Dorian, of course, had no clue about the hubbub above him. Even if he did, he couldn’t afford to think about it. Gales of qi scythed in and out of him, intent on carving his body from the inside-out. There was so much qiflowing through him that his skin had taken on a translucent, glistening tenor; his hair, drifting upwards, was no longer bound by so puny a force as gravity.

Open.

All the great forces of the universe bore down on one point deep within him, shrieking their eagerness.

There was a click.

[Rank-up!]

[Peak Vigor -> Early Profound]

[Spirit-Sea Opened!] Grade: Low

It was done. He felt the space within him open, expanding like a third lung, but much smaller: it was the size of a pea. It might not’ve seemed much, but such a space could store enough qi for him to toss low-grade techniques for hours without ceasing. It was more precious to a cultivator than his heart.

Most who tried to break through the bottleneck to Profound failed. Of those who succeeded, about three-quarters got the default Spirit Sea grade: Low. Once the breakthrough was complete, the size of the Spirit-Sea could not be changed. If Dorian stopped now, he’d be stuck with a Low-Grade Sea for the rest of this life.

But Dorian had no intention of stopping. Not by a long-shot.

There was blood in his mouth, warm and salty. Somewhere in all the gnashing and screaming, he’d bitten his tongue. Now he bared his teeth, a crimson crescent shining in a violet storm.

I want to go higher!

So he pushed.

***

“I will gut him like a fucking eel!” yelled Bin Heilong, eyes flashing.

“Uncle—please!” wailed Tan, dragging at the hems of his uncle’s robes. But he was sent flying with a vicious backhand. He tumbled head-over-heels, then landed in a heap at the feet of the other Young Masters. He lay there, groaning and whimpering.

“LOCK DOWN THE HOUSE!” roared Bin. “SEAL THE GATES!”

And all around them, walls of studded metal fell, blocking off the doors, damming the gates.

“No, no, no…” sniffled Tan. He clambered to his knees and whirled around, helpless. The First Young Master laughed.

“I knew you were stupid, brother,” Yu Heilong sneered. “But even I didn’t see this coming!” He leaned in, leering. “How do you think Uncle will deal with your little savage friend? A beheading? A spear through the heart, perhaps?”

Tan’s eyes shot up, wide and watery. “H-he wouldn’t!” But it was a lie, and they both knew it.

“Please!” Yu crossed his arms. His grin had gotten so wide it threatened to slip off the sides of his face. “I’ve seen him kill passersby on the street for merely a disrespectful glance. An intruder in the heart of the family’s most closely-guarded chambers?” He barked a laugh, and still managed to look heroic doing it. “His death is as inevitable as the sunset! It’ll be a miracle if Uncle doesn’t descend into the afterworld just to kill him again!”

Yu was taking a special pleasure in this, Tan could tell. His brother had always been a cruel one. Clearly, the First Young Master was still smarting over the humiliation Io had given him a few hours before.

Lin, for her part, was beside herself. Tan saw her struggling to get past a barricade of guards. “Senior!” she screamed. “As First Young Mistress of the Zhang Family, I bid you cease this tomfoolery immediately—hello? Are you even listening to me? Excuse me?!”

Plainly, General Heilong was not listening. He was almost at the main doors now.

Lin tried to corkscrew around the guards, but they were wise to it and grabbed her by the arms. “You can’t do this!” she screamed. Bin didn’t even look at her as he stepped into the house and slammed the door shut. The sound cracked across the field like thunder.

There was a sense of finality to it, like a clock striking midnight.

“Gah!” Lin sank to her knees, pale and trembling. Tan wasn’t much better.

It would take a miracle to save Io now, he thought.

But that, too, was a lie. He swallowed, tears brimming at his eyes. For what miracle could possibly forestall the wrath of the Butcher of the West—in his own house, no less?

***

Dorian could see his Sea. When he closed his eyes and sent his senses scurrying down his body into his core, he felt it like a chamber in his body. A soft, pliable chamber.

A chamber forced wider and wider by a thunderous rush of qi. It poured in like a flood, blasting at the walls of the space, and his Sea expanded. And soon, just when it had reached about a third larger—

[Level-up!]

[Spirit Sea] Grade: Low -> Mid

Dorian smirked. Only a rare few got to this tier, one in ten cultivators or so. It was here that even most Young Masters were halted, the impetus of their breakthroughs sputtering out. To achieve a Mid-Grade Spirit Sea was an impressive feat by any standard. It was the minimum to achieve Godhood.

But it wasn’t enough for Dorian.

More. More!

The walls of his Sea were growing strained. The flows of the qi was growing chaotic, erupting in seething whirlpools and leaking out in all directions, taxing his mind. At this point, most cultivators could no more direct the qi than they could direct the flow of a raging river with their bare hands.

Even for a Godking like Dorian, who’d been here a hundred times over, things were getting dicey. He gnashed his teeth. He was slipping, and he knew it; he could feel the flows wrenching at him. Each second was a trial, and still that flood within was rising, howling, bucking. It took all of his mind to hold it back.

His hold would not last forever. This could only end in a blow-up of epic proportions. But for the wisps of time he could hold it down, trapped in his Sea, its fury was his to harvest.

And harvest he did. He fell into a trance, a singular flow. In this state he did not feel the seconds pass. Time was immaterial. There was no past or future. There was simply the now, the task at present, and he was utterly devoted to it. He became one with this grueling, messy, agonizing moment.

And his devotion was rewarded.

[Level-up!]

[Spirit Sea] Grade: Mid -> High

The notification nearly broke him—relief flooded him so strongly he nearly let it all slip; it took a staggering effort of will to reign himself in, heaving and rattling. Yes. YES!

Less than one percent of Profound cultivators ever climbed to this peak. Within this Oasis, maybe only the highest- of the highest- had High-Grade Seas. Clan Leaders. Ancestors. Generals. A scant handful. At this grade, a Sea’s store of qi was double that of a Low-Grade Spirit Sea. A High-Grade Spirit Sea might as well have been an entry in the history-books. This was the highest Grade there was.

Well—almost.

That was what most everyone here thought, since it was all anyone here had seen in their sordid little lives. Little frogs, staring up from the bottoms of little wells.

There was one more Grade. A grade that was the stuff of whispered legend in the Izod Desert. A grade which most took to be mere myth.

It was said the Founder of the Azcan Oasis had achieved this grade. It was said that the founder of the Heilong Family had done the same, lo those centuries ago. But no-one since, here or anywhere else, had heard tell of it.

It was a grade which neither skill nor preparation could conquer. One also needed a great deal of luck, even if one was a Godking.

Dorian grinned despite it all. This run, I seem to have all three in spades.

He was hanging onto his hold by a thread. The qi within him had grown to a monstrous, ravenous thing; if his mind were a dam, stress fractures were crackling down its length. White-hot stars of pain drilled into his skull and his vision had taken on a blurry, faint, far-away quality. He’d crack any second; he could feel it. But not before he played his last trump card.

The Heilong ring slid down into his palm. The scale stood proud atop it, its polished surface reflecting the ghostly, warbled streams of qi swirling about it. With two fingers, Dorian popped out the scale.

And swallowed it.

***

“Impossible. Try it again!”

“I assure you, General—the door is locked.” The Heilong servant yanked at the door to the cultivation chamber with a full-body effort before collapsing to his knees, panting. It remained stubbornly shut.

“How can that be?” snarled one of Bin’s lieutenants. “Only those who possess the Heilong Bloodline can lock a cultivation chamber from the inside!” He dashed up himself and, with all his Earth-Realm powers, ripped at the handle. Locked.

The lieutenant blinked at his hand, disbelieving, before trying it again. Same result. “It’s true,” he said numbly. “I shall call for the gatekeeper! He’ll procure a master key—“

Then his words were cut off by his own yelp. He ducked, and barely missed having his head blasted clean off by a blast of hellishly hot qi. The qi drilled into the door, dispersing against it with an earth-rattling crash. The gold sizzled there, drooping off the door frame. This gold was of the highest caliber—mined from the boiling depths of the realm, gold which would’ve repelled Profound-Tier dragon’s breath with ease. Now it melted like common steel.

The lieutenant swallowed. The General’s qi was as potent as ever, clearly.

“THERE IS AN INTRUDER IN THE HEART OF OUR FAMILY!” screeched Bin, red-faced, spittle spraying out of gnashed teeth. “We are the defenders of the Oasis. We are the men who hold the gates! And now a trespasser has not only snuck by our own front door—and is gorging on our most sacred resources, in the Shrine of the Fucking Serpent, no less—and you want me to wait for a master key?!”

Another bolt of qi had Bin’s men ducking for cover. When the shaking stopped, another inch of gold had melted off the door.

“TEAR. IT. DOWN!”

The general’s men glanced at each other. One by one, they rushed to obey.

***

Thousands upon thousands of li away, a prince was enjoying the sunset atop a high plateau.

Nijo Ugoc lay atop a nest of plush pillows. The flaps to his tent were wide open so that the waning sun nuzzled his face, bathing the whole of his body in a soft orange glow.

“Nijo?” A smooth, deep, yet still womanly voice. His consort, Yíla, and one of his highest-ranking commanders. She drew up beside him. He felt one gentle hand graced his shoulder. “There you are. What are you doing up here, this late? Should we not be reviewing our battle-plans?”

“No need. The battle is as good as won,” said Nijo, taking a sip of wine. “As is the war. With the Azcan Oasis, and with the rest of this plane.”

“So your mind has turned to idle pleasures. Before the task is done.” There was a note of admonishment in her voice.

“No, dear,” he said, and smiled sadly. “I have come here because I expect a… message, I suppose you might call it…from an old friend. A friend I had not known was here, until very recently.” He turned his eyes once more to the waning light.

“What message could possibly matter in a time like this?’ Yíla was growing cross. Nijo sighed. He supposed he’d better explain.

“There is a curious property of this realm,” he said softly, his eyes still fixed on the horizon. “This place is drenched in Fate, you see. It is the Graveyard of the Gods, after all… we ought to expect strange things. Every so often, when an extraordinary cultivator makes an extraordinary sort of breakthrough—a breakthrough which catches the attention of Fate, and of the Heavens—the realm responds in kind. It is a rare sight. I’ll not miss it.”

He patted the cushions beside him, smiling. “Come. Sit with me. We’ll watch it together.”

She frowned at him but took her place beside him nonetheless, he criss-crossed, her on her knees, back ramrod-straight. And they sat there, still and waiting. And waiting. And waiting still.

The sky grew darker. The sun was a watery orange sliver on the horizon. Heavy slate clouds were slowly creeping over them, sagging with coming rain, like great blankets of the evening. Finally Yíla turned to him, her gaze flat as a board.

“What am I meant to be seeing?”

A pause. “It… has not yet appeared.” A faint flush tinged Nijo’s cheeks.

Yíla frowned. “Are you certain it will appear?”

Another pause. Then—“I have faith in him,” Nijo said slowly.

Yíla opened her mouth to spit a barb, but Nijo raised a hand. A soft smile was creeping back on his face. “Ah. Look.”

His finger traced a point on the horizon.

There was a mote of bright purple there, staining the orange. Yíla’s breath caught. It was growing—now it was a brilliant fingernail of light in the distance. Still it climbed higher, broaching a cloud-layer, brightening like a second sun. It spread up, up, up, until it was a thin, dazzling, swirling line which split the sunset in two. A beam which dared the heavens. A beam which could be seen for thousands upon thousands of miles, proud and mighty. Up close, it might’ve covered half a city.

“Incredible,” breathed Yíla, eyes wide.

“That,” murmured Nijo, “is one massive cloud of qi, roused to the skies by a chance disturbance of Fate. It is known as ‘Purple Air Comes From the East.’ It is only the second time in all my life I have had the privilege of witnessing such a thing.”

Yíla glanced at him, frowning. “Are you crying?”

Nijo blinked, then dabbed a hand at his face, feeling the tear making a slow journey down his cheek. “Ah. So I am,” he said, and his lips quirked at the edges. “Well. It is beautiful, is it not?”

Yíla snorted. Then squinted. “Wait.” Nijo saw the dots connect in her mind in real-time. “Is that from the Azcan Oasis?!”

“It is indeed.” Nijo winked. “And soon, Fate permitting, we shall meet the man who caused it.”