The parade began at dusk.

  Flying treasure boats rose from Exeter's central field, their hulls gleaming with formation-light. The wealthiest families had brought their finest vessels, multi-decked pleasure crafts capable of seating dozens, their railings carved from spirit-jade and their sails woven from qi-reactive silk.

  Students scrambled for position.

  "The Harrington boat has room!"

  "The Castellans brought the big one this year, three decks!"

  "I heard the Zhou family vessel has a full bar..."

  The social calculus of the parade was as competitive as any cultivation competition. A seat on a prestigious family's boat meant proximity to power, a chance to network with the young masters. Students clustered on the academy's communal vessels, watching their wealthier classmates ascend gilded gangplanks.

  Above it all, the alumni soared on their lifebound swords.

  Tens of thousands of blades caught the fading light, forming a steel river that stretched from Exeter toward the distant destination of Gillette Stadium. The flying boats rose to join them, slotting into formation like jewels set in a crown of swords.

  The procession moved as one.

  From the ground, civilians stopped to watch. Cars pulled to the side of highways. Families emerged from homes, children pointing at the endless stream of cultivators painting the evening sky.

  This was power made visible, wealth and influence and centuries of tradition condensed into a single display.

  Exeter was going to war.

  Gillette Stadium loomed larger than Leo's pre-transmigration memories suggested it should. The structure had been expanded over the centuries, its footprint sprawling outward to accommodate the demands of modern cultivation sports and the ever expanding fanbase.

  This iteration rose in tiered rings of steel and enchanted stone, capable of holding nearly a hundred fifty thousand spectators. The architecture blended the familiar with the foreign, recognizable bones of American stadium design, reinforced with formation arrays that glowed faintly along the support beams, and viewing sections that seemed to defy gravity in their cantilevered suspension.

  The Exeter procession arrived from the west, their formation tightening as they approached. Flying boats descended toward designated landing platforms while alumni peeled off to join the growing tornado of cultivators circling the stadium's perimeter.

  From the east, another stream approached.

  Long Island Lutheran Crusaders.

  Their procession emerged directly from the New York Catacombs, a river of steel and blue military light that matched Exeter's display sword for sword.

  Where Exeter's alumni wore the varied colors of personal clothing and family livery, Lutheran's graduates flew in military formation, their uniforms marking them as active duty, their swords bearing the standardized inscriptions of Catacombs service.

  Eighty percent military service rate. The other three Magnet Schools boasted similar numbers.

  The two streams met above the stadium and began their holding patterns.

  Twin tornadoes of cultivators, each tens of thousands strong, spiraling in opposite directions around the arena. The combined spiritual pressure pressed down on the assembled students like a physical weight.

  This was the quarterfinals of the high school Flying Aces playoffs.

  This was America.

  The military flyover began precisely at seven.

  If this had been an ordinary game, perhaps a NFL regular season match, the nearest Catacombs garrison would have sent a formation of drones. Tens of thousands of unmanned vehicles sweeping overhead in patriotic patterns, impressive enough for civilians and cultivators alike.

  This was the playoffs. And with war looming on every horizon, the military had decided to make a statement.

  From the direction of the Boston Catacombs, a new formation approached.

  The crowd fell silent.

  Leo felt it before he saw it. A pressure that made the combined weight of the circling alumni feel like a gentle breeze. His divine sense recoiled instinctively, overwhelmed by the sheer density of spiritual energy approaching from the horizon.

  The alumni tornadoes scattered.

  Tens of thousands of Core Formation and Foundation Establishment cultivators broke their elegant spirals, peeling away to create an expanse of clear sky. Men and women who had seemed so impossibly powerful minutes ago, stopped showing off, and slowly landed to find their seats.

  The formation emerged from the clouds, and the world turned blue.

  Thousands of drones flew in perfect synchronization, each vehicle blazing with that distinctive Tier-4 Nascent Soul spiritual emission. The light was beautiful and terrible, a blue so pure it seemed to burn away the evening darkness.

  An elderly alumnus in the premium section removed his hat and pressed it to his chest. His hand trembled.

  "Nascent Souls." the old man whispered.

  Students throughout the stadium had gone completely still, overwhelmed by the spiritual pressure. They stared, faces slack with awe and terror.

  The announcers' voices echoed through the stadium's speaker formations, cutting through the stunned silence.

  "Ladies and gentlemen, you are witnessing the pride of the New York Catacombs Garrison. Two thousand Unmanned Flying Sword drones, each with the combat potential of a Nascent Soul cultivator."

  The crowd roared.

  "These vehicles represent the cutting edge of American military technology. Gold Core pilots lifebonded with Tier Four Unmanned Flying Swords. Their commands transmitted from miles away through Tier-5 formations that grant each operatator the effective combat power of an immortal Nascent Soul cultivator."

  The formation split above the field, reforming into the shape of an American flag. Drones began to shoot into the sky red white and blue spell arts to pain the flag the colors of the United Cultivators of America.

  "And the cost efficiency is remarkable. Using modern formation technology, we can elevate Gold Core treasures to Nascent Soul-level power. No risk of losing irreplaceable cultivators. Just mass-produced, cost effective, combat power."

  The flag dispersed, the drones scattering into a protective circle around the stadium. Even spread in defensive around the arena, their combined presence filled the audience with an uneasy fear.

  The announcer's voice swelled with pride.

  "Under the Treaty of Great Restraint, neither side may deploy Deity Transformation cultivators. Nascent Soul represents the ceiling of direct combat power. And with this technology, America can overwhelm any number of enemy Nascent Souls."

  A cheer began to build up again, confidence and pride in their power, their country.

  "If a thousand drones fall, we deploy another thousand. If a million fall, we'll just make more. The Catacombs cannot match our industrial capacity. They cannot outproduce American innovation."

  The drones reformed into a formation and completed a final pass, their blue glow painting the stadium in ethereal light. One hundred fifty thousand people stood in silence beneath that radiance, all cultivators alike reduced to the same awed insignificance no matter their realm.

  "This is the future of warfare. This is American power."

  ---

  In the visitor's locker room, the Exeter starters watched the display on a wall-mounted screen.

  Jonathan Kotch stood closest to the television, his jaw slack, his eyes tracking the formation as it swept overhead. The feed had switched to an aerial view, showing the full scale of the deployment, two thousand points of blue light arranged in geometric perfection.

  "Holy shit," Kotch whispered.

  The spiritual pressure reached them even here, deep beneath the stadium. Faint, filtered through layers of formation-reinforced concrete, but unmistakable. The weight of two thousand Nascent Soul tier weapons pressing down on the world.

  "That's our trump card," Archer Pemberton, one of Leo's flyer teammates, said. "That's what's going to win the war."

  Kotch nodded slowly, still transfixed. "I knew we had them, but seeing it..."

  "Don't be too confident."

  Every head in the room turned toward Leo Chen.

  He sat apart from the others, his back against the wall, his expression unreadable. He had barely spoken since they'd arrived, content to let his teammates handle the pre-game rituals while he played with his phone.

  Now he was watching the screen with them too.

  "Nascent Soul tier treasures," Leo said plainly, "cannot be compared to Nascent Soul cultivators."

  The room went still.

  This novel's true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.

  "What do you mean?" Kotch asked.

  "Without a domain, they're just slightly stronger treasures." Leo shrugged.

  "Powerful, yes. Dangerous, certainly. They pale in comparison to the majesty of a Nascent Soul."

  Kotch turned away from the screen, his attention now fully on the mysterious flyer captain who had appeared from nowhere to lead their team. "You sound like you're speaking from experience."

  Archer scoffed. "Right. A Qi Condensation cultivator fought a Nascent Soul."

  Leo shrugged. "It was a weakened one. Domain of only about a hundred yards rather than the standard three hundred."

  "Everyone knows military terms are measured in meters, not yards." Archer crossed his arms. "I don't believe you."

  Leo shrugged, content to let him believe what he wanted to believe.

  "It was some old bastard who measured it in yards."

  The room hung in uncomfortable silence. The defender's skepticism was written across his face, but something in Leo's casual delivery made outright mockery difficult.

  "The military switched to meters after the Treaty of Great Restraint," Kotch said slowly.

  Everyone looked at him.

  "My father told me. Anyone who actually fought a Nascent Soul in a hot war still probably uses yards." He studied Leo. "The old veterans. The ones who were there."

  Leo's expression flickered, something that might have been gratitude passed across his features. He decided to parrot what Arthur told him.

  "A Nascent Soul treasure, even a powerful one, follows predictable rules. You can deflect it. Dodge it. Counter it."

  He gestured toward the screen, where the drone formation was completing its final pass.

  "But?"

  "Fighting an actual Nascent Soul cultivator is another matter entirely. Every Nascent Soul cultivator manifests a domain. It's an extension of their cultivation, their Dao, their Nascent divinity, their entire being projected outward into physical space. When you engage a Nascent Soul, you fight them inside their own little world."

  He paused.

  The locker room had gone completely silent.

  "Those drones can project Nascent Soul tier power," Leo said. "But they cannot project a domain. They cannot remake reality around themselves. They cannot force you to fight on their terms."

  He looked directly at Kotch.

  "And that's why the gunner is probably the most important position for Nascent Soul domain battles."

  Kotch blinked. "What?"

  "Rate of fire determines life or death."

  "You're joking." Kotch shook his head. "Gunners would be the first ones killed in those battles. We can't move. Can't dodge. We just sit there and wait for death. Flyers are the most important, they're the only ones capable of evading Nascent Soul attacks."

  "If the gunners die, everyone is dead."

  Leo's voice was flat, certain.

  "You cannot seriously harm a Nascent Soul without flak cannons. Flyers rely on angles of attack, on exploiting weaknesses and slipping through gaps in the defense. A Nascent Soul's domain is a perfect sphere with zero weaknesses to exploit. You need sustained, overwhelming fire that can match the domain head-on."

  "That's the true reason why in Flying Aces if all defenders are eliminated the flyers are automatically eliminated too."

  He let that sink in. And then continued.

  "The purpose of a flyer is to sacrifice themselves. To buy time. To draw attention and absorb attacks so the gunners can keep firing. Everything, the dodging, the maneuvering, the spectacular displays of skill, all of it exists to protect the artillery."

  Kotch stared at him.

  "The flyer dies so the gunner can kill."

  Silence stretched through the locker room. On the screen, the drone formation had dispersed, replaced by shots of the filling stadium. The announcers were discussing team statistics, point spreads, historical matchups.

  None of it seemed to matter anymore.

  "Tell me more," Kotch said quietly. "About the Nascent Soul you killed."

  "You believe me?"

  "I watched you destroy our entire starting lineup in six seconds during practice." Kotch's jaw tightened.

  Leo studied him for a long moment. Then he reached into his robes and withdrew a blank jade talisman. He held it up for Kotch to inspect.

  "Examine it."

  Kotch took the talisman, turning it over in his hands. Standard jade, decent quality, no inscriptions visible. He was about to hand it back when Leo pressed two fingers to his own forehead.

  The talisman flared with light.

  Characters appeared on its surface, burning themselves into the jade with spiritual fire. The script was unlike anything Kotch had ever seen, not Chinese, not the standardized Catacombs language, not any human writing system he could identify.

  "What does it say?"

  "It says that I killed a Nascent Soul."

  Kotch stared at the characters, their meaning lost to him but their weight somehow apparent. The inscription pulsed with residual spiritual energy.

  "Keep it in a safe place," Leo said. "Let it be a reminder that even a group of Foundation Establishment cultivators and a Qi Refiner can kill a Nascent Soul."

  Kotch's voice cracked. "How is that possible? No wait... But you didn't tell me what this means?"

  Leo thought for a moment, and just said.

  "It means, fire as fast as you can."

  Kotch looked down at the jade talisman in his hand. The five strange characters stared back at him, incomprehensible but undeniable.

  He made a decision.

  From beneath his jersey, he pulled out a red string necklace. His childhood friend had given it to him that morning, during the Last Chance Lunch. A heart-shaped pendant dangled from the cord, her name inscribed in delicate script.

  Using a precise application of qi, Kotch shattered the pendant.

  The pieces fell to the floor. His teammates watched in stunned silence as he unclasped the red string, gathered it in his fingers, and then burned a small hole through the jade talisman Leo had given him.

  He threaded the string through the hole. Tied the ends. Slipped the necklace over his head.

  ---

  The color guard marched across the field far below, their formation crisp, their flags snapping in the spiritual wind.

  "And now," the announcer's voice boomed through the speakers, "please welcome our national anthem performer."

  "Born and raised in the New York Catacombs, fresh from her sold-out tour of the Eastern Seaboard, with over one billion plays on her latest album, give it up for... Superior Amari?!"

  The crowd erupted.

  A figure descended from the sky on a sword that gleamed obsidian black, trailing wisps of purple spiritual energy. She landed at center field with the grace of someone who had spent centuries mastering flight, her boots touching down without a sound.

  Leo's jaw dropped.

  She stood perhaps five foot ten, with skin so pale it seemed to glow under the stadium lights. Her hair fell in waves of deep violet, cascading past her shoulders to her waist.

  Her outfit, if it could be called that, consisted primarily of black leather, silver chains, and strategic gaps that left very little to the imagination. Dark makeup ringed her eyes, her lips painted the color of dried blood, silver piercings catching the light along her ears and nose.

  The phrase that came unbidden to Leo's mind was one he had heard in his previous life, in a very different context.

  Big titty goth girl.

  "Is that..." Leo turned to Kotch, his voice strangled. "Is that really a native from the Catacombs?"

  Kotch gave him a look of pure bewilderment.

  "Do you not listen to music? She's amazing. Her last album went platinum in like three days."

  "She's from the Catacombs though."

  "Yeah? So?"

  "The US just... allows that?" Leo gestured at the screen, where Amari? had begun her approach to the central platform.

  "Just allows our enemies to come in? To perform at major events? To become celebrities?"

  Kotch's expression shifted from confusion to concern.

  "Did you not pay attention at all in Catacombs Studies? Aren't you a second-year student?"

  Leo felt his face heat. "I've been... busy. Training. Haven't had time for classes."

  "You've been here for an entire year and you haven't attended a single Catacombs Studies lecture?"

  "Things kept coming up."

  Kotch shook his head slowly, the way someone might regard a particularly hopeless case.

  "She's a naturalized citizen, Leo. As American as you and me."

  On the screen, Amari? reached the platform. She stood alone at center field. She simply tilted her head back, closed her eyes for a moment, and opened her mouth.

  And sang.

  The sound reached Leo even in the locker room, passing through concrete walls and steel doors as if they were tissue paper.

  Her voice carried on currents of spiritual qi, the notes themselves infused with energy that made them travel farther and resonate deeper than any physical sound should.

  The Star-Spangled Banner, the same anthem Leo had heard pre-transmigration.

  An extra quality wove through each note, a richness that resonated in his dantian. The music felt three-dimensional, possessing depth and texture that normal singing lacked. Spiritual qi carried her emotion directly into him, bypassing words, bypassing thought. Her pride became his pride.

  When she reached "the land of the free" it was as if her conviction became his conviction.

  The crowd fell absolutely silent.

  Leo found himself unable to look away from the screen.

  "She's... incredible," he admitted.

  "Told you."

  The anthem built toward its crescendo, Amari?'s voice soaring. The final note hung in the air for a long moment after she finished, a sustained perfection that seemed to freeze time itself.

  Then the crowd exploded.

  The roar was deafening even through the locker room speakers. Amari? bowed once, deeply, before rising on her obsidian sword and ascending toward the VIP boxes reserved for performers and dignitaries.

  Leo watched her go, his mind churning.

  "So..." he said slowly, "do all Catacombs women look like that?"

  Kotch laughed. "Of course not. She's a rockstar. The outfit's part of her brand. Typically they dress more like Catholic Nuns or Priests." He paused, considering.

  "The makeup style is pretty standard for Catacombs natives. The pale skin, the dark eyes, the general aesthetic. Something about the lack of natural sunlight down there, I think."

  Leo arched an eyebrow. "So Catacombs people just... naturally look like goths."

  "Pretty much. That's why we call their language Gothic."

  "How did she get naturalized?" Leo asked. "What's the process for a Catacombs native to become an American citizen?"

  "I'm not sure about her specifically," Kotch said, "but the usual method is pretty straightforward. Find some lucky guy on Earth. Have him propose. Come in on a K-1 fiancee Visa."

  Leo stared at him. "And the government is totally fine with Catacombs natives coming in on marriage visas?"

  "Well, not exactly fine." Kotch scratched the back of his neck. "What typically happens is the person coming in will sneak through some Catacombs exit that's easier to bribe your way through. The Mexico City Catacombs are popular for that. They'll pretend to be Mexican, maybe pay for some identity documents."

  "That seems like a massive security vulnerability."

  "The key point is that the people doing K-1 Visa interviews are just Qi Refining government employees." Kotch shrugged.

  "How are they going to tell if some Gold Core Superior decides to sneak through? They just see a pretty girl with a Mexican passport and a love story."

  "By the time the government wised up, thousands of spouses had already been naturalized. And of course, those spouses' American husbands and wives tended to be pretty influential. Cultivators, wealthy families, military veterans who'd served in the Catacombs and met someone there." Kotch spread his hands.

  "What was the government going to do? Denaturalize citizens? Deport the wives and husbands of major political powers? They were forced to accept it."

  Leo processed this. The security implications alone made his head spin. The Catacombs were enemy territory. The Treaty of Great Restraint existed precisely because humanity and Catacombs were locked in an existential conflict.

  And yet, apparently, the border between the two civilizations was porous enough that celebrities could simply waltz through on marriage visas.

  "But what if they spy on us?" Leo demanded. "What if they commit acts of sabotage? They're from enemy territory. Their loyalties could be compromised."

  "That's the big question, isn't it?" Kotch nodded toward the screen, where Amari? had reached the VIP box and was accepting flowers from stadium officials. "There's a saying from China that applies here. 'When barbarians enter China, they become Chinese. When Chinese enter barbarian lands, they become barbarian'."

  Leo recognized the phrase. One of many historical observations about cultural assimilation that had survived across both his lives.

  "Amari? is probably more patriotic than you or me," Kotch continued. "I read an interview where she talked about why she came over. In the Catacombs, you can't make a living as a singer. Art isn't valued. Mass media would be viewed as propaganda."

  "She had the voice of an angel and nowhere to use it. Then she came to Earth, and now she's a superstar. Sold-out stadiums. Billboard charts. Millions of fans."

  On the screen, Amari? was waving to the crowd, her pale face split by a genuine smile.

  "Why would she ever betray that?" Kotch asked. "This is the only place in any world where her dreams could come true."

  Leo considered this. It made a certain kind of sense. Immigrants were often the most loyal citizens precisely because they had chosen their new home rather than simply being born into it. They understood what they had gained, what they had escaped.

  The second half of the phrase nagged at him though.

  "What about the reverse?" Leo asked. "Does that mean we'll eventually change if we win and conquer the Catacombs?"

  Kotch gave him a long look. "You really should stop skipping Professor Harrison's history class. He covers this stuff in depth, and he's actually a great teacher."

  "Just give me the short version."

  Kotch was quiet for a moment, gathering his thoughts.

  "Let me ask you something," he said finally. "Let's say the US and China defeat the enemies in the Catacombs. Let's say we end up expanding into that realm, building settlements, establishing permanent presence. And let's say we keep expanding until American forces and Chinese forces eventually meet each other down there, deep in the Catacombs, far from any exit to Earth."

  "Okay."

  "What language do you think we'll speak to each other?"

  Leo frowned. "English is pretty widely used."

  Kotch said, "We'll speak Gothic, because that's the language of the territory we're operating in. That's the language of the manuals and the maps and the intelligence reports. That's the future language of Earth."

  Leo sat with that thought.