53. — The Summit of Power
Suddenly, the very fabric of space cracked—softly at first, like silk being torn under a mountain's weight.
A glowing fissure bloomed in midair, warping reality itself. The light within shimmered like liquified starlight, bending time and presence. A hush fell over the chamber as every head turned toward the anomaly.
From that rift stepped Rovan Hale.
President of the Hale Clan. Uncle to Ruby Hale. And a man cloaked in quiet, terrifying mystery.
His footsteps made no sound—but the air around him trembled. Though his energy remained tightly sealed, a suffocating pressure filled the hall. Elites—hunters, scholars, and warriors alike—felt their throats tighten. Beads of sweat formed on their necks, not from heat, but from instinct.
A primal fear.
The kind that spoke of extinction.
His presence was like a dormant volcano—silent, but one flick away from obliteration.
Behind him emerged over twenty Hale Elders, robed in hues of garnet and gold. Each bore marks of authority—old scars, glowing eyes, elemental insignias—and moved like shadows bound by discipline. They didn't need to speak. Their very presence echoed power accumulated over centuries.
Together, they took their places around a vast circular table carved from obsidian and rimmed with glowing runes—an ancestral relic of the Hale bloodline. Each crimson chair, upholstered with forbidden beast leather, represented a seat of immense influence.
At the very center, Rovan took his seat.
To his left:
Caen Hale – Head of Internal Affairs. Thin, sharp-eyed, with hair tied in silver cords. He missed nothing—no whisper, no betrayal.
Velina Hale – Chief Combat Instructor. A statuesque woman in a black armored dress, her arms etched with burn marks earned on the battlefield. Cold, brutal, and revered.
To his right:
Marius Hale – Clan Strategist and Business Controller. Always dressed in silk, eyes constantly half-lidded as if bored. But his mind worked faster than any system, calculating outcomes before events even began.
Revya Hale – Supreme Commander of the Hale Forces. Towering, with short-cropped red hair and crimson war tattoos down her neck. The kind of woman who could silence an army just by walking in.
These four were not just close to Rovan—they were his circle of execution. When Rovan thought, they acted. When he watched, they moved in silence.
They were legends in their own right.
Moments later, the other side of the hall shimmered.
The Xiao Clan arrived.
Their members moved like a tide of silver—silvery-white hair glowing faintly under the light, royal Chinese robes flowing with a grace that made them look untouchable.
At their head stood Xiao Zhenyu, Clan Leader of the Xiaos.
Despite being over 20,000 years old, he bore the face of a man in his prime—no older than his early thirties. Smooth skin. Regal bearing. Hair tied back with a jade clasp. But his eyes betrayed his age. They shimmered like ancient glaciers—silent, unmoving, and impossibly deep. Behind that stillness hid centuries of wisdom, tempered by wrath sharpened through countless wars.
He was also Minji Xiao's grandfather.
And he walked like a man who had once dared to challenge gods.
Following him in a perfect column were the Xiao Clan Elders, clad in ceremonial robes of pale silver, embroidered with ink-black dragons and phoenix feathers.
Xiao Yunlie – Supreme Commander of the Xiao Forces. Towering, broad-shouldered, with a cold glare that had made entire enemy battalions hesitate. His black iron boots echoed with weight as he walked.
Xiao Qingshan – Chief Advisor and Grand Strategist. Thin, long-bearded, with a slow gait. He held a lacquered fan in one hand, hiding a face often mistaken for serenity. But behind those half-lidded eyes was a mind capable of unraveling armies like threads.
Xiao Meiling – Head of Business and Resource Control. Graceful and composed, with silver-rimmed spectacles and a voice rumored to stop negotiations mid-sentence. Her sharp tongue once made three trading guilds collapse in a single meeting.
Xiao Wenyu – Head of Internal Affairs. Son of Zhenyu and father of Minji. He bore his lineage with quiet pride. Dressed in an elegant high-collared hanfu, he carried the weight of legacy in every step. Though he rarely spoke, his words carried the force of law within clan borders.
Together, they took their designated seats with measured precision. Every gesture was steeped in etiquette—silent but thunderous in its authority.
On one side of the room sat the Hale Clan—a living storm of dominance. Red-haired. Clad in western-cut suits and obsidian-toned coats, exuding raw force. They were fire.
On the other side, the Xiao Clan—draped in flowing robes of white and silver, radiating grace like moonlight across a still lake. They were ice.
The contrast between them was deliberate. Symbolic. Two dynasties of power and pride, staring across a table that had once seated peace—but now felt like a battlefield.
Even Ruby—normally composed—could feel it.
The air had become thick. Dense. As if generations of pressure had pooled into this one chamber. The legacy of thousands of years weighed down on her chest. For a moment, she struggled to breathe.
But she clenched her fists beneath the table.
She had to stay upright.
She had to endure.
Then, without announcement or ceremony, the great marble doors creaked open once.
Two figures entered.
Steve Lee, dressed in a charcoal black coat lined with indigo trim, strode in with quiet dignity. The very air seemed to settle around him—neither sharp nor soft, but unnervingly centered. His presence didn't demand attention.
It commanded it.
Beside him walked his eldest son—Sam Lee. Broad-chested, with slicked-back hair and a piercing gaze. His long coat swayed with each step, and his expression was unreadable. Not cold. Not warm. Simply poised—like a sword waiting in its sheath.
They walked side by side, each a figure of contrast yet harmony.
And as they approached the two black chairs—positioned between the Hale and Xiao delegations—every gaze shifted toward them.
The tension in the room didn't fade.
It crystallized.
Because everyone knew—
Those two seats weren't just for the Lees.
They were for the Judges.
The Balance.
They were the reason today's meeting existed.
The Lee Enterprise was the greatest business partner of both the Hale and Xiao clans.
And perhaps the only reason such long-standing rivals had become allies in this new era.
After a few formal, disciplined greetings, the room settled.
Then—
Xiao Zhenyu looked across the table and spoke first.
> "Mr. Rovan Hale… I'll admit, after your elder brother's death, I didn't expect you to hold the clan together this well. But you've proved me wrong—you've become an admirable leader."
Rovan offered a small nod, voice composed.
> "I'm simply following the path taught to me by my elder brother… Lucien Hale."
The room fell into a still, aching silence.
At the mention of the name—
Lucien Hale.
Even the air stopped moving.
He had once been the blazing star of the Hale Clan—respected not for his lineage, but for his unmatched mastery of elemental fusion and his reputation as a warrior who bled beside his subordinates, not behind them.
Gone now.
Killed alongside his wife, Evelyn Hale, during a classified hunting mission deep within the Shifting Expanse. The details had never been made public. Some said they were ambushed by a new variant of essence creatures. Others whispered of betrayal.
To Ruby, the truth had long ceased to matter.
They were simply… gone.
And now, in a chamber filled with legacy and power, their absence weighed heavier than any presence.
From the central seat, Rovan Hale—the man who had once raised a war flag with Lucien at his side—allowed his eyes to flicker for the briefest moment.
Just a glance.
A flicker of something beneath the ice. A shard of sorrow? Guilt? Regret?
But then, it was gone.
His voice returned—measured, cold, and direct.
> "Let's begin," he said, folding his hands over the obsidian surface of the table.
"Everyone here deserves to know why this meeting was called."
The silence shattered—like ice breaking under weight.
Chairs adjusted.
Eyes sharpened.
Attention locked in.
This was no ceremonial gathering. No routine summit. With the Hales, the Xiaos, and the Lees all present—this was a convergence of the highest bloodlines on Earth.
And such a meeting could only mean one thing.
Something had happened.
Something big.
A tall figure emerged from the shadows of the raised platform—a man dressed in a sleek black and gold robe, its edges marked with sigils denoting neutrality and absolute authority.
His presence felt... manufactured.
Like he'd been forged in the crucible of protocol and carved from stone under a judge's hammer.
Back straight.
Voice crisp.
Aura taut with practiced restraint.
He was a Council Host—an officer not bound to any clan, but sworn to the Inter-Clan Authority, the neutral body that oversaw critical functions between Earth's Great Clans.
Raising his hand with deliberate calm, he addressed the gathering:
> "You have all been summoned today for two primary reasons,"
His voice echoed clearly across the chamber, neither too loud nor too soft—perfectly balanced.
He paused just enough to build gravity before continuing:
> 1. "To observe and assess the next generation of heirs."
2. "To receive official briefings and declarations regarding the upcoming Inter racial Tournament."
The moment those words were spoken, several eyes sharpened—especially among the younger generation seated around the periphery. The Tournament wasn't just tradition.
It was a proving ground.
A battlefield disguised as sport.
A stage that decided status, respect, and sometimes even leadership.
The host's gaze swept over the crowd before continuing:
> "Additionally," he said, "on this day, any clan member present may issue personal challenges—whether for honor, clarification of hierarchy, or simple martial growth.
However, to maintain fairness and decorum…"
"No individual may be challenged more than twice."
The statement landed with precision.
It was both an invitation and a warning.
Whispers rose quietly at the edges of the room. Some faces lit up with ambition. Others stayed carefully neutral.
Then, the host stepped back and declared:
> "Now, I invite the clan leaders to speak."
He bowed slightly and exited to the rear, returning to stillness like a statue put back in its alcove.
All eyes turned forward again.
And the weight of the moment returned—stronger now.
Which clan would speak first?
Which elder would declare their next move?
Who would throw the first stone?
No mic was needed.
Rovan Hale, still seated, spoke—and yet, his raw voice echoed through the hall, reaching every ear as if whispered right next to them.
His tone was deep, authoritative.
> "This meeting is not to praise or belittle heirs.
It is to ignite their competitive spirit, and push them toward greatness.
That said—one name has stood out more than any in the Hale Clan this generation."
He looked around briefly.
> "Kaleb Hale."
A low murmur followed.
> "I encourage you all to learn from your cousin. Push yourselves. Compete. Prove your worth."
Then came Xiao Zhenyu again.
> "I'll speak little, but say this:
This generation… we're proud of Xiao Ziyang and Xiao Fengjin. Both have already reached King-Level, and their progress is accelerating."
A hush fell over the room.
The younger attendees—especially those from the Hale and Xiao Clans—couldn't help but glance at Kaleb, Ziyang, and Fengjin with admiration.
Then the host returned.
And launched into a long-winded, boring but necessary speech about discipline, historical rules, and spiritual goals of the Tournament.
It went on for over thirty minutes.
When it finally ended, there was a collective exhale—relief.
Rovan leaned slightly toward Steve Lee, his voice now casual, almost friendly:
> "How's your guild—Astral Forge—doing these days?"
Steve grinned slightly.
> "Strong as ever. We've expanded well across the expanse . Your support helped."
As they chatted, dishes were brought out—the elites around the table slowly began to relax, eating and talking in quieter voices.
For a moment, it felt less like a war council—and more like a family dinner among gods.
To be continued…