Somewhere, at a place beyond Leimuth’s horizon, behind their white-capped mountains which stabbed to the sky, one will keep traveling, and keep traveling, until they stopped and looked up to find a city that floated on the clouds, up and over the filth of man and touched the fabric of the heavens itself. Glorious archways, and river-wide canals, pouring out kingdom’s worth of water every second, falling back to the surface like a bird with its wings clipped. A city must be inhabited, as everyone’s aware, but the dwellers of this fantastical place moved like their lifespans were infinite; every man, woman and child were dazzling in their clothes, fashionable yet casual.

Creatures—beasts more aptly said, roamed the streets under the attendance of their master or sometimes there were none. There was no worry about a clearance for pedestrians, how? This city’s sidewalks were unreasonably wide. Some inhabitants blurred past others in a blink—vanished to never be seen again. If a non-cultivator were to stumble upon this place, impossible as it is, would feel like this was the secluded vacation city for all sons and daughters of royalty and wealth. It’s not a terrible observation, a fair bit off the mark but it stuck somewhat true.

Above the street floor lie a stabbing of points above them, towers they were. Each one wasn’t the same as the last, the only common point would be the banners that played in the wind. The dyes were of deep, intricate varieties that oozed quality. There were no shortcut or cheapened expenses here. You either had it, or don’t. If you didn’t, you wouldn’t be here.

There was only one tower that stood out amongst them—the tallest, and the most opulent. Seems like to guarantee it wouldn’t be outshined by the others it made preparation for double of everything the towers near it had.

Inside, at a hall with décor meant for an Empire, was host to a crowd just shy of a hundred. The occupants who mingled with one another spoke on tongues of cordiality, however a palpable tension made the room much hotter than it really is. For ordinary eyes, there wouldn’t be a lick of disparity between the princes outside, and the ones in here. That sentiment would mean you have no place here.

Over by a throne, a woman and a man stood close.

“She hasn’t even told them what they’re here for, yet they assumed already.” Herritus said.

His partner, Kunima waved herself with a fan, “What’re you saying? The hermit doesn’t wake up and tell the houses to get over here without a good reason. What’s the only reason to get them together? Most them wouldn’t want to even breathe the same air as each other and now they’re plastering up fake smiles and compliments like all is well.” She gestured to follow her glance; at a table separate from the main, two elders and three juniors trembled with every line spoken, the elders and their experience fared better, for they really looked as if they were enjoying themselves.

Then Kunima’s, Herritus, and everyone’s faces in the room broke off from whatever play they were performing. So did the music. Immediately they turned to face the throne of bones at a kneel. The two in question were absolved of that show, they served their lord in such a way it would be trivial to require of them. They needed no herald for her arrival, for she disdained such a pointless thing. Besides, she came—and went, as she pleased.

These warlords, experts, conquerors, and champions had titles that stretched to the bottom of the page; still, they were no better than a blind man at her arrival. Since when has any of them needed to use their eyes to observe the world, like a mortal?

Silence reigned.

The woman yawned, and with bare feet she leisurely strolled past her two Honorguards, a river of cloth dragging behind her. The closer one was to the throne, the more intense her pressure released was, and for that effect made many of the weaker juniors struggle to stay upright. Supported by their elders to not shame them, they managed to keep up. Before she sat, a cursory glance of hers cut through the swath of people gathered for her. A gaze as inscrutable as the starry sky.

Was she not afraid of impaling herself upon the prickled thing she called a throne? Possibly not, as she plopped herself down like she was at the dinner table. Legs crossed and bare, but who would be foolish enough to have thoughts of their lord? She was beautiful, too beautiful, it was an intense advantage over men when it came to negotiation, wise men kept their distance, fools ended up just adding to the collection she sat upon. Moving a dangle of hair out of her way, Rosewater Sect Lord, and Queen of the One-City Kingdom, said: “Four years. It has been four short years, my guests,” She stopped.

Her gaze drifted, attention short. However, if she waited there for not a moment but a thousand years, her subjects had nothing to do but wait. They had no right to disobey. In this court, all was silent save for the breathing of their ageless lord. The life came back, and she turned to her aides. “…Boring. Kunima, Herritus… continue for me.”

They jolted. Kunima and Herritus were prepared for this but didn’t expect to be put on the spot so soon. The hundred pair of eyes swiveled to. They stood at the head an assembly of Hannamith’s greatest experts in the world, there would be no embarrassment in melting into a puddle right there. But, one must persevere. Her Honorguards were an extension of her will. Together, they spoke: “We welcome you, lords and ladies. We meet once again under the premise that our rising talents will be tested, and the rankings will be adjusted. Our Queen wishes to express to you all that she desires and hopes, that your respective clans and sects have a new batch of marital artists to entertain our lord. The Rosewater Exchange will happen again.”

Though they knew of what they were here for, to hear it themselves brought a stir among them. Small whispers, and questionable expressions painted some of them. A man stepped forward, “Milady, may I ask why so soon? By precedent, the tournament is held every decade, but four years after the last?”

The duo turned to their Queen, who tilted her head. “It is being called again, both to revise the last one, and because it is punishment,” she shot ice in a direction, “for such a disgusting display I had to witness previously.”

Nobody needed to know where her gaze led. They too were witnesses to that day. A heap of robes shaped to the figure of a man sat on one of her rounded tables meant for the guests. Its hood was cast in some shadow, but a wrinkles-on-wrinkled face popped through it anyway. “Hao Grittus has apologized, and will again if I need, my Queen,” He said. “Or is my tribute paid not enough?”

Hao Grittus, Ancestor of the Grittus clan. Lord of Leimuth and the region surrounding.

The Queen stared; The Ancestor stared back.

Neither of them released their aura, but the invisible tension between them made the surrounding guests near the Ancestor step back. It would be foolish to be close should anything happen. Both weighed their options, prepped their minds. It lasted for a time until the Ancestor smiled, honest or not, “I understand. Allow me to double my tribute for this year to appease any misgivings you may hold. My clan will uphold themselves to the standard you require, and more,” he chuckled, “because my younglings aren’t the same as they were last generation.”

“For the sake of your clan, I would hope so,” She added. “Two years from now on this day, when the ice melts and spring wakes, The Rosewater Exchange will be held. The purpose to see who’s worthy of becoming a disciple of my sect and maintain the balance of power on the island still stands. Again, as you all are aware, one of my subjects will be chosen to hold the location of the event. I will select them now, forget voting.”

She stood, before Hannamith’s greatest warriors. “The host of this event, will be…” The Queen pulled up a hint of a cruel smile, “Inside Leimuth’s valley, at Leimuth village. Home to the Grittus clan and presided over by Ancestor Hao." She glanced at Ancestor Hao, "I can only hope, that your… village, will be adequate to accompany a few thousand visitors.”

The crowd couldn’t help looking between themselves. Last time it was hosted, it was at the Stonesword Sect. Worth less than the shoes on their feet, if they asked the upper-tier guests their honest opinion. But status and wealth were irrelevant to their monarch. Martial sects, clans, families and wandering cultivators made up the attendee list here. If they owned land, cultivated on the Path, they were eligible. Weaklings would be filtered out eventually, as they always do. So, a screening was unnecessary.

Still—it was a grand event, hosted once every generation, and their votes before was merely a way to keep the decrepit subjects of their Queen behind the curtains. But now? She waived that and threw the subject of her scorn—a searing spike of it—directly on the spotlight.

Ancestor Hao frowned, as if such a thing never occurred to his face before. Open his mouth and contest would be an invitation to be killed, so, like all weaker subordinates with grievances, he shoveled it down and kept a lid over it. Turning his vexation over into satisfaction, a smart move, “I thank you for this honor, my lord. We will guarantee everything goes well at the next tournament.” A white crow appeared on his shoulder to caw in agreement.

The Queen nodded. Turning to her aides, she did it again. Vanishing off the throne, tucking herself away wherever someone of her stratum went. There wasn’t any clearance to leave yet, despite their lord’s leave, so the once restrained experts of Hannamith riled up a chorus of passionate discussion and debate. A range of expressions could be followed end to end like the watching the horizon.

“…Song Ai's taking this one, sorry.”

“You’re insane! My family’s Bo Heera has been preparing for this since birth!”

“Misguided fools. I have good money on Jadeflower Sect’s…”

Some slapped their tables and brought up anecdotes of their future representative’s achievements. Their opponents took a sword to their opinion, with bold confidence that their chosen lacked the essential this or that or were outmatched in other comparisons.

Ancestor Hao sat as he was. With no wariness for being disturbed in his silence, because the group surrounding him had long ago broken off possible association and mingled at opposite ends of the room, as furthest they can get from the target of their Queen’s ire. Disdainful glances were shot his way, not concealed. He hadn’t the mind for it. His gaze went past the man and woman shooting each other heated, and focused gazes. Went past the very few younger generations in attendance, who measured up their future competitors. Past all of it, there was one thing he paid any heed to.

A throne of bone, waiting for its master again.

And it will be mine.

Ancestor Hao departed before permission.

Grisla had his new trinket dangling on a hook inside his room. It had been under the intense gaze of his scrutiny since he arrived home with nobody to judge him. For all that excitement he bubbled with when Hao gifted it, it meant nothing to the worthless thing still defined as a “Amulet”, different angles, differing amounts of Juva did nothing to bring about a change like the one Xinrei apparently did to the thing. Han would’ve twitched if he saw Grisla kicking it about like a ball. It did pass the durability test, taking his strength as a benchmark.

“I don’t understand you.” Grisla said as he sat on his bed, staring at the rusted thing on the hook. “Hit with all my strength ya’ don’t budge. I even got a bruise for it,” he waved his hand. “Maybe you are just some durable junk. And I’m the fool killing valuable time on it.”

He did as his father would say if he caught him goofing off inside the house—meditate. As he shut himself off from the world on the cold floor, the amulet, for all its worthlessness—moved, just a tiny bit.