Weimin wakes with a start, drenched in sweat.

“My Prince, is everything alright,” asks a concerned voice, interrupting his thoughts.

“Fine, fine, I’m alright Feng Shun.”

“With your leave, my Prince,” answered the attendant.

Weimin had lied. Sleep deprived, distraught and mind restless from nightmares, he is anything but alright. Today was the second anniversary of his brother’s death, but he’d been given no time to grieve. Immediately after the ceremony, he’d been thrown into the Royal Academy, studying history, art, and court etiquette from dawn til dusk. Day after day it went, even his cultivation stagnating to keep up.

As a result, his cultivation had been the lowest amongst his father’s legitimate children.

Now, after his time with the Void Sect, cultivation was the least of his problems.

He was a Contender, and a strong one at that. He’d made certain his allies of circumstance knew that with his act of dispatching Yingjie effortlessly. Ignoble buffoon that he was, he has the strength to back it up; peak-foundation cultivators could be found amongst the ranks of any decent sect; some were elders, with a few notable talents occupying the position of Sect Leader.

And yet, Weimin slid through his defenses, cutting through an Organ Tempering body with ease.

But strength would not fulfill his goals. His adversaries and allies alike had something in common. Some, like Xiurong, had networks of spies feeding them information. Prior to his untimely demise, Bao had established a guild to generate revenue, public support, and garner their father’s approval. As for Shufen, the Prime Contender had the entirety of the Hong Kingdom’s military at her disposal.

Weimin, whose years had been wasted in the Royal Academy, had no such wealth nor social clout. Similarly, time was a resource in short supply. If not for that, perhaps he would have crafted an organization from the ground up to fit his needs.

All of the prince’s many schemes hinged upon the acquisition of political backing. Simply put, Weimin had to take advantage of every opportunity to acquire personnel, wealth, and political power.

Fortunately, Bao’s death had left a guild in disarray, with its head assassinated and several high ranking figures detained at Weimin’s destination; the Royal Dungeon.

The Royal Dungeon predated the castle built above it; Weimin had learned about its history in his studies.

According to history, or legend, or perhaps a bit of both, the first Hong king had stumbled across the ruins of an ancient fortification filled with wondrous technology. A veritable genius, his ancestor had reverse-engineered what he could, establishing a dynasty that would unite the continent. The Hong Kingdom was all that remained of a dynasty that had lasted for millennia before stagnating at the hands of bureaucracy and politicking. Away from the prying eyes and ears of Imperial spymasters, whispers insinuated that Empress Cao Ming Yung was but a figurehead, secretly controlled by the Hong family. How else could the favorable treatment of the kingdom be interpreted?

Weimin descends into the dungeon, qi-empowered lanterns illuminating the spiral staircase, steps of red sandstone the color of dust and dried blood. Along the way, soldiers on guard duty greet him, surprised to see both the Prince alive and well, and the Contender’s aura that surrounded him. It was this aura that prevented any from blocking his path.

And yet, none offered him assistance, though he knows his destination. The title of Contender is a double-edged jian; though none dare stand in his way, neither will any help him.

He seeks the guardsman of his deceased half-brother for a myriad of reasons; he lacked a guard detail of his own, core cultivators, even those at the initial stage, were difficult to come by, especially those without obligations and oaths to keep.

Perhaps most importantly, the loyalty of the guardsmen would be easy to secure; all he had to do was present himself as an ally of his late half-brother, allow them to seek out the assassin that had destroyed their lives and murdered their liege, and fund their efforts. Considering his status a part of the royal family, influence and funding would be easy to acquire.

As he descends, part of his mind feels registers the weakening of his cultivation. Part of the power of the dungeon is the suppression it places upon cultivation, similar to any transcendent treasure.

Finally, he arrives at his destination; the lowest floor of the Royal Dungeon. A narrow hallway separates the rest of the prison from the cells on this floor, as if everything above is only a preface for what lies ahead.

And what lies ahead is terrifying; gigantic steel golems flank a simple steel gate that bars the way forward. The golems have long since been deactivated, but their presence is gravitating in spite of their lack of utility.

Though he’d never had a reason to descend to this final floor of the dungeon, Weimin recognizes the golems from his studies, a relic from the time before his ancestors’ inhabitance.

The golems, Weimin expects; the guards standing at attention, not so much. As he traverses the hallway, he takes a closer look, noticing that the gate has been raised.

The guards must be waiting for whoever is inside, he concludes.

What is Xiurong’s guard detail doing here, he ponders, his brow furrowing in concentration. He’d studied the opposition’s habits and itineraries extensively; Xiurong should have been entertaining suitors; their father wouldn’t have let her escape her royal duties.

Who were Xiurong’s guards protecting? Why were they here? How had Bao been murdered in the heart of the kingdom? Questions abound through Weimin’s mind like hornets whose nest has been kicked and set ablaze.

It doesn’t make sense, he thinks, unless….

Weimin’s blood runs cold as the realization crystallizes in his mind.

They’re here to finish what they started.

There’s no time for words, so Weimin explodes into action. The dungeon may have restricted his cultivation, but it could do no such thing to the strength in his body.

One moment, Weimin is walking the claustrophobic dungeon hallway with the ponderance and arrogance of any true noble. The next, his right arm is gone, replaced by a jian’s length of voidsteel that swallows the light around it. Before either guard can react, his weapon is through the first guard’s neck, blood and sound absorbed by the unique properties of his blade. His left hand grips the throat of his next victim, preventing them from sounding an alarm. And then his blade is through their neck too.

Severed heads fall to the ground a heartbeat later, Weimin’s path clear of any obstacles.

Though he’d taken care to ensure his presence was unnoticed, Weimin stays on guard. Whatever the identity of his quarry, they’d assassinated a legitimate contender in broad daylight, and Bao had been even stronger than he was now.

Though the gate has been only partially raised, it is more than sufficient for the taller than average Weimin to pass through.

I can’t see through. They must have left the Moonless Night formation intact.

With no way to acquire intel and no other course of action, Weimin steps through the opening.

What he finds on the other side perplexes him.

A devilish ritual circle of ochre runes levitates in the air above four hooded figures. They chant a mantra that Weimin recognizes but has never heard before; regardless, how could he fail to recognize fellow Void Sectarians?

Perhaps the sectarians were off guard, not suspecting violence from a fellow acolyte of the Void. Perhaps Weimin’s empowered body was simply beyond their comprehension. Regardless, the result is the same; four severed heads hit the floor, tongues still moving as their heads fail to register the deaths of their bodies.

Despite the nature of his weapon, blood abounds throughout the room. Some is held in jars, and Weimin morbidly ponders how many bodies it would take to fill them. Certainly more than the four guardsmen he’d hoped to recruit.

Fresh blood covers the floor, moving unnaturally to reveal more dried blood underneath. It paints the walls and drips slowly from the ceiling, as if a coagulation of blood had exploded to coat its surroundings.

In the center of it all is the ritual, with four cocoons of bloodstained cloth hiding what must remain of Bao’s guards. They levitate mysteriously until they fall to the ground, the ethereal voidsteel chains holding them together dissipating into the ether. Whether the ritual is complete, Weimin knows not. The runic cloth that surrounds the bodies is not quite jade, with ochre runes the size of his palm running along their length.

A thick liquid the color of blood oozes from the feet of the enveloped corpses, stretching like slime to reach the ground before leaching from the cocoons entirely.

Even for Weimin, this is too much, and he turns to the side and retches. Once it starts, it cannot be stopped, and for a full incense time he heaves, unable to veil his disgust at the abhorrent sight before him.

When he is finished, the ooze is gone, so he does the only thing he can, relaying the situation to someone with expertise in such matters.

And he waits for help to arrive.