A wide column of strangers—Mainlanders, dressed in elaborate silks and jewelry; sparkling as it caught the light, started into the Clan Hall. The Grittus clansmen, with their mouths open watched as their entrance dominated the attention of all. Smooth gaits pulled tricks on the eyes; were they walking, or gliding? With bright, flamboyant colors on robes that made even the best tailor in the village flush with shame. Odd shapes, and particular sizes littered the entourage. Their hair went from a floor-dragging length extreme to barren smoothness; between that, they tried as much as they could for individuality, that’s for sure.

A few broke that code, retreating into familiar wardrobes that’d mark them no different from an islander. Behind them, a cadre of soldiers followed. Armored men whose muscles struggled to be contained glued themselves to the door after closing it. Bringing some whispers of worry in the audience.

Xinrei couldn’t help himself. The curve of his scowl was frozen on him. Thankfully, at least from what he surmised, none of these… “guests” are paying attention to him. He squinted. In fact—most of them weren’t giving the clansmen any mind at all. An active disregard. Arrogance. The Elders’ open mouths helped to that. Whomever these people are, even the High Elders, whose lifespans have surpassed at least four generations of mortals, were dumbstruck children watching the eldest come play.

He shot a glare at them. Senile twits. They’re making us into laughingstocks! Even with a sweep over his own Chosen had the same effect but intensified. Unlike the older generation, the fires of passion came alit: male and female. They’re beautiful specimens. Untouched skin, supple figures and eyes containing more-than-what-it-seemed, whether they knew it or not—of course they did—the younger generation was drawn to them.

In this, Xinrei saw the difference between him and others. He was, for whatever reason, resistant to their charms—the more attractive, the further he pushed away. A phenomenon that spared him the trap of debauchery; his victory over Grisla would’ve been an impossibility otherwise. He thought about it sometimes, of what happened that day. Why is he wasting his time on that distraction?

The Patriarch stood; and he noticed he stood up and stayed up from then to now. His eyes smiled, but the lips were mirthless. He thought he was seeing it, but his father flickered a look at him. Water froze in his stomach. Xinrei knew that look.

For any man that knows his father well, knew that look told before it happened. That, something was in play. Xinrei thought that look of his was on display three years ago, as well.

He didn’t believe it, of course.

The Mainlanders came to a stop a bit short of the throne. With quiet possessing them, it was clear they were expecting something. From his clan. From their Patriarch, invited as guests. He couldn’t find a cure for the grip on his spear.

Patriarch Meng bowed, first. “I welcome you, Priest Suran Ter of the Firecrown Empire to my clan, named after Grittus.” The audience searched the crowd as to who he was addressing, but then a clicking started. A long stick; A staff, bobbed up and down in their midst as if it were a snorkel. These strangers… even with their haughty grins they moved their bodies like they were shoved. Eyes with a touch of fear.

A man half the size of even the shortest adult in their village glanced up. Half-smiling, “You’re Hao’s boy? I thought you’d be taller.” Suran Ter said.

Xinrei’s—the Chosen’s—the High Elder’s auras all flared. The Clan Hall’s structure let out a whine. Only the Patriarch’s presence stopped them from lashing out immediately; it didn’t make it easier, however. At the flashpoint of it all with just one sentence dropped, Suran Ter the man from some… Mainlander place called the Firecrown Empire had forgotten what he said, but senility didn’t grasp those eyes. He had an unbroken stare with Patriarch Meng. And, Patriarch Meng’s cool face, where Xinrei inherited it from, betrayed little of what he thought.

He smiled, as if he misunderstood. “My father says that often, too.” The humility was the message, and the clansmen held their tongues and receded their Juva hesitantly. On the other hand, Suran Ter’s people deepened their sneers; and the guards released their hilts. “You honor my clan with your presence, great one.”

The Priest snorted. “I honor no man but myself and my empire. Do not take the visit as more than you think,” he said, “for we are on official business.”

A repeat of what just happened occurred. And it was harder, so much harder. Xinrei’s stare had wanted to flay the midget alive, to say nothing of how his Elders felt.

“I see,” the Patriarch mouthed, and he nodded to his assistant, who took the door behind the throne and vanished, “well, shall we not waste time then?”

“Agreed.”

Xinrei had wanted to find a moment with the Patriarch, however there wasn’t a moment where he was to his lonesome; the Priest whose robes dragged dirt and taxied grass across their home was in whispered talks with him, the two exchanging subtle looks and ever-changing expressions like they were boys hiding from their mothers. The clan’s citadel had more than enough room to satisfy both parties; none desired anything to do with the other, though the Grittus gave looks crossed between curiosity, and unadulterated hate. No one’s managed to earn the ire of an entire clan in under a minute; from what he knows.

Even Grisla couldn’t do it.

Fang Lai strode next to him, with the Chosen following their lead. “Swell people, aren’t they?” Xinrei said nothing, and for that he continued: “I think the last time anyone’s ever approached the Lord Patriarch with that tone of voice, the man was left to bake in the sun—after his punishment. Remember someone else, who dared to offend… you? Will the Lord Patriarch deal with them as they did—” Xinrei’s icy glare shut him up.

“What do you mean, ‘Remember someone else’?” Xinrei said.

Fang Lai swallowed manure and was in the first stage of regret. “I—Slip of the tongue, nonsense took me.” The man’s fear of him was multiplied; only because of his weapon yet to be untied.

Oh, did it? Maybe a slip of my wrist will have you dead. Fang Lai’s closeness with the underbelly bristled him. And, although his entire future will depend on the man keeping secrets, here he is blabbing nonsense he heard from his—what did he mean by that? Grisla fell under a sudden disease that affected his cultivation—that was the story. That was what his father had told him. That was what the clan knew. His eye appraised Fang Lai, who was a shut clam under his scrutiny, and swept over to these… “guests” of theirs. Things made less sense over the years.

He shoved it down. Whatever nonsense Fang Lai will say, he won’t bother listening.

Xinrei didn’t look. “Rangwha,” he said, and she tilted her head. “What do you make of this?” Under normal circumstances, he wouldn’t have ever opened his mouth to someone like her. She waited a beat, then said: “Someone’s plan is in motion.”

Lowering her voice, “The question is, who’s?” Rangwha whispered.

“I don’t know. I’m not sure if its even of our concern to know.”

“It likely is not,” Fang Lai replied hesitantly.

Both groups approached a corner to a narrow hallway, but the Mainlanders could go first, as if they knew the way in a place they’d never been, making the Elders grit their teeth harder. Yet, Patriarch Meng hadn’t noticed anything wrong. As the guests moved, a random glance from one of them made his heart skip. A chill. A deep…chill, it was. And he flinched. Xinrei Grittus, afraid? Impossible.

“Also,” he said while watching, “if you’re going to speak, know that you will be heard.” Their faces twisted.

The Patriarch escorted the Priest—for what was not made clear—to the Grand Table, where a decorated colonnade equal to royalty greeted them. If the day fell, then the moonlight would bring the gardens on either side of the group to its fullest beauty, the chimes which dangled overhead, that made sweet tings as they passed; fulfilling the purpose of it being there when a few tempers, mostly the Elders, lightened their scowls by a tinge. Something is better than nothing.

Its power fell short of Xinrei, who carried himself as invulnerable. A man on an island, with thoughts unconcerned by the opinions of others. Two guards ahead, Elders in status, squinted but did their duty as assigned and opened the doors for them.

These guests from nowhere filed into their seats without so much as a word of where to be put—did they rehearse or was it total disregard of their table? The Chosen, the High Elders needn’t be told where to go; they were faster than the Chosen. But the two most important seats—the left and right at the head of the table, the Priest slid into one, and as Xinrei approached—someone slid in the other. Eyes turned and the room fell silent.

His lip curled. “Move.” This person, who Xinrei said it towards couldn’t have been older than him by more than two years, yet he dared to sit where he, the heir, is required to? Death might collect another one. He carried the strangeness that the rest of his people did, with his purple—purple? Did he dye it?—hair twisted into knots. Xinrei despised him on sight. With or without this farce. Arrogance dripped off his person, and his fingers were in the business of collecting as many gold and silver rings as he could fit.

The man raised his brow, as if he had to confirm whether Xinrei was talking to him. When the stare didn’t lessen, he smiled a smile built upon a foundation of vanity. “Surely, you’re joking?”

This was more than a childish spat. What did this say about the clan—about him, if some eccentrics showed up with blatant disrespect and double it up with this one? His father was working on his own with the Priest. But he himself will not play whatever silly game these old men were up to, trying to make pieces move on a board with wordplay and gesture. He wants his seat.

“Xinrei,” the Patriarch said, coming out mid-conversation with the Priest, who frowned slightly, “can you give our guests some face and allow this one to pass? Young Lord Suran Yol is nephew to the honored Priest of the Firecrown Empire.” What his father asked only made it worse for Xinrei. His temper broke through the mantle.

Now everyone was looking at him.

Xinrei sucked his teeth. “…He can be nephew to a God and it wouldn’t change my mind!”

The Priest’s face was unreadable. But his father—he’d never seen his father so angered in public. If he wasn’t of any relation to the man, as Fang Lan said, he would be baking in the sun in a heartbeat. And the entourage of the Priest offered smiles for foreboding schadenfreude, for whatever reason.

“Xinrei,” He blinked. “Do not disobey.”

The force of Xinrei’s jaw could crack stone. Father! I will not yield to some stranger in my home, you dishonor me! Feeling the gazes of his clansmen, his fellow Chosen… how could he be an overlord and bow in the face of a new challenger? It was more than personal. Suran Yol’s face broke off as if Xinrei had already made the—sensible?—choice.

“You will move,” said Xinrei, whose weapon caught the attention of the newphew, “or I will make you.” Consequences be damned. Xinrei Grittus yielded to no man under heaven. Dying on choices made at his own behest is the greatest privilege of a cultivator. Of a man. Breath caught in throats had the Elders sweeping over the table, the cautious preparing to honor their oaths and protect the heir if anything was to happen

Unexpectedly, before his father’s vein burst, “Little Yol,” the Priest said. “Please, if you will, give the Chosen”—his mouth twitched in amusement at that— “One some face. He is both that and heir, after all.”

It did not satisfy him. No matter the outcome, it incensed his temper. To a dullard it’d look like Xinrei won by holding his position, on the other hand—the very act of the Priest giving face to Xinrei was done out of charity, rather than respect. He wasn’t just sure which of the two he hated more. And, between all of it… the Patriarch said nothing in his defense. In his clan’s. For the first time, in a brief flash in the moment, he considered his Patriarch’s actions despicable; but washed away faster than a flood.

And the nephew? His mirth hadn’t been touched. Standing up, Suran Yol reassessed Xinrei as a forgotten face. He didn’t move though. And his head shook. “No, uncle. I think that it’s best a lesson be taught.”

Xinrei’s face betrayed nothing. The Chosen exchanged glances. Lesson? From whom? Does he want to die? On a casual sweeping of this stranger, he was not much stronger than himself, in way of cultivation. A level above his second step, and he dares?

The Priest sighed. “Children, am I right?” Patriarch Meng’s face was concerned with whatever venom he drank somehow.

He needn’t see his father to know that afterward, he’ll take a lashing from his tongue. But Xinrei was much too old and had much too many responsibilities to be disciplined like the others, even if he spat in the face of an Immortal and wrote down the address to the clan. I’m special, and I don’t need my…necklace, to tell me that.

Suran Yol opened his mouth. “The little one with some airs because he’s the best among the average. Did you know that—” A point thrusted forward.

And—to the shock of Xinrei—spear met spear. A crisscross of silver and black. The small gasps in the chamber were shocks for many things; for one, while Xinrei and Suran Yol locked gazes, the latter didn’t have his weapon anywhere near him. Nor did he have the time to cast something before Xinrei skewered him. Which meant…

A storage space. A small pocket of space dedicated to the retrieval of items, making it all look like magic. But how? Such items were things of legend. Told in tales of make-believe to inspire the children to become warriors for the clan. Xinrei’s face glowered. So then, they’re real? That was half of his surprise.

“You’re not the only spear handler around here. In fact,” his smile deepened, but his eyes spoke nothing of the sort. “I am quite famous for it. But sheesh, would a warning kill you?”

Xinrei threw a quarter of his strength at that. Nothing for overkill, and nothing a “guest” couldn’t avoid if they found life enjoyable. This Suran Yol had met his strength with equal intensity; with not a hair out of place. Increasing it by a degree changed nothing as he met it again.

“…Slightly impressive.” Xinrei commented. That earned him a disdainful snort from the Firecrown’s side. Their muttering wasn’t concealed.

“…A junior who oversteps.”

“…he doesn’t know, the difference between…”

“…Arrogance with no backing.”

The atmosphere was a taut string. And the two men who could stop it said nothing and watched. The two’s Juva had even the silverware afraid. The small tremors made by them were backed by the force of a hundred elephants. How much damage could either of them do, should they cut all pretenses of civility here?

I’ll kill this man and deal with the trouble later, He decided. “Make your move,” Xinrei said, fastening his grip over the spear. “It’ll be your only.” It was both a test and a warning. But the black hadn’t faltered against his white; Suran Yol’s posture contradicted the tension in the air. Xinrei would parry his move and put a hole in his throat—should all of his strength be necessary. He would do it so fast not a single Elder but the one near his father can intervene.

Suran Yol blinked, shoulders relaxing. “Gladly”—Xinrei’s eyes widened, preparing to—“not. What are you, crazy? What will my poor Mother say if she finds out I’ve been pinned to the wall by a hothead?”

…What? Everyone thought they’d misheard.

The foreigner made his weapon vanish as fast as he pulled it; regardless his airs he still concealed whichever item used to store his weapon with. “She’ll weep with deep hurt. And that won’t be the worst of it, nope. Aren’t you aware of what’ll happen to our alliance if my sister hears—”

Alliance...?

His face twisted. “What did you say?”

Again, but this time it was only the Grittus clan who misheard. Glances exchanged from the Chosen to the Elders were unanswered, and High Elder to High Elder with further confusion. Xinrei’s head flung itself to the head of the table—Patriarch Meng; him and his penchant for coolness like his son. The man scratched an ear while the Priest chewed his bite.

“I refrained from telling you, my son. Please, do not be angry with me.” The Patriarch’s voice told he did not care much if he was. “I myself did not receive notice until a week ago. And by then our friends were already crossing the Nurolin Strait. Being as busy as I, there has been some slips at the cracks. I apologize.”

High Elder Muralin spoke, “My Lord Patriarch, what’s this about an alliance?” The Patriarch was moved to speak but then the Priest interrupted.

“My niece, the daughter to Battlemaster Suran Vey, will be betrothed and married to the heir of the Grittus family, and Grittus clan: Xinrei Grittus, son of Meng Grittus.”

Xinrei’s thoughts froze, and behind him, a figure appeared.