Eastern Valdrian Empire. Sterling Family Compound.
Thousands of miles from the Ashford estate, in a secluded corner of the Sterling ancestral grounds, sat a woman who had once been destined for greatness.
The pavilion floated at the center of an artificial lake, connected to the shore by a narrow stone bridge. Koi drifted lazily beneath the surface, their golden scales catching the afternoon light. Cherry blossoms drifted from nearby trees, settling on the water like fallen snow.
It was beautiful. Serene. The kind of place poets wrote verses about.
It was also a prison.
Sera Sterling sat motionless on a stone bench, her gaze fixed on the water below. She wore simple robes—white silk with minimal embroidery. No jewelry. No ornaments. Nothing befitting the daughter of a patriarch.
She didn't need finery anymore. What was the point of dressing up a corpse?
Her reflection stared back at her from the pond's surface. The face was still beautiful. Hauntingly so. The kind of beauty that had once inspired young nobles across the empire to compose terrible poetry and challenge each other to duels for her attention.
But the eyes...
The eyes were empty.
Not sad. Not angry. Just... hollow. Like a house where all the furniture had been removed.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Footsteps on the stone bridge. Too confident to be a servant. Too deliberate to be casual.
Sera didn't turn around. She already knew who it was.
"Sister."
The word dripped with false sweetness.
Lyra Sterling stepped into the pavilion like she owned it. Which, in a sense, she now did.
She was beautiful in her own right—the Sterling bloodline bred attractive children as reliably as it bred cultivators. But where Sera's beauty was cold and ethereal, like moonlight on fresh snow, Lyra's was warm and vivid. Accessible. The kind of pretty that made men feel like they had a chance.
She'd always hated that comparison.
For years, she'd stood in Sera's shadow. Watching her younger half-sister receive everything—the resources, the attention, the adoration—while Lyra scraped for leftovers.
The genius and the spare.
That's what the servants whispered when they thought no one was listening.
Well. Look who was the spare now.
"I have wonderful news," Lyra said, settling onto the bench across from Sera. "Father has finalized your marriage arrangement."
Sera's expression didn't change. "I'm aware."
"To the Ashford family." Lyra let the name hang in the air, savoring it. "A dying house in a border town no one's ever heard of. Their strongest cultivator is a sixth-stage Calamity realm fossil who's probably older than our great-grandfather."
She leaned forward, eyes bright with malice.
"The former pride of the Sterling family, the genius who was supposed to lead us to new heights, is going to spend the rest of her life as a broodmare for a family of nobodies."
She waited for a reaction. A flinch. A flash of anger. Something.
Sera continued watching the fish.
"If that's all," she said quietly, "you can leave."
Lyra's smile faltered.
This wasn't how it was supposed to go. She'd rehearsed this moment for days. Imagined the tears, the begging, the satisfying crack in Sera's perfect composure.
Instead, she got... nothing.
"Aren't you angry?" Lyra demanded. "Don't you feel anything? You're being sold off like livestock to pay an ancient debt, and you just sit there like a statue?"
Sera finally turned to look at her.
Those eyes. Gods, those eyes. Even now, even broken and hollow, they made Lyra feel like an insect being examined.
"What would you have me do?" Sera asked. "Scream? Cry? Throw myself into the pond?"
"I—"
"I am a cripple, Lyra. I cannot walk without assistance. I cannot dress without assistance. I cannot cultivate. I cannot fight. I cannot do anything except sit in this pavilion and watch fish swim in circles."
Her voice was calm. Matter-of-fact. Like she was describing the weather.
"A cripple has no right to be proud. A cripple has no right to look down on others. If the Ashford family is willing to accept damaged goods, then I should be grateful, not resentful."
She turned back to the water.
"Mock me if it makes you feel better. It changes nothing."
Lyra's hands clenched.
This wasn't satisfying at all.
She'd wanted to see Sera break. Wanted to watch the perfect, untouchable genius finally crumble. Instead, Sera had simply... accepted. Surrendered. Let go of everything that had once made her magnificent.
It was infuriating.
"You know," Lyra said, forcing lightness into her voice, "this was almost me. Before my Terran Spirit Body awakened, Father was going to send me to the Ashfords."
She watched for any flicker of response.
"Funny how things work out, isn't it? You become worthless, and suddenly I'm the family's hope. The roles have completely reversed."
Sera said nothing.
"I should thank you, really. If you hadn't gotten yourself crippled, I might be the one marrying some border-town nobody instead of being groomed for a prince of the Solarian Dynasty."
Still nothing.
Lyra stood abruptly, patience exhausted.
"You're pathetic," she spat. "The old you would have frozen me solid for speaking to you like this. Now you just... sit there. Like a doll. No wonder Father gave up on you."
She turned and walked toward the bridge, then paused.
"Enjoy your new life, sister. I hear the frontier is lovely this time of year. Very rustic. Very... quaint."
Her laughter echoed across the water as she left.
Sera remained motionless long after the footsteps faded.
The koi continued their endless circuits. The cherry blossoms continued to fall. The world continued to turn, indifferent to the broken woman at its center.
Pathetic.
Yes. That was accurate.
Once, Sera Sterling had been a comet blazing across the sky. Untouchable. Unstoppable. Destined for heights that would make even the Heavenly Monarch seem small.
Now she was furniture. An inconvenient reminder of the family's greatest failure, being shipped off to the furthest corner of the empire where no one would have to look at her.
She should feel something about that. Rage. Despair. Something.
But the emptiness had swallowed everything long ago.
At least, she thought distantly, I won't have to see Lyra's face anymore.
Small mercies.
Ashford Estate. One Week Later.
Cael opened his eyes.
Fourth-stage Resonance.
He'd broken through again. That made three breakthroughs in seven days—a pace that would have been considered miraculous by anyone who didn't know about the Abyssal Genesis Codex.
And I've only mastered the first chapter.
The technique was divided into four stages. Completing the first had increased his energy absorption rate by roughly thirty times. His cultivation speed, which had been average at best, was now monstrous.
If he completed all four chapters...
He didn't let himself think about it. Getting ahead of himself led to carelessness, and carelessness led to death.
One step at a time.
Rising from his meditation mat, Cael stretched muscles that had grown stiff from hours of stillness. His room was sparse—a bed, a desk, a weapon rack holding a few serviceable swords. Nothing luxurious. Nothing wasteful.
He crossed to the desk, where several documents lay spread across the surface.
The marriage was finalized. The wedding would take place tomorrow. Sera Sterling would arrive with a small escort, the ceremony would be conducted with minimal fanfare, and she would officially become Sera Ashford.
His wife.
And then the real work begins.
He'd spent the past week doing three things.
First: cultivating. The results spoke for themselves.
Second: studying the Elixir Sovereign's Compendium. Alchemy was a complex art, and Cael had no formal training. But the Compendium was more than just a recipe book—it contained theoretical foundations, refinement principles, and detailed instructions that assumed the reader was starting from nothing.
It would take years to master. But Cael didn't need mastery. He just needed competence.
Third: searching for a way to restore Sera's Divine Marrow.
The Compendium contained hundreds of pills capable of healing spiritual damage. Most required ingredients so rare that even the Sterling family couldn't gather them. A few required materials that had gone extinct millennia ago.
But one stood out.
Genesis Restoration Pill.
A Fourth-rank pill designed specifically for repairing damaged innate gifts. Normally, crafting a Fourth-rank pill required Fourth-rank ingredients as the primary catalyst—materials so valuable that a single stalk could bankrupt a minor nation.
But the Verdant Pill Sovereign had been a genius among geniuses. He'd developed an alternative formula that substituted three Third-rank ingredients in a precise configuration, achieving Fourth-rank results through technique rather than raw material value.
Third-rank ingredients were still expensive. But they were obtainable. A major city's auction house might have them. A wealthy merchant's private collection might include them.
Cael had already dispatched servants to begin inquiries. Discreetly, of course. If word got out that the Ashfords were seeking high-grade alchemical materials, questions would be asked.
Questions I'm not ready to answer yet.
A knock at his door.
"Enter."
Garrett stepped inside, bowing. "Young Master. Your father requests your presence in the eastern training grounds."
Cael raised an eyebrow. "Did he say why?"
"He wishes to assess your combat readiness before tomorrow's ceremony. There are concerns about... potential complications."
Ah. That made sense.
The Sterling family might be offloading an unwanted daughter, but they were still one of the empire's three great powers. If anything happened to Sera before or during the wedding—if she was somehow harmed while under Ashford protection—the political fallout would be catastrophic.
His father wanted to ensure Cael could handle himself if trouble arose.
Little does he know.
"Tell him I'll be there shortly."
Eastern Training Grounds.
Marcus Ashford stood at the center of the sparring ring, arms crossed, expression evaluating.
He'd noticed the changes in his son over the past week. The sharper gaze. The more confident bearing. The subtle increase in cultivation base that shouldn't have been possible in such a short timeframe.
He had questions. Many questions.
But Marcus Ashford hadn't survived this long by asking questions at the wrong time. If Cael had secrets, he'd share them when he was ready. Pressing would only breed resentment.
Still. Fourth-stage Resonance. In a week.
What the hell happened to my son?
"You've been busy," Marcus said as Cael entered the ring.
"Preparing for married life." Cael's tone was dry. "I'm told it requires considerable stamina."
Marcus snorted. "Smart-ass. Draw your sword."
Cael obliged, pulling a blade from the rack at the ring's edge. Standard issue. Nothing special.
Marcus drew his own weapon—a weathered longsword that had seen decades of combat. "Show me what you can do. Don't hold back."
If you insist.
They exchanged blows for several minutes.
Marcus was impressed despite himself. Cael's technique had always been solid—the boy worked harder than anyone—but there was a new fluidity to his movements. A confidence that hadn't existed before.
He's actually improved. Significantly.
After a particularly complex exchange, Marcus stepped back and lowered his sword.
"Good. Your fundamentals are strong, and your reaction speed has increased noticeably. Whatever you've been doing, keep doing it."
Cael inclined his head. "Thank you, Father."
"However." Marcus's eyes narrowed. "I've been informed that you recently acquired four swords from the family armory. Including the Frostwind Blade—our only Third-rank weapon."
Ah. That.
"I needed them for a formation I've been practicing."
"A formation." Marcus's tone was carefully neutral. "What formation?"
Cael considered his response.
He wasn't ready to reveal the Godslayer Array. Not fully. But his father deserved some explanation—and a small demonstration might prove useful.
"It's something I discovered in an old text," he said. "A sword formation that amplifies combat power significantly. I've been testing it."
"Show me."
Cael had set up the array beforehand, suspecting this moment would come.
The four swords rose from their concealed positions around the training ground—one Third-rank blade, three Second-rank—and began orbiting him in a complex pattern.
Power gathered.
The air grew heavy.
And suddenly, the pressure emanating from Cael Ashford—a seventeen-year-old at the fourth stage of the Resonance realm—made Marcus Ashford take an involuntary step backward.
What in the...
It felt like standing before a Calamity realm expert. No—stronger than that. The killing intent radiating from those four spinning blades was sharper than anything Marcus had faced in years.
"This is a basic configuration," Cael said calmly, as if he wasn't projecting the aura of someone three full realms above him. "With better swords, the amplification would be considerably greater."
Marcus stared at his son.
Then he started laughing.
"Where did you find this?" Marcus demanded, still chuckling. "What 'old text' contains a formation like that?"
"Does it matter?"
"It matters because that formation shouldn't exist. I've studied every sword art in our family archives. I've consulted texts from the imperial library. Nothing—nothing—comes close to what you just demonstrated."
Cael let the swords settle back into their positions.
"Let's just say I had a stroke of fortune recently. The details aren't important. What matters is that I can protect myself—and Sera—if complications arise tomorrow."
Marcus studied his son for a long moment.
The boy he'd raised was still in there, somewhere. But something else had been added. Something sharp and cold and infinitely patient.
When did he grow up?
"Alright," Marcus said finally. "Keep your secrets. But if you ever feel like sharing..."
"You'll be the first to know."
It was a lie, and they both knew it. But it was a comfortable lie, the kind that let families function.
Marcus sheathed his sword.
"Get some rest. Tomorrow's a big day."
Later That Night.
Cael sat alone in his room, the Godslayer Array's four swords arranged before him.
One Third-rank. Three Second-rank.
Garbage, by any serious standard. The kind of weapons a merchant's guard might carry. Yet even with these subpar components, the formation had let him project pressure equivalent to a mid-stage Calamity expert.
If I had four Third-rank swords, I could threaten early Monarchs.
Four Fourth-rank swords? Mid-stage Monarchs would have to take me seriously.
Four Fifth-rank swords...
He shook his head.
Fifth-rank weapons were treasures that clan patriarchs killed for. He might as well wish for a pet dragon.
One step at a time.
Tomorrow, he would marry Sera Sterling. A crippled woman the world had discarded.
But Cael saw what no one else could see. The Aureate-grade potential hiding beneath the damage. The Overlord-level future waiting to be unlocked.
All he needed were the right pills, the right ingredients, and the right amount of patience.
The Sterling family thinks they're dumping their garbage on us.
They have no idea what they're giving away.
He extinguished the lamp and let darkness fill the room.
Tomorrow, the game would truly begin.