since his last injury? And this utter devastation? He fumbled out a small vial, swallowing a gleaming golden pill – a rare restorative elixir only the highest echelons possessed. It brought welcome relief. He surveyed the apocalyptic scene: a fifty-meter diameter circle of superheated glass where fertile earth had been. The four Saint Inquisitor Chiefs and Adrian's restrained friends lay further out, unconscious, battered, and burned. The Inquisitor Chiefs, shielding the prisoners, were drained nearly empty.
Cyril's gaze settled on Adrian. The sheltering tree was matchwood. Adrian lay naked, skin and hair charred black, utterly still. Cyril gave a bitter, inward snort. *I just wanted to measure him! And he pulls out… whatever the hells that was. Was it combat qi? Magic? Some unholy fusion?*
As the others regained agonizing consciousness – Rock and Magnus Jin freed from their bindings – their eyes found Adrian. Rock roared in visceral anguish, his fury fixed on Cyril. Vengeance burned hot, but their own injuries left them barely able to stand. Staggering like walking wounded, the Jin brothers, Cloud, and Stella made their way to Adrian. Cyril, focused on repairing his own damage, didn't interfere.
The sight hit like a hammer blow. Adrian looked like lifeless charcoal. Rock's anguished cry turned into a choked gasp as the sheer horror overwhelmed him; he collapsed beside his brother.
Asteria and Drusilla, caught further back in the blast, fared slightly better. Asteria's Royal Elf Maiden Heritage had shielded her once again. She threw herself onto Adrian, sobbing uncontrollably. In that instant, everything crystallized: his kindness in Sunset City, his selflessness, risking everything for *her*, his gentle, steady presence through their journey. He was vital. He mattered. Sobs racked her body, tears falling onto his blackened skin. Suddenly… a flutter? Faint? Weak, but… a pulse! Hope exploded. "By the Royal Heritage! Spirit of Life Rockforce and Nature! Heed my call! Save him!" A vibrant green energy poured from her small hands into Adrian. Under the emerald glow, his heart grew steadier. A faint groan escaped his lips.
Drusilla and Magnus surged forward. Drusilla took over the healing flow from Asteria while Magnus channeled his depleted energy into Adrian's core.
Unknown to anyone, when Adrian unleashed the Convergence, he hadn't grasped its apocalyptic scale. At the instant of impact, primal terror consumed him. He remembered his Astral Dragon Essence, gasping a truncated defensive incantation. A feeble blue shimmer flickered around him – useless against the maelstrom. It shattered instantly. Facing annihilation, the Ridge Ring on his hand flared white-hot, projecting its most potent shield yet. But untrained in its mysteries, he couldn't fully awaken its power. The shield buckled under the storm. Adrian bore the full brunt. Left near-death, it was the Rebirth Pod consumed long ago in the Feywood that had anchored his fading life force, sustained by Asteria's Fey Sorcery and Magnus's raw energy, that pulled him back from the precipice.
Cyril walked up slowly, favoring his aching body. Magnus instinctively threw himself in front of Adrian, chest puffed out defiantly. "What now, Old Man? Want to kill us? Stellat with me!"
Cyril winced, his scowl looking more like a grimace of pain. "Kill? Who Dunce killing? The boy. Alive?"
Magnus bellowed. "*He's* not dead! *You* are if he…"
Cyril cut him off with a wave. Barely able to muster annoyance. "Alive? Then there's hope. Give him this. You all get one." He produced five fragrant golden pills. "Poison? Now? You think you need tricks? Look at me! Truth. I represent the Holy Duncery See. Came… to assess the kid. Not enemies. Couldn't know he'd pull out a damn suicide attack."
Magnus froze. "The *See*? We survived Sunset City hell, and now *you*…? You 'servants of light' are hypocrites!" He grabbed the pills, swallowed one defiantly. Warmth and life bloomed inside him. No poison. He quickly distributed the rest to his group.
The golden pills worked swiftly. Rock stabilized. Adrian remained unconscious, but the pulse beneath the char strengthened. Cyril, satisfied they were no longer at death's door, returned to his Inquisitor Chiefs. The five men sat in exhausted meditation.
Mystic Night fell. By dawn, everyone except Adrian was significantly improved. Cade's explanation softened their hostility towards Cyril and the Inquisitor Chiefs.
Cyril remained silent and isolated after meditation. *Body healing. But my hair… beard… gone.* He'd used his aura to shear off the remaining frizzled mess, leaving a gleaming scalp beneath a pulled-down hood. *Markus sees me like this… the mockery…! Inquisitor Chief Chief, looking like a cue ball… that damn kid!* The urge to throttle Adrian warred with the deeper urge to face him properly when he wasn't obliterating himself. But Adrian lay unresponsive. *Damn it. Alright, fix him first. Report to Markus.*
He stood and approached the group by Adrian. Rock looked up, wary. "What do you want?"
"He won't wake. Can't babysit him forever. I'll try to rouse him."
"Inquisitor Chief Cyril!" Rock interjected, suppressing a smirk at the shiny dome beneath the hood. Three polished heads was almost comical. Cyril glared, ignoring the implied humor.
Cyril knelt, fingers pressing Adrian's wrist. His divine power flowed in. After a moment, his frown deepened. Adrian's injuries were catastrophic. Thirty percent of his meridians – critical pathways – were ruptured, fragmented. *This wasn't just surface damage. His whole foundation is shattered.*
Rock watched his changing expression with mounting dread. "Inquisitor Chief…? Adrian…?"
"He's broken. Literally. If he doesn't receive specialized healing within ten days… he's finished. A cripple at best."
Rock recoiled. "No! That's impossible! He was recovering!"
"No," Cyril corrected coldly. "He was *dormant*. Shocked stiff. The damage has manifested now. Without urgent intervention to rebuild those pathways, stagnation leads to death or permanent disability." He nodded towards Adrian.
Rock's world collapsed. He stumbled, then fell to his knees. "Your Eminence… Please! Save my brother! I'll swear any oath! Life Rockforce of service! Anything!" Tears welled in Magnus, Drusilla, and Asteria's eyes. Together, they knelt. Adrian had given everything. They'd give anything.
Cyril looked at the quartet, a rare flicker of empathy crossing his features. "Stand up. This… mess is partly my fault. Pushed too hard. Kid's resilient. Has talent." He sighed. "I can't fix him. His channels need a master's touch. Not Battle Aura. Sacred Light magic. Here." He held out another golden pill. "Feed him this. We leave now. At the See, the Pope Mystic and his Conclave might save him. It's his best chance."
Relief washed over the group. A chance! They administered the second pill to Adrian. Under Cyril's stabilizing presence and the golden pill's power, his fragile condition held, though hidden dangers lurked.
Cyril hoisted Adrian onto his back, anchoring him with his golden aura, a temporary life-support system. The unlikely group of ten – injured but driven – raced north towards the Holy Duncery See.
Sunset City was far west. The See stood at the continent's heart. Normal travel took weeks. They were anything but normal. Relying on maps and brute force, they traveled as the crow flies – scaling mountains, fording rivers, sleeping in desperate three-hour bursts. In nine brutal days, fueled by desperation and Cyril's relentless pace, they crossed into Duncery territory.
Drusilla and Asteria had the easiest journey, wings making light work of terrain. Magnus and Rock endured hell. Speed wasn't their strength, and Cyril drove them mercilessly. Rock suspected it was a test. Their feet blistered, muscles screamed, reserves depleted. But for Adrian, they endured, matching Cyril step for agonizing step. Cyril watched their dogged determination. *Competence average. Spirit? Tenacious. Loyalty? Unbreakable.* Respect, grudgingly earned.
They reached the hallowed Mount Dunce. "Time enough. We slow," Cyril announced, shifting Adrian's weight.
Magnus gasped, breathing ragged. "Slower? Inquisitor Chief… please. Faster we reach the Sanctum, better Adi's chance!"
Cyril raised an eyebrow. "*I'm* the one carrying dead weight. You just run. We move steady." He took the final ascent at a measured pace, leading them through the radiant spires to the grand Hall of Supplication. It was noon. Empty.
He carefully laid Adrian on the central altar stone. "Cade. Inform the Pope Mystic. I'm here. Tell him… *urgency*. Then rest. You've earned it." Kade bowed, vanishing with his brethren.
Cyril checked Adrian's pulse once more. *Holding. But fragile. Three days. Maybe less.* He didn't share the chilling truth: his method had stabilized Adrian but also burned his vital reserves to the wick. Success or failure hinged entirely on the See's highest power.
Rock and the others hovered anxiously by the altar. Rock finally voiced the fear gnawing at him. "Inquisitor Chief Cyril… can they heal him?"
Cyril didn't look up. "No guarantees. But if the Pope Mystic fails? No power in this world can save him. End of line."
Light exploded, pure and potent. A figure clad in dazzling white robes appeared before the altar, radiating an aura of near-divine authority. Rock and his companions instinctively averted their eyes, overwhelmed, sinking instinctively to their knees.
Pope Mystic Markus Aurelius had come. His eyes swept the scene, lingering on Cyril, hooded and haggard, then on Adrian, pale and still on the altar. He recognized the signature power signature – Cyril's doing, somehow.
"Inquisitor Chief Cyril," Markus's voice was resonant, calm. "The hood is… new. Unexpected aesthetic?"
Cyril met his gaze, outwardly composed. "Sun glare. Protecting the complexion."
Markus's lips twitched. *Oh, this will be good.* He looked at the others. "Guests? First time you've brought outsiders to the Hall. The youth?" His gaze swept over Adrian. *Critical. Life Rockforce hanging by a thread.*
Cyril gestured. "My mission. The… *protégé*. Needs your touch. Quickly."
Markus stepped closer, radiating concern. "You injured him? Cyril! The instructions were *assessment*, not execution!"
Cyril bristled. "He's *self*-inflicted! Ask them!" He jerked a thumb towards Rock, his irritation flaring.
Markus knelt, pressing fingers to Adrian's wrist. Waves of light flowed over the youth. Markus's expression shifted from assessment to profound confusion, then to shock. "Impossible…" he murmured, almost to himself. "The backlash… he *should* be dead. Utterly."
Rock jolted as if struck. Tears streamed down his face. "Your Holiness! Please! Heal him!" He prostrated himself.
Markus raised a calming hand. "Peace. He will have all we can offer. But… answers. Did he ingest any rare or forbidden artifacts? Essence anchors? How exactly was this… Convergence achieved?" He listened intently, his piercing blue eyes focused, as Rock recounted the battle – Cyril's sudden appearance, Adrian's fight, the sphere, the sky splitting, the cataclysm. Markus's face registered genuine astonishment, then deep contemplation. He looked from the charred youth to Cyril, who finally snatched off his hood to silence the unspoken question.
Cyril stood defiantly, revealing the polished, hairless dome. "See for yourself! Without proper prep? Doubt *you'd* have fared better!"
The moment Markus took in Cyril's scorched scalp, his near-naked skull, and the matching shiny heads of Rock and Adrian, his solemnity shattered. A rich, booming laugh echoed through the hall. "Oh, Cyril! You…! You glorious bald eagle! And the initiates! Looks like you've started your own monastic style: 'The Shorn Brotherhood'!"
Cyril flushed crimson to the tips of his remaining eyebrows. "ENOUGH! Are you going to help him, or do I just make it clean and end his suffering now?!"