Seven seconds after she watched Roland’s party enter the Dungeon, Trixie got a call.

  The Fae didn’t need cell phones. They were part of a psychic network (the Fae Web, which predated the World Wide Web by millennia) that bore some similarities to a phone system and relied on fragments of the participants’ True Names in lieu of an identifying number. Tryxanna didn’t have many (frankly, any) friends, so all her calls were strictly business.

  The Fae Web’s version of caller ID use auras. Each aura had a unique signature and the recipient would recognize it if it belonged to someone they knew, and gain a sense of their identity and raw power otherwise.

  The aura in question was powerful, at least B-Grade or Steel Rank; probably the latter, because the aura had the slow-burning intensity that cultivators like to nurture. It also had a stiff, borderline artificial quality to it that Tryxanna recognized.

  The caller was a middle-management salaryman from the Satori Zaibatsu. Not her usual handler, however. That could be good or bad news.

  Either way, she couldn’t ignore it. She took the call.

  An instant later, she found herself in a virtual corporate office decorated in the inimitable Satori style. Twentieth-century trappings of power were interspersed with traditional touches, as well as casual demonstrations of the Zaibatsu’s power.

  Tryxanna noted the details of the room. A massive oak desk dominated the room, beautifully carved, the wood finish decorated with gold inlays that were also quite functional formations. A pair of Terracotta Soldiers from one of the many Chinas stood by the doors; they were Silver-ranked Golems.

  Above the desk hung a portrait of the Zaibatsu’s Divine Founder, Yasuda Zennosuke. A display case by one wall showed off a beautiful bonsai grown from the sprout of a Lesser Yggdrasil Tree.

  She was floating above a chair facing the desk and the man who had summoned her. The salaryman – a mid-rank executive, to be precise – had chosen to have her remain in her small form, during the virtual meeting, an unnecessary gesture meant to convey dominance. To put her in her place.

  The gesture annoyed more than intimidated her, but she could not ignore the reality behind the pretensions. The Zaibatsu was in a position of power over her.

  “I am Ishido Sho, Vice-President in Charge of Inter-World Affairs,” the exec said.

  Tryxanna bowed to him with just enough depth in the gesture to qualify as a saikeirei display of high respect or regard, but held it only for a brief time, showing that the regard wasn’t quite as profound as the arrogant human might think he deserved.

  Zaibatsu wage slaves had nothing to teach the Fae about haughtiness.

  “I await at Satori’s pleasure, Vice-President in Charge of Inter-World Affairs,” she told him as she stood.

  “Yes, yes. Good. I have received an inquiry from the Eye of Ptah Corporation about your Exemplar. They wish to purchase viewing rights of his adventures for later dissemination.”

  “So soon?” Tryxanna blurted out, so stunned that she spoke before the exec could continue.

  “My apologies, Vice-President,” she added with a deeper bow, cursing herself at losing points in the proper manners game. The damned wage slave would no doubt laugh about this while he got drunk with his colleagues that night.

  “So soon indeed,” Ishido Sho said, ignoring her apology.

  It was shocking. Media companies weren’t in the upper tier among Crossworld Factions: they were scavengers using the deeds of others to titillate mindless masses and harvest their essence one teaspoon at a time. But they had power and influence, and they would rarely squander any of it on an F-Grade beginner, however promising.

  “I have the report you submitted about this Webb Roland,” the Zaibatsu VP went on. “It mentioned that the avatar of a Greater Spirit has involved itself in Webb’s affairs.”

  “That is so,” Tryxanna confirmed. She suspected Raven was more than a mere spirit, greater or not, but she was not obligated to report on her suspicions.

  “Apparently, EPC has reason to believe your Exemplar is fated for great things. Strange, isn’t it? His cultivation is broken, his Ascension forever stalled at F-Grade. Surely a nobody like that isn’t worth the attention of one of the largest multimedia companies in the System Agglomeration.”

  “I... I have reason to believe that Roland may undo the damage to his cultivation and return to the Dual Path of Ascension,” Tryxanna said. “There are no guarantees, of course.”

  “Is that so? That is interesting.”

  The VPCIWA remained silent for a moment, his eyes closed as he entered a Master-tier meditative state. When he spoke, he did it with confident authority.

  “I will take personal charge of Webb Roland’s case. He is a potential high-value asset. I have already launched an investigation into the Chapel’s conduct, to determine exactly how Roland’s crippled cultivation came to happen.”

  “I see,” Tryxanna said, concealing her shock.

  After hearing Roland’s full story, she had concluded that Yang Marcus served a Faction that wanted a foothold on the Crucible World without paying for a sponsorship. That was the only way a mere Copper-rank instructor could have arranged for Roland’s many mishaps at the Chapel.

  Few Factions had the raw power to confront the Satori Zaibatsu. And fewer still wanted to incur the costs involved, even in victory.

  By the same token, however, it took something – or someone – of truly great value to stir a behemoth like a Sect or Zaibatsu. And that someone just happened to be under her wing.

  Together, we will soar, Tryxanna told herself. Now, if I can find a way to get that damn Raven out of the way, nothing can stop me! Us. Whatever.

  She smiled and nodded as Ishido continued to blather about her new duties, thinking about her next steps to ride her Exemplar to new heights.

  * * *

  Chapel of Ecumenical Enlightenment, XXI-993:

  Breakthrough.

  Yang Marcus exhaled slowly as he emerged from the muck-filled bathtub. Filth was the unavoidable price of progression. Advancing to the Iron Ranks expelled enough impurities to fill a large container. Which was why he had done so in his private bath.

  It took me less than three months to make it.

  This Crucible World – and the Chapel’s blessings, of course – had allowed him to do in months what would have taken years, decades even. And even if time were not an issue, advancing would have required access to high-quality dungeons, expensive alchemical resources, or both. Here, they were his for the taking.

  In the True Middle Kingdom, Marcus had neither time nor resources. His family was of a low lineage; one with nearly one-fourth non-Han blood, to his eternal chagrin. Even his name belonged to a non-Han ancestor, although perhaps one in three of the Empire’s citizens had similar names.

  Though he was deemed a true Han in the eyes of the Empire, there were many who disagreed and quietly made their feelings clear. To make matters worse, he lacked the connections to make much of himself. His talent, while well above average, was not high enough to warrant special treatment.

  It had taken his entire family’s efforts to allow him to form an Epic Pattern. After that, he had to pay for his own way, and his advancement had stalled at early Copper, lacking the resources to progress any further.

  That low status and need for support were perfectly good reasons to join the Chapel. And in doing so, he had turned his disadvantages into assets. His story made for the perfect cover for a double agent, with the added virtue that it was true.

  The Dongchang (the Empire’s eunuch-ruled secret service) had recruited Marcus shortly after his induction into the Chapel and assignment to XXI-993.

  His mission was to help the Crucible World’s Han Exemplars take control over that world’s Middle Kingdom and, eventually, much more. If successful, he had been promised a post in the Jinyiwei, the brocade-clad guards of the Empire. There, advancement was only limited by his potential.

  The Noble Ranks were assuredly within his grasp, and the Immortal ones were at least in the realm of possibility.

  Everything is finally going well, Marcus thought after he stepped into his second bathtub, one filled with hot water enriched with expensive oils and minerals. The mixture helped him remove all the remaining impurities and would increase his gains while he cultivated.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  Marcus planned to spend the night in a meditation chamber to solidify his foundations. With all the students away, dozens of them secretly working for his Dongchang masters, he could devote himself to his advancement until classes resumed.

  He was still smiling happily when he opened the door of his room and found himself facing two strangers. A man and a woman who had drawn in their auras so well that he didn’t detect their presence until his eyes fell on them.

  The man wore robes the hue of a perfect cloudless sky, embroidered with golden threads that were beautiful but quite practical mystical formations. His head and face were entirely hairless, without even a hint of eyebrows or lashes. Dark brown eyes regaled Marcus with a look of contempt which felt as crushing as an overt aura display.

  Azure Lotus! Here?

  The woman wore a dark blue pantsuit, her black hair cut short, her eyes and much of her face hidden behind mirrored sunglasses. She smiled thinly at him, and Marcus sensed amusement mixed with a hint of killing intent that sent a frigid wave down his back.

  Satori Zaibatsu!

  He couldn’t see their System identifiers. While some Techniques and Skills could alter the information contained in the floating text squares, only high-ranking cultivators could obscure them completely. Even though they were restricted by the Chapel’s Peak Iron allowable Rank, their power was apparent.

  “Instructor Yang Marcus,” the man said in the tone of a judge announcing a death sentence.

  “Yes, I am he,” Marcus replied, as if the stranger had asked a question instead of merely making a statement.

  His mind had begun to appreciate the gravity of his situation. His attempt at maintaining his dignity failed when his voice cracked like a teenager’s as he said, ‘I am he.’

  “We are representatives of the Sponsors,” the woman said. “Investigating certain irregularities that have occurred at this Chapel.”

  “I do not know anything about any irregularities,” Marcus replied.

  The investigators’ auras flared up, knocking him to the ground, utterly overwhelmed. They were Noble-ranked, likely Steels, if not Silvers, and even if their Rank was suppressed, the weight of their auras was enough. Against their like, a mere early Iron was an egg crushed between two boulders.

  “First, you interfered with the workings of a Dungeon,” the man said. “You will tell us how you managed that feat. The Chapel uses Dungeons as teaching centers precisely because their rules are enforced by the System. To meddle with those rules is a most severe infraction. And we are certain that wasn’t the only time you did so!”

  Cold terror ran through Marcus.

  The Dungeon Key had been a tool the True Middle Kingdom had entrusted him with to subtly alter the Chapel’s System-enforced rules to serve its purposes. It was meant to be used with the utmost care – to increase the reward for a prized pupil just enough to be seen as a fortuitous event, for example.

  Marcus had done just that several times, subtly advancing other Han students. Hao had been his favorite, but he was only one of about a dozen, most of whom had not participated in the ill-fated tournament. Now all their successes would be tarnished, if not rendered utterly worthless.

  He had thought his heavy-handed interference at the Proving Grounds would not be scrutinized. Such things had happened before, after all, and Dungeon Keys were incredibly rare items.

  “And when that failed, you arranged to have Webb Roland’s cultivation crippled,” the woman hissed at him. “You took care to be elsewhere when it happened. Thought that made you smart, didn’t you?”

  “Did that... priest tell you those... lies?” Marcus gasped; speaking – breathing, even – took some effort under the merciless pressure of their auras.

  “Actually, every instructor in the Chapel has testified against you,” the hairless man said. “You gifted a student with gifts beyond what is customarily offered; a minor offense, and not uncommon, yes, but it’s just one of your many crimes.”

  “You taught him a Dantian-disrupting Technique,” the woman added. “It goes against the spirit, if not the letter, of the Chapel’s guidelines.”

  Yang Marcus forced a bit of air into his lungs before speaking. “I saw a promising student, and I helped him. That is no crime.”

  “Perhaps not. Sending an assassin after another student, merely for besting your pupil, is.”

  “You thought that with the Chapel being cut off from the rest of the world until Integration, nobody would learn of your crimes. You were wrong.”

  How did they know? Marcus, who had thought just that, screamed inside his mind.

  From the way the woman’s grin widened, his thoughts were open to her.

  “The Chapel is not the only Sponsored Project on this world, you dolt,” the Azure Lotus cultivator informed Marcus. “There are many eyes on XXI-993.”

  “As it happens, discovery was made by a third party, not even a sponsor. It was a multimedia consortium that documents events in Crucible World to entertain the masses in Hive Worlds.”

  Marcus was dimly aware of such things. Viewing Crystals that allowed one to see past or even live events were expensive luxuries in the True Middle Kingdom and viewed with disdain even by those who could afford them.

  Even so, he had heard of entire planets full of lazy peasants who watched those crystals slavishly, releasing Essence as their emotions or lust were stimulated. Essence that was in turn harvested by the very crystals that titillated them.

  “But... how is that allowed?” he protested. “Crucible Worlds cannot be interfered with!”

  “EPC does not interfere,” the woman explained. “They merely watch and record. And their crystals recorded Roland’s return from the Chapel. With a shattered Dantian.”

  “Who did it?” the Azure Lotus disciple demanded. “Who served as your attack dog?”

  Marcus divulged Iwamoto Hatsuko’s name without much prompting, only to learn that the assassin had left the Chapel before the investigators’ arrival.

  She knew this was coming and didn’t bother to warn me!

  The fact that he would have done the same thing didn’t change his outrage, on the grounds that it was happening to him.

  They got everything out of him, of course. Everyone breaks, and with the proper aura techniques, crude torture methods were unnecessary. The interrogators knew when Marcus was lying and could generate all manner of painful or harrowing stimuli merely by applying pressure to the sensitive acupuncture points all humans had.

  They took the Dungeon Key from him. He was forced to divulge the names of every student he helped with the device. Most of them would not be invited back to the Chapel, closing off a major resource for advancement. Cultivators were especially vulnerable when trying to advance without instruction; alone, their progress could hit bottlenecks that a teacher could have easily corrected.

  Worst of all, he revealed the identity of his masters: the True Middle Kingdom. The Faction would be penalized; its access to XXI-993 would be heavily restricted. Marcus had failed in the worst possible way, setting back the very interests he sought to advance.

  By the time they were done, Yang was physically unharmed, but wished he were dead. The aura battering had been as brutal as a being beaten to a pulp, without leaving any marks that a non-Ascendant could detect. The knowledge of his abject failure was worse.

  He had made a triumphant breakthrough only to lose everything before having a chance to enjoy his achievement.

  “You may have cost the Chapel two of its most promising students,” the bald man said. “Wu Hao is recovering in a Dungeon with a thirty-fold temporal differential, but he will still require the better part of a week to recover from the pills you fed him. Not that it matters; he will not be asked to return to the Chapel. The young master’s dream of becoming a small emperor has vanished like the mirage it was.”

  The woman sneered at Marcus. “Hao’s secret society was poised to become the main power this world’s China. Now it will be just one faction among many. And Hao earned himself plenty of enemies among the other factions. I expect the Shaolin Temple will not be very friendly toward him.”

  “Kill me and finish this,” Marcus said with the last of his strength.

  All his secrets had been laid bare. The TMK would want nothing more than to kill him in the most painful way possible for his failure. He had no friends in the Chapel, and he had been informed of his expulsion in between bouts of auric torment. His hopes of reaching middle or peak Iron were finished. He had nothing to live for.

  “Oh, you think you deserve death?” the Azure Lotus adept asked him.

  A man with nothing to lose could display a final act of bravery.

  “I do not, but you disagree, and you have the power to enforce your wishes. That’s what all this is about, isn’t it? Power. If I had it, it would be you groveling at my feet, and I pronouncing my judgment upon you.”

  “He is not wrong,” the Satori representative told the man. “And death is so final. What use is a dead cultivator? Nothing, except as fertilizer, perhaps, or raw materials. Some alchemists would render down his fine Iron-ranked body and use his blood, fat and flesh as ingredients for a few pills or elixirs.”

  “Such things are permitted, if the corpse belongs to a convicted criminal,” the adept agreed.

  “Then do it!’ Marcus yelled with hysterical bravado. “I’ll make many a fine concoction. Why not? My blood will live on inside some promising cultivator, and maybe my ghost will whisper words of vengeance into his soul!”

  “Ah. Vengeance,” the Satori woman said. “Such a fine concept. Who would be the target of your revenge? Us, your judges and executioners? Or is there someone else?”

  Marcus’ eyes went vacant as he pictured the face of his tormentor.

  “Webb. Roland,” he spat the words as if they were something foul polluting his mouth.

  “Of course. You wrong him, time and again, and yet his star rises as yours plummets. But you blame him despite his never raising a hand against you.”

  “He was disrespectful from the beginning! And he is a Westerner dog, unfit for the glories of cultivation.”

  “You do know that you have the blood of Westerners running through your veins, don’t you? Even your name betrays you, Marcus.”

  “In the eyes of the Emperor, I am Han,” he said.

  “What would your Emperor say of you now, I wonder? But never mind that. You wish to wrong Webb again, perhaps for the last time?”

  “I would give everything to face him. To finish him off once and for all.”

  “You have nothing to give. Everything you owned, every title, your newly-minted Iron Rank, none of them are yours to offer.”

  “My soul. I’ll forgo reincarnation, Nirvana, whatever lies beyond the final Veil. I still have that much.”

  “We have no truck with those who buy and sell souls,” the Azure Lotus man said.

  “No, we do not,” the Satori woman agreed. “But I know of some who do.”

  “Is that what Satori wishes?” the man asked her, sounding concerned.

  “I have enough authority to permit it,” she said. “You?”

  “In this matter, the Azure Lotus defers to you. Webb Roland’s Guide is sponsored by your Faction, after all.”

  Marcus watched the exchange in silence, understanding little of it. But the fact that they hadn’t killed him out of hand gave him a sliver of hope, which he grasped with the desperation of a drowning man.

  The Satori troubleshooter looked down at Marcus and nodded to herself, reaching a decision.

  “Yes. A fitting fate, I think. It gives him a chance to get the vengeance he wants. And if he fails, he will be nothing but a whetstone to hone the power of someone better.”

  “Very well,” the Azure Adept said with a shrug. “He is all yours.”

  He left, leaving Marcus alone with the Zaibatsu woman.

  “You will be imprisoned until your new master is ready,” she told him. “He needs to rise enough in power to make use of you.”

  “What are you saying?” Marcus said. Seeing how amused his tormentor looked, he was beginning to understand that whatever was in store for him was worse than death.

  “You will be undergoing some changes,” she told him. “Your cultivation may suffer somewhat. I must admit that I am not sure what the outcome will be. We may be treading on new ground here.”

  Marcus wanted to scream, to demand an actual answer, but he knew that would only satisfy the woman’s sadistic cravings. He knew enough about the Satori Zaibatsu to fear the cruelty of its enforcers.

  “It may gladden you to hear that you will eventually return to XXI-993. And, if he still lives when you do, you will meet Webb Roland again.”

  “I will kill him,” Marcus snapped.

  “You just might,” she said. “Only one of you will walk away from that meeting, that is certain. And the victor will gain a great deal of strength.”

  “And this is my punishment?” he asked. He was missing something, and whatever it was would not be good for him.

  “No, Yang Marcus. The punishment will be the price you pay for the opportunity.”

  “What price?”

  “You will be set on the Path of the Nemesis.”

  “What? No! That’s for Dungeon dwellers, not cultivators. Those are monsters that look like men!”

  “And that, Yang, is exactly what you will become.”

  Marcus had time to scream.

  Quite a long time.