"You..." one of them stammered, pointing at Darkan.

  "You what?" Darkan sneered. "Did that son of a bitch Tier 5 who sacrificed himself not teach you to respect your elders? You dare insult me?"

  "Do not drag our sacrificed ancestors into—"

  "Shut your fucking mouth," Darkan roared. "I was his peer. Don't tell me what to do, unless you want to piss your pants and run like that other bastard? Sure. You can capture my disciple, but which of you has the guts to die here? This time, I won't be lenient enough to let you keep your nascent souls."

  Running his mouth again, Nathan sighed inwardly, exhausted. He knew his master possessed capabilities that were arguably absolute within the Ehyrian Empire, but there was a price. Darkan’s need for treatment after the clash at Maelivar had clarified many things. The past of the man protecting him couldn't have been easy. The road to power was never smooth.

  Nathan felt a conflict of emotions. Part of him hurt from being used—and he believed he still was. No one gave anything for free. But part of him was grateful. This old bastard genuinely cared for him, just a little.

  The group of Mirothean Tier 4s exchanged glances and nodded in unison. They clasped their hands in a gesture of respect toward Darkan.

  "We hope to see you at the official signing, Elder Darkan of the Verdant Spire Sect," their representative said.

  "Get lost." Darkan waved a hand. "Spare me the long-windedness."

  No one showed offense. They turned back and commanded, "Retreat!"

  The Sandwyrms and Dunehaunters turned clumsily on the sand. Dust billowed. Tornadoes everywhere dissipated to clear the path. In moments, hundreds of troops from Mirothea and the Obsidian Fang Sect departed.

  "Until we meet again, Nathan Reed," Ammon said, his eyes curved in their perpetual smile. Nathan wanted to know what lay beneath that cloth mask. Was it genuine anticipation, or the same greed and malice as before?

  Ryusei waved his hand in frustration, transforming into a bolt of lightning to return to his squad. Nathan guessed the genius of the Obsidian Fang Sect had gambled heavily on chasing him instead of gathering Caelindor's remnants elsewhere. An investment that yielded nothing.

  For a brief second, Nathan saw Darkan's shoulders slump. But then, his master straightened his back again, shedding the sloppy, unserious demeanor of their first meeting. Even his attire was different. Ancient bronze plates covered a dark green tunic. His hair was loose, framing a rugged, weathered face. Darkan looked like a veteran general called out of retirement against his will.

  The War God of Caelindor turned, his sharp gaze falling on Nathan. Nathan met it with an unyielding stare.

  They looked at each other until Darkan clutched his stomach and laughed loudly. The harshness melted away, replaced by a softer emotion as his facial muscles relaxed and his eyes crinkled.

  "You did well, Nathan!" Darkan barked. "You should be proud of yourself for what you've achieved these past few days."

  "Thank you, Master!" Nathan struggled to clasp his hands.

  People are watching, Nathan reminded himself. Whatever the play, I have to follow through.

  "You can rest now," Darkan said gently. "No one will dare touch you."

  Nathan was confused. Before he could ask, Darkan waved his sleeve, pulling Argentius and his rider along.

  The three flew straight to a mountain peak on the edge of the desert. After landing on an outcropping, Darkan stabbed two fingers into the cliff face. The mountain shook as rock and earth were blasted away by the strike of a master Physical Cultivator. With the sound of falling stones, a spherical cave was formed.

  "Go in," Darkan pointed. "You can nap here while I keep watch. Any questions or talk can wait until we're back at the sect. They haven't finished negotiating, so I still need to be present."

  Nathan nodded, too tired to utter another single word.

  Argentius used the wind to gently lift him from his back and place him on the ground.

  Nathan had never found resting on bare earth so pleasant, so desirable.

  It took less than a second for him to drop all defenses. Sleep claimed him.

  Nathan drifted in a void. Whispers surrounded him, growing more numerous. He had known them since Moirath Forest, when his heart had stopped for seconds after recklessly drinking essence water. Looking back, he had defined his path then—using ingredients to fuel his body rather than relying on natural Aspects. The Omnipotential Aspect he possessed must have formed because of that.

  But why?

  The voices had once been clearer. "This is the way..." they had said. As if they were watching him from somewhere. But who were they?

  The whispers grew louder, their numbers unimaginable, making the space suffocating.

  Only now did he truly see the flickering figures blocked by a blurry membrane, moving like a layer of water that would shatter with a single touch.

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  Faces pressed against the barrier, twisted and distorted. He looked at them, and they looked at him.

  Vincent. The assassin he killed. The fallen soldiers of Caelindor. The Mirothean soldiers sent to hell by his own hand. Frank and his chest missing a heart. Arthur Merinor’s smirking face. And Lachlan Rourke’s cold, evaluating gaze.

  He had doubted before, but now it was clear. This protective glass would eventually vanish as he grew stronger. Those standing outside would rush in like hungry monsters to tear him apart.

  His Inner Demon. The first step of the Internal Tribulation had taken shape.

  Nathan’s eyes opened, greeting the sunlight piercing through the clouds outside the window.

  The space was strangely familiar—not his room in the Ninth Mountain, but Orin’s bedroom. He and Zeryn had skipped boring classes to sleep here a few times. That was only three years ago, yet now he was a survivor of war.

  He didn't startle or show surprise as usual. In truth, he had wanted to open his eyes for a long time. Drifting in his inner world wasn't a pleasant experience. One only wished to wake up immediately. He somewhat understood why cultivators feared the state of severe mental and physical imbalance.

  Argentius, in his shrunken form, was snoring beneath Nathan's bed. Still, the monster was twice Nathan's size, taking up most of the space in the humble room of the former outer sect elder.

  He looked at the bonsai trees pruned by Orin over the years. The collection of wine bottles and glasses. The polished yet ancient furniture. A peaceful space for long, weary days.

  Sitting up, Nathan looked out at the sect grounds. A stretch of green, vibrant life—a stark contrast to the dead desert he had just survived. A terrifying time to look back on. How many times had he flirted with death? Arthur Merinor could have killed him if not for wanting to capture him. The bombs around Maelivar had nearly incinerated the entire column. And Ammon, the Sand Aspect Tier 3, was truly a master. All his preparations had nearly led to eternal damnation.

  Just a little more, and he would have become a prisoner of Mirothea. A fate Vincent was currently enduring.

  Green trees, fresh grass, shade—they were a warm hand gently soothing him. Like his mother’s hand rubbing his back when he was small and weak.

  Mom, I’m tired.

  But here, no one would tell him he could rest until he was bored, until he was forced to stand up and move. It was terrifying to think that doomscrolling social media was a blessing.

  With a creak, Orin pushed the door open. Nathan knew that door was of the highest quality; the creaking was impossible. Orin must have seen him wake up through spirit vision.

  "Old man," Nathan said, a grin spreading across his face, "that’s not like you. Since when is Orin so tentative?"

  Hearing this, the hunched, approachable demeanor of the outer sect elder returned, replacing the serious face. "You brat, still the same bad habits. No respect for your elders."

  "Bad habit." Nathan shrugged. "Can't fix it."

  Orin’s face brightened further, his gaze falling on the tiger still snoring loudly enough to shake the room. "That thing taking up space. I told it to lie outside, but it insisted on being next to you."

  Argentius responded with a loud snort.

  Nathan laughed out loud as Orin walked over, pulled up a stool, and sat down. The elder looked Nathan up and down.

  "Darkan is a lucky bastard to have you as a disciple." Orin grumbled.

  "So, old man?" Nathan raised an eyebrow. "Want me to ditch my master and come to you?"

  "I don't like the master-disciple relationship with you," Orin scoffed. "Besides, my path might not be suitable, even if you carry the draconic bloodline now."

  "Because of the fire?"

  "Correct." Orin nodded. "If your current bloodline had appeared at the Outer Sect Tournament, they would have fought to the death to claim you. But now... you know how it is. Who dares compete with Darkan?"

  "There's something hidden behind that, isn't there?" Nathan narrowed his eyes.

  "You've really grown up, kid," Orin smiled. The bald head was gone, replaced by a thick layer of black hair that would soon grow long, creating a rugged, weathered look.

  "Because of the other bloodline?"

  "No one knows what will happen to the draconic bloodline when that thing returns. So it's best you focus on one path."

  Nathan recalled the dream he had when he passed out mid-battle, after holding Zeryn tight as they fell into the ravine. He suspected it truly existed, just simulated. The theory of memory residing in cells or DNA in this world wasn't non-existent. The synchronization between [Dragon Heart] and [Martial Arts Mastery] was strong proof of that.

  But he no longer had [Titan’s Descendant], so what was happening?

  He asked himself if he wanted the skill back. At times, he feared it would appear when he rolled for skills. It was strong, incredibly strong. He was a little afraid of the power it brought. If he had possessed the Titan bloodline when he transformed into a Berserker in the desert, he could have killed Ammon, Ryusei, and the entire army, and it still wouldn't have been enough.

  That wasn't a delusion; it was a conclusion drawn from experience.

  "Can I not want it?" Nathan looked away, toward the lush greenery. Once he possessed [Titan’s Descendant], he would certainly face another desert, barren and full of death.

  Orin was silent for a long time, as if waiting for Nathan to say it was a joke. Only when no words came did the elder clear his throat. "Steps have been taken, the path is set; it is very difficult to branch off. Don't let a little downtime weigh you down, Nathan. Don't you have a lot to do?"

  Things to do?

  Return to Earth to see his mother, rescue Vincent, find the truth, and punish anyone who forced him down this path.

  The spark dwindled as fast as it came.

  Maybe there would be another day when he wasn't so tired.

  "Though there is a veil on your side," Orin continued, "I know there is a reason for everything. One day, you will find it necessary."

  Nathan nodded absently, asking, "Where is Darkan?"

  "The peace treaty negotiations are still ongoing. Many details need careful discussion. That old bastard still had enough sense to bring you back."

  Exhaustion seized Nathan again. A familiar feeling of burnout.

  "Nathan," Orin said, his voice lowering, "forgive me."

  The words startled Nathan, and he turned back. "What do you have to apologize for?"

  "If I had recovered faster, you could have stayed in the sect. I would have protected you. But this cursed wound is still so slow."

  "You're still recovering?"

  Orin nodded.

  "Then don't rush it," Nathan said. "Don't waste what I tried so hard to get, old man. As for your apology, I won't accept it. Take it back. Who knows how things would have turned out, right?"

  Orin smiled. "Old as I am, and I have to be comforted by a little kid."

  Nathan wanted to retort, but upon reflection, his age truly couldn't compare to the elder's.

  Orin suddenly looked toward the sky, mumbling. "Seems the treaty has been signed."

  A notification flashed, taking over Nathan's vision.

  Detecting other forms of Passive Ability…

  Processing…Processing…Processing…

  You have become a subject of admiration.

  Installing hidden module…

  Module has always been present…

  Deleting hidden modifier from the module…

  Congratulations!

  You received “Title Management” module.

  Title Management updated.

  Your first title is granted by the people of the current world: “Bastion of the Fallen”!