Darian Kaelthorn’s mind spun like a storm, instinct screaming for him to refuse. But then—he saw Lyrath Vael’s spiritual eyes. They were smiling. Not fully, not completely, but just enough to make his heart jolt. That single glance stopped him cold.For a split second, Darian wondered if the Great City Lord had planned this—intentionally. By having him call her “Aunt Sylara,” was she tying him to Furon, weaving layers of connection he hadn’t even considered?Lyrath Vael. Commanding. Regal. Unshakable. Yet, somehow… There was a playful flicker beneath her steel-like presence, almost like a mischievous girl hiding under armor. Darian thought, A woman’s heart really is like a needle lost deep in the sea—good luck ever finding it.“I… I will obey… Aunt Sylara’s command!” His throat went dry at the words. And then, her full, radiant smile lit up the room.Almost immediately, she asked him to recount everything—about Furon, about himself.Darian nodded. He spoke freely, leaving the origins

Balfar Mohr stayed seated, eyes lingering on Darian Kaelthorn as he disappeared into the distance. A flicker of something—anticipation, maybe excitement—danced there. Calm now, yes, but beneath it, a quiet ripple of thrill spread through his chest, like throwing a pebble into still water.“Go on, Darian Kaelthorn… Only in a place like Eryndor, where heroes and geniuses gather from all corners of the lands, can you really spread your wings,” he murmured, almost to himself.He lifted a glass of fine wine, letting it touch his lips. And for the first time in days, a genuine smile curved his otherwise plain face. Controlled, calm… but still, deep down, storms swirled in Darian’s heart.The First Main City stretched before him, bathed in the soft, silvery glow of the high moon. The orb hung there like a lantern, cool and serene, carrying whispers of reunion, separation, joy, sorrow, and—somewhere beneath it all—a faint hope. Darian stared at it, a strange, heavy feeling settling over him.

Eastern Lands — First CapitalThe Battle of the Thousand Realms might have officially ended, but honestly? The excitement hadn’t cooled at all.If anything, it felt louder.Every street in the First Capital was still buzzing. Teahouses were packed. Training halls were noisy. Even random corners of the market had cultivators arguing over techniques and matchups like old friends debating their favorite legends. Young or old, everyone was still talking about the same thing.The prodigies.Names flew back and forth nonstop. Some were praised, some were debated, and some were exaggerated beyond belief. But no matter where the conversation started, it always ended in the same place.Darian Kaelthorn.There was no avoiding it.His rise had been ridiculous—almost unfair. From the moment he stepped onto the battlefield, expectations shattered one after another. His back-to-back victories over Dathric Valen and Balfar Mohr sent shockwaves across the Eastern Lands. Out of three hundred young gen

Elder Dawnlight’s words hit like a stone dropped into a quiet lake, sending ripples through the hearts of the nine young cultivators. Their spirits stirred, fiery and restless, as if long-dormant embers had suddenly been fanned into life.Every word from the elder carried weight. Every syllable seemed to thrum with meaning. And when he mentioned the Five Great Domains of the Frostveil Dominion, Darian Kaelthorn felt a tightness in his chest. Ten years. Ten long years had passed since he’d been trapped within the walls of the Valeblue family, never leaving Drakeflare City, never glimpsing the vast world beyond. Memories of the Eastern Lands had been locked away by Uncle Felric, and to Darian, that had always seemed like the edge of existence. But even then, he’d dreamed of more. Otherwise, he never would have walked away from Theron Valeblue, defeated Empress Lucian Valeblue, and left behind the only home he’d ever known.If it weren’t for Jaren Shanley’s sudden appearance—and the dang

Power slammed into the air like a thunderclap.Dathric Valen had appeared—out of nowhere—and Malrik Emberveil felt his senses reel. Ice-blue Primordial Energy swirled around the Eastern Lands cultivator, tiny shards of frost drifting in the void. The fragments gathered into biting winds that cut skin, chilled bones. Every flick of Dathric’s hand sent waves of freezing energy stabbing through the air. Sharp. Precise. Deadly. And in that instant, Malrik knew—this was the strongest peer he had ever faced.“Hmph!” Malrik’s voice rang out, sharp and unshakable. “You’re about to see the might of the Starry Primordial Great Method of the Malrik Clan of Ironvale!”He wasn’t bluffing. Malrik wasn’t just some street fighter. The difference between Ironvale and the Eastern Lands wasn’t subtle. The Eastern Lands had its First Main City, a hundred scattered Great Main Cities, sprawling but fractured. Ironvale? Ironvale was built on bloodlines, ancient families that had shaped the land itself. Gene