The success of the Jade-Leaf Valley mission acted as a catalyst within the Sterling Manor. For the next two weeks, Blake Harrison's life was a whirlwind of social obligations and intensified training. The feast held in their honor had been a grand affair, filled with the aroma of roasted meats, the finest honey-wine from the southern provinces, and the incessant flattery of lesser clan members. Through it all, Blake had remained the stoic center of attention, accepting the accolades with the quiet humility his father had instilled in him.
However, the luxury of the manor could not dull the edge of his ambition. The hum in his blood—the lingering aftereffect of the Marrow-Refining Essence—had settled into a steady, vibrating strength. He felt as though he were a bowstring pulled to its absolute limit, waiting for the moment of release.
He spent his mornings in the "Iron Grove," a secluded section of the training grounds reserved for high-level Flesh Tempering disciples. The grove was filled with pillars of black basalt, each one scarred by the strikes of generations of Sterling warriors. Here, the air was thick with the scent of ozone and crushed stone.
Blake stood before a basalt pillar, his upper body bare, revealing the lean, corded muscle of a youth who had surpassed the physical limits of his age. He wasn't using a sword. Instead, he was practicing the "Vibrant Palm," a technique designed to transmit force through the surface of an object to shatter its internal structure. It was a precursor to the 6th Layer of Flesh Tempering, where the internal organs were reinforced to withstand such power.
He drew a breath, centering his energy in his lower abdomen. He visualized the force flowing from the earth, up through his legs, and coiling in his shoulder. With a sharp exhale, he struck.
CRACK.
His palm met the stone with a sound like a thunderclap. A spiderweb of fractures blossomed from the point of impact, and a handful of stone dust drifted to the ground. Blake pulled his hand back, inspecting his skin. It was slightly red, but there was no pain. His bones felt like solid iron.
"You're hitting too hard for a 5th-layer disciple, Blake."
He turned to see his father, Thomas Harrison, leaning against the entrance of the grove. Thomas looked older in the morning light, the lines of worry on his forehead deeper than they had been a month ago.
"The force needs to be internal, Father," Blake replied, wiping the dust from his chest. "If I don't test the limits of my bones now, they won't be ready for the 6th-layer transition."
Thomas walked over, placing his hand on the cracked basalt. He ran his fingers over the fractures, a look of grim contemplation on his face. "Your progress is frighteningly fast. But be careful. The faster a tree grows, the more brittle its wood can become. Do not rush the organ tempering. If you damage your heart or lungs now, no amount of medicinal herbs will fix the foundation."
"I'm being careful," Blake assured him. "The Marrow-Refining Essence gave me a head start. I feel... more resilient than I should be."
Thomas sighed and sat on a nearby stone bench. "It's good that you feel strong. You'll need that strength. The city is changing, Blake. The Hawthorne Clan isn't just aggressive on the borders anymore. They've begun to squeeze our trade routes into the capital. Even the Valerians, who usually remain neutral, have started to pull their healers out of our infirmaries."
Blake frowned. "They're isolating us."
"They're testing the walls," Thomas corrected. "They see Silas Sterling's age, and they see the rise of our younger generation—you and Jazmin. They want to see if the foundation of this house is as solid as the stone you're trying to break."
"The Autumn Festival will prove it," Blake said. "The betrothal ceremony will show everyone that the Sterling and Harrison lines are united. They won't dare move against a unified front."
"That is the hope," Thomas said, though he didn't sound entirely convinced. "But hope is a poor shield. Continue your training. And keep a close eye on the news from the city. I've heard rumors of a 'Grand Tournament' being organized by the City Lord's office for the festival. It won't just be a celebration; it will be a display of power for every clan in the region."
Blake's heart quickened. A tournament meant a chance to face the geniuses of the Hawthorne and Valerian houses. It was the ultimate stage for a cultivator. "I'll be ready, Father."
The rest of the week passed in a blur of exertion. Blake pushed himself harder than ever, his focus entirely on the upcoming festival. He began to incorporate the Sterling Gale footwork into his palm strikes, moving around the basalt pillars with a fluidity that made him look like a ghost in the morning mist.
Jazmin often joined him in the afternoons. Her own progress was steady, and she had begun to master a new technique—the "Twin Fang Flash." It was a dual-sword style that relied on blinding speed and precision. When they sparred, the air between them was filled with the rhythmic clack-clack of wooden blades, a dance of two rising stars perfectly in sync.
"I heard about the tournament," Jazmin said one evening as they rested by the reflecting pool. Her hair was damp with sweat, and her cheeks were flushed. "The Hawthornes are sending their 'Iron Son,' Garrett. They say he's already reached the 6th Layer."
"Garrett Hawthorne is nineteen," Blake noted. "By the time I'm nineteen, I'll be far beyond the 6th Layer."
Jazmin laughed and splashed a bit of water at him. "Your confidence is going to get you in trouble one of these days. Garrett is a brute. He doesn't have your technique, but his physical defense is legendary. They say he can take a blow from a war-hammer without bruising."
"Defense is only useful if you can hit your opponent," Blake said, his eyes tracing the ripples in the water. "If he's at the 6th Layer, he's tempered his organs. That makes him a dangerous opponent, but not an invincible one."
"Well, you'd better find a way to beat him," Jazmin said, her voice dropping to a softer tone. "Because my grandfather expects nothing less than a victory. If we win the tournament and the betrothal is finalized on the same day, our standing will be untouchable."
Blake looked at her, seeing the ambition in her eyes. It was a trait he admired, a fire that matched his own. "We'll win, Jazmin. I promise."
As the days bled into weeks, the atmosphere in Thousand Blade City grew increasingly electric. The streets were being decorated with crimson banners and golden lanterns. Merchants from across the Azure Vault Continent were pouring into the city, bringing exotic goods, strange beasts, and news of the wider world.
But within the Sterling Manor, a new tension was brewing. It started with small things—a shipment of grain that went missing, a series of strange illnesses among the stable hands, and a sudden coldness from certain lower-level deacons.
One evening, while Blake was returning from a late training session, he spotted a group of men huddled in one of the side courtyards. They were speaking in hushed tones, their faces obscured by the shadows of the eaves. As Blake approached, they immediately fell silent and dispersed. Among them, he recognized Vance, one of the guards who had been on the Jade-Leaf Valley mission.
Blake paused, his hand resting on the hilt of his blade. There was something off about the way Vance had looked at him—not with the usual respect, but with a strange, nervous flickering in his eyes.
"Is something wrong, Vance?" Blake called out.
The guard stopped, his back stiffening. He turned slowly, a forced smile on his face. "Nothing at all, Master Blake. Just discussing the guard rotations for the festival. It's a busy time."
"Indeed it is," Blake said, his eyes narrowing. "Make sure the north wall is well-manned. My father mentioned a lapse in the patrols recently."
"Of course, Master Blake. Right away." Vance bowed and hurried off.
Blake watched him go, a feeling of unease settling in his gut. He brushed it off as pre-tournament nerves, but the sensation lingered. He decided to find his father, but Thomas was locked in a meeting with Elder Marcus and the Clan Head.
The night before the Autumn Festival began, Blake found it impossible to sleep. He sat on his balcony, the cool night air brushing against his skin. The city below was a sea of lights, the distant sound of drums and flutes echoing through the air. Tomorrow, the festival would officially start. Tomorrow, his life would begin its final ascent toward the future he had always envisioned.
He closed his eyes and tried to meditate, but his mind kept drifting back to the look in Vance's eyes. He thought about the Hawthornes, about Garrett, and about the weight of the silver vial his father had given him. He felt as though he were standing on a precipice, the wind howling around him.
Suddenly, a soft sound came from the garden below—the snap of a dry twig.
Blake was over the railing in an instant, landing silently on the grass. He moved through the shadows of the ornamental trees, his senses heightened. He saw a figure cloaked in black slipping through the gate that led to the private infirmary.
He followed, his movements ghost-like. The figure entered the infirmary and began rummaging through the cabinets where the most potent medicinal herbs were kept.
"Who are you?" Blake's voice was like ice.
The figure spun around, a vial of Spirit-Healing Grass essence in their hand. The moonlight caught the person's face. It was one of the junior alchemists, a girl named Sila who had always been quiet and diligent.
"Master Blake!" she gasped, her face pale. "I... I was just..."
"Stealing from the clan?" Blake stepped into the light, his presence overwhelming the small room. "On the eve of the festival?"
"No! Please!" Sila dropped to her knees, tears streaming down her face. "My brother... he's sick. The grey-cough. The healers said he won't last the week without the essence, but we can't afford it. I was going to replace it, I swear!"
Blake looked at her, his expression softening slightly. He knew the grey-cough was a brutal respiratory illness that plagued the lower districts of the city. He also knew that the Sterling Clan's rules on theft were absolute.
"Give me the vial," Blake said.
Sila handed it over, her hands shaking. Blake looked at the shimmering liquid. It was a high-grade essence, worth more than a servant would make in five years.
"Go back to your quarters," Blake said quietly. "If anyone asks, you were here checking the inventory under my orders. I will deal with the healers regarding your brother."
Sila looked up at him, her eyes wide with disbelief. "You... you won't report me?"
"The clan doesn't need to lose a talented alchemist over a moment of desperation," Blake said. "But do not let it happen again. If I find you here after hours without a reason, I won't be so lenient."
"Thank you, Master Blake! Thank you!" She bowed until her forehead touched the floor before scurrying out of the room.
Blake stood in the silence of the infirmary for a moment, the vial cold in his hand. He placed it back on the shelf and walked out into the night. He felt a strange sense of peace. In a world of cold iron and rigid laws, he had made a choice based on something else. He wondered if his father would approve.
He returned to his room and finally fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
The morning of the Autumn Festival arrived with a burst of color and sound. The gates of the Sterling Manor were thrown open, and a procession of elders, warriors, and disciples marched toward the city's central arena. Blake rode at the head of the disciples, his silver robes gleaming in the sun. Jazmin was beside him, her white mare draped in silk barding.
The arena was a massive stone structure, capable of holding fifty thousand people. Today, it was packed to the rafters. The air was thick with the smell of street food and the roar of the crowd.
In the center of the arena, the City Lord stood on a podium. He was a tall, imposing man with a beard of iron-grey. "Citizens of Thousand Blade City! Today we celebrate the harvest and the strength of our houses! Let the Grand Tournament begin!"
The first day was filled with qualifying rounds—lower-level cultivators from the various clans testing their skills. Blake watched from the Sterling box, his eyes scanning the competition. He saw the Hawthorne contingent, their dark green banners fluttering in the wind. Garrett Hawthorne was there, sitting motionless, his presence like a heavy stone.
By the afternoon, it was Blake's turn. He stepped onto the sand of the arena, the roar of the crowd washing over him. His opponent was a young man from the Valerian Clan, a 4th-layer disciple named Elias.
Elias was fast, his movements graceful and fluid, typical of the Valerian style. He used a rapier-like blade, aimed at precise strikes. But to Blake, he seemed slow.
As Elias lunged, Blake didn't even draw his sword. He stepped to the side, his movement a blur of the Sterling Gale footwork. He caught Elias's wrist and applied a fraction of the pressure he had used on the basalt pillar.
The Valerian disciple gasped, his weapon falling to the sand. Blake delivered a light palm strike to his chest, sending him sliding ten feet across the arena.
"Winner: Blake Harrison!" the announcer shouted.
The Sterling box erupted in cheers. Blake bowed and walked off the field, his expression unchanged. It hadn't been a challenge. It had been a warm-up.
As he entered the tunnel leading back to the staging area, he was met by Jazmin. She looked thrilled. "That was perfect, Blake! You didn't even break a sweat."
"He was 4th layer," Blake said. "The real fight starts tomorrow."
"Don't be so gloomy," she said, leaning in to whisper in his ear. "My grandfather is ecstatic. He's already talking about the marriage contract as if it's signed."
Blake smiled and took her hand. "I'll make sure it's worth the ink."
They spent the evening wandering through the festival stalls, anonymous in the crowd. They ate honey-cakes, watched the fire-dancers, and for a few hours, they weren't the future of a clan—they were just two teenagers enjoying the holiday.
But as they returned to the manor, Blake noticed the guard at the North Gate was no longer Vance. It was a man he didn't recognize, someone with a cold, distant expression.
"Where is Vance?" Blake asked.
"Reassigned, Master Blake," the guard replied curtly. "Internal security matters."
Blake walked into the manor, the feeling of unease returning with a vengeance. The halls were too quiet, the shadows too long. He went to his father's study, but the door was locked.
He returned to his room and sat on his balcony, looking out at the city. The festival was still in full swing, the lights dancing in the distance. But within the walls of the Sterling Manor, something felt wrong. The air was heavy, the silence oppressive.
He looked at his hands, the hands that had broken stone and spared a thief. He felt his 5th-layer energy pulsing through his veins, strong and steady. He was ready for the tournament. He was ready for the marriage. He was ready for his future.
But as he stared into the darkness of the garden, he couldn't help but feel that the silver edge of his life was about to be tested in a way he couldn't yet imagine. He gripped the railing, his knuckles white.
The Autumn Festival had only just begun