As a lower prince, he lacked royal guards, the best dedicated to his siblings and father. As for the palace guards, dressed in iconic lamellar armor under purple cloth which demonstrated their allegiance to the crown, they barely acknowledge him as he passes through the gates leading to upper Yinjing.

Free to wander his thoughts once more, Hong Weimin reminisces. Only yesterday, his royal father had announced his plan to break through to the ascendant level and subsequent departure from the Ling Nan plane. Hong Weimin was overlooked in the contest for the crown.

When the competition had begun, he’d been at a severe disadvantage. Even the weakest of his siblings, the 5th prince, was at a late-stage foundation establishment. In comparison, he was only at the peak of Qi Condensation. And the strongest contestant, the 1st Princess, and supreme commander of the Hong armies, was at late-stage Core Formation. Although he cultivated the prized aspect of fate, his affinity was much lower than his elder sister’s dual water-lightning affinity in either aspect. Thus, he was deemed irrelevant.

But even the weakest royal had the best mentors money could buy made available to him, and he’d progressed significantly. Even as part of his journey towards his destination, a place within the city he’d never been allowed to travel before, he read the lines of fate that permeated the world. They would tell him if his identity had been revealed, or if he was in any danger.

The city he traverses is arranged in concentric rings of ascending importance- No, wealth, he reminds himself. The royal palace was the residence of the royal family, their guards, and any visiting nobles. The upper ring was home to nobles, the wealthiest of merchants and a handful of martial sects with the blessing of the crown. The middle ring held, as the name suggested, those who were better off than most. This included alchemists, apothecarists, respected merchants and the other well-off echelons of society. The lower ring was so large that it was divided into quarters; the self explanatory merchant quarter, the slums, where most destitute resided; the military quarter, where the barracks for both the army and the city guard were located; and lastly, the dark quarter. Crime had become so rampant in this quarter that the city guards, corrupt as they were, refused to police this area, leaving that job to the various criminal organizations.

But Hong Weimin fails to see a single other soul as he walks the empty streets. Even fate, his staunchest ally, fails him now. Strings of fate lead back to the capital, to his father and his siblings. There are even some leading to peasants that had seen him on occasions, their strands hollow and barely visible. But none have a destination within the quarter, which is a bad omen at worst, bizarre at best. After all, he’d scheduled a meeting with an organization headquartered here. He remained on guard as he walked, caution filling every step.

Finally, he sees it. The arranged meeting location. It was called the Tired Ox, and it was as decrepit as the rest of the quarter. Its roof was caved in, likely the result of the previous year’s Qi Storm. From its design, perhaps it had once been a successful establishment, as chipped paint could not hide its former grandeur, with ornate brown patterns on the tan windows, and jade-tinted tiling on the roof, three stories high.

As he approaches the building, the signs of age show more clearly. The paint had chipped so much that he could barely tell what the original color of the wood had been. Splinters covered the ground from where objects, or more likely bodies, had impacted the structure. But what gives it away is the rank smell of rot. As a noble, Hong Weimin can’t help but wrinkle his nose at the unpleasant odor. Why am I here, this place is beneath me, he thinks to himself.

As he walks through the entrance, he sees… something streak across his vision. Then everything went black.

***

When he opens his eyes, Weimin is unable to see anything at all. His head is sore, as if he’s been hit in the head. Which probably isn’t too far from the truth, he thinks to himself. As he stirs, he notices his inability to locate any arrows of fate.

“Ah, you’re awake,” says a voice from the darkness. It is deep and husky, but also… less somehow. Weimin can’t quite put his finger on what, though.

Weimin fails to control himself and turns his head, trying to locate the source of the voice. “Where am I? Who are you?”

“I am the one asking the questions here,” answers the voice. “Why are you here?”

“My name is Hong Weimin, Prince of-”

“We know who you are, silly prince. Tell us why you are here.”

“If you know who I am, you must release me at once, or face my father’s wrath.”

The resulting chuckle sends chills up his spine. “Oh, you silly thing. You lay far from the light, far from any who would seek you out. You have no hope, no name, and certainly no noble privilege. And it would be a shame to mar such a pretty face....”

The voice trails off, the sounds of sharpening steel replacing it.

After several moments that last an eternity, the voice continues.

“Now, silly prince, I ask you for the third and final time. Why are you here?”

“I… I was told to meet someone at the Tired Ox. But I didn’t think I’d walk into an ambush…”

“Who were you supposed to meet?”

“I was supposed to meet with members of the guilds to overthrow the other Contenders,” he lies seamlessly, the skill etched into his mind by countless hours of court intrigue.

Just then, the feeling in his left pinky disappears, only moments later returning in agonizing pain.

For a dozen heartbeats, Weimin screams, rolling along the ground until his body hits a wall. After his wailing ceases, his jailer continues.

“The next time you lie, false Contender, I shall take the whole hand.”

This time, Weimin believes him. Even in the dark, his assailant had sliced his finger cleanly, meaning that they could see him, even if he had no method of detecting them.

“Who were you supposed to meet?”

“I… I was to meet an envoy of the Void Sect. To see about joining.”

At this, several voices bellow with laughter, making Weimin question the size of the enclosure he is trapped within.

“Someone wishes to willingly join? The Void Sect? Ha,” says one voice.

“Someone must have dropped the silly prince on his head as a child! What a riot,” exclaims another.

After the laughter stops, his jailer continues, a hint of dark humor in his voice.

“Oh silly prince, one does not simply join the Void. One must be chosen. I wonder… will the antithesis of all choose you?”

Then, he hears footsteps leading away.

Quipping one last time to his captors, Weimin retorts, “If you’re trying to hold me as leverage, it won’t work.”

There is no response.

As the footfalls fade into the distance, the silent darkness swallows Weimin once more.

***

Hong Tao sighs, exasperated. A century ago, he had ascended to the throne, dominant over the other Contenders. He’d been in his prime then, an initial Core Formation cultivator, capable of sundering an entire mountain with a casual blow. Now, his frail fingers could hardly summon enough power to stop a Count rank demon, like the one he’d dispatched in the Royal Hunt earlier today.

Of course, he could’ve used his cultivation to restrain the beast, but that would’ve been perceived as weak, and Hong Tao could not allow such rumours to disperse into the populace. After all, the most effective lies had an element of truth contained within.

He shakes his head, clearing the thoughts from his mind as he faces the present. No point dwelling in the past, he thinks.

Awaiting his permission to speak is a servant from the West Wing of the palace, where all of his petulant, spoiled children reside. A century ago, none of them would have survived, save perhaps Xieren. Life was not always so easy.

He nods his head, and the Mouth of the King, his most trusted confidante, motions the servant to speak.

“Oh great Lord of Ten Thousand Years, I have returned with news of vital importance.”

The servant waits patiently after announcing his presence, as is expected of him.

Hmph, the old king thinks. My progeny could learn something about discipline from the very servants they so demean.

“Carry on,” says the Mouth of the King.

“Holy Lord, the false Contender Hong Weimin has not been sighted for several days. The master of the royal guard urges you to consider an investigation.”

Hong Tao shakes his head slightly, and as if telepathically, the Mouth of the King interprets his meaning.

“That will not be necessary. The situation is being handled. Privately,” says the Mouth of the King.

The servant bows before leaving, excusing himself.

After the doors to the throne room close, their protective ward renewed, the Mouth of the King speaks.

“How long will you continue your silence in front of the masses? Although it is quite amusing, I worry the populace may take your eccentricities for weakness.”

Hong Tao chuckles weakly. The number of men who could converse with him so informally could be counted on one hand. “Xuan He, old friend. There is power in words, but also in silence. As I have told you before-,” he begins.

“We have two ears and only one mouth. Thus we should listen twice as much as we speak. I know,” finished Xuan He. “But you hardly speak at all! There are mortals who have been born and died since you last spoke to the masses unassisted. I dread what our enemies think of you.”

“My brother in arms, we both know how little I care for my reputation in the lands beyond. If our enemies believe us weak, let them come. I will instruct them on their failings, and my daughter shall take my place,” he says, chuckling darkly.

At this, Xuan He nods his head. “Perhaps it is time that we reminded the world of the Crimson Blade and his brother in the Darkness.”

“Perhaps indeed….”

***

It’s been days since his captors spoke to him. Thanks to his cultivation, stunted as it was, Weimin no longer needed to eat, and his necessity for sleep was greatly reduced, but his body was quickly reaching its limits.

Curse my father for birthing a child with such terrible afinities, he thinks to himself. By now, he knows better than to waste water by speaking aloud.

Regardless, it’s common knowledge that to cultivate, one needed to be in a location with similarly aligned Qi. Unfortunately for Weimin, Fate Qi was almost impossible to find within the borders of the Hong Kingdom, and it was virtually suicide to attempt a venture elsewhere, thanks to his father’s aggressively expansionary policies.

In the middle of his thoughts, Weimin notices something… different. Fleeting and isolated, it is gone as quickly as it appears.

Moments later, he is pulled to his feet in silence, and hope blooms within his heart, before he destroys it, root and stem. I cannot allow myself to hope. That is how they will break me, he thinks.

For what other reason would his captors have kept him so long, without speaking a single word?

They grab him roughly without waiting for him to stand, dragging him along as they go.

Even now, though he has energy to spare, he bides his time. Whatever their plans are, they are surely sinister. Thanks to his Benevolent Ruler body cultivation technique, the less he moves, the stronger his body grows. Though it had originally been designed to develop the laziest of the nobility, who cared not for adventuring or wars, Weimin was beginning to realize its true utility.

For minutes they travel, Weimin’s feet roughly dragging against the ground. From how easily he is being carried, he determines that his guards, or whatever they may be, are at least at the late-Body Refining level, weaker than his own early stage Muscle Endurance. Although the manacles on his hands prevent him from using techniques, he could overpower his captors through raw strength alone.

As long as they don’t have that absolute monster from before, he thinks, shuddering as he recalls the black flash across his vision.

Then, in the distance, he sees a light. Rather than the harshness of torchlight, it is blue, and it is the first thing he has seen in… however long he has been trapped here. Through unintentional cultivation, the time had passed more quickly than perhaps his jailers intended.

As they travel, Weimin realizes belatedly that it is not a light, but rather an open doorway into… something. Before he can determine what lays before him, his jailers stop, turning him around as they throw him on the ground. Staring back at his captors, he finally gets a look at them.

And he freezes in terror.

In front of him are two nondescript bodies. Rather than faces, they wear masks fused to their very flesh, shining silver as they reflect the light behind Weimin. Their black robes hide ephemeral bodies, though their feet are grounded, their bodies seem… off, almost otherwordly as they greedily absorb all light that ventures near them. Indeed, the shapes of their bodies were only discernible because of their outlines. For they were members of the Void Sect, the very sect he’d been searching for.

But rather than the warm welcome he’d been expecting, or at least the fair treatment prompted by an opportunity for mutual benefit, he’d been thrown in a cell. At least now I know why they didn’t fear my father, he thinks.

With a click, his manacles fall from his hands, his cultivation free at last. But he knows better than to attempt an escape now, for such an attempt would be suicide.

Before he even attempts to move, his body is moved, though the means are beyond him. One moment, he is laying in the darkness before his ethereal captors, the next he lays in the center of the arena, blinding lights all around. It takes several moments for his eyes to adjust to light after days, weeks perhaps, in darkness. And in that time, a voice begins to speak.

“Silly prince, you should know better than to leave the capital alone.”

It is a voice he knows well, and it belongs to a man who was more of a father to Weimin than the king ever was.

Gritting his teeth, and holding back tears, he spits out the name of his mentor. His friend.

“Xuan He.”