The sun straddled the horizon, casting a spectrum of orange on the assembly ringing the Festival grounds. Every year, it was the largest gathering of peoples to grace the western Izod Desert; tribes large and small met in this hotspot of qi. Over the years it’d transformed to a hotspot of glory and wealth too.

This year was different. For one, the gathering had grown in number. The Oasis network, the seven hegemons of the West, had reached out extensively; the people present here numbered in the tens of thousands. This year’s Festival doubled as recruitment to counter the Ugoc threat, clearly. As Dorian glanced around all he saw were hardened, restless bodies. Rust Tribe was one small link in a massive chain of humanity.

At the center of the gathering stood a collection of men and women set apart by their dress. They bore differing colors, presumably representing differing Oases, but each seemed to belong to a different species than the rest of the dwellers of the Desert. These were fine-boned folk clad with unnaturally smooth skin, baring teeth whiter than bone. High-level Vigor Realm fighters who had long since shed the impurities which made up base man.

One stood apart from the rest. White, flowing hair in locks down to his shoulders, wearing a robe of the kind of spotless material which screamed understated wealth. His face was flawless, almost archetypal, as though he’d been assembled from a composite of beautiful faces to form the most uniform of them all. His nose was modest but strong. His jaw jutted just so. There was nothing too much or too little about him. He was ageless and nearly sexless.

Dorian distrusted him on sight.

“We are all now assembled?” He said, making a cursory sweep of the grounds. He spoke with the same lilting dialect that the other representative, Shen, had used to greet Chief Rust. “Good.”

A smile broke across his face. “A warm greeting to you, friends of the desert!”

As he spoke his voice was projected out, though without any trace of qi. It was just the work of his lungs, and it seemed to cost him no effort. He spoke like he was taking a verbal stroll.

“Welcome to the Commencement ceremony for this year’s Midsummer Festival!”

A wave of raucous cheering filled the air, filtering in from all sides. The major tribes, Dorian saw, seemed to cheer the loudest—as though they knew something he didn’t. To his side, Rust and Tuketu gave polite applause. Kuruk looked sulky as usual. Hento stood tall, smiling bright, though Dorian could tell by the tightness in his face that he was a jumble of nerves. Conspicuously absent was Kaya, who was still out cold. She might not wake until the next morning.

The man waited for the cheers to die down, weathering them with an unflinching smile. When at last they did, he spoke again.

“My name is Zhang. I represent the Azcan Oasis, this year’s Festival sponsor.” He closed his eyes, nodding. “I am proud of this rich Desert tradition. It is a time of unity. A time when all us disparate elements of humanity can, for a few nights, set aside our differences and defer the cruelties of the world ‘till the next week. For today, and the days that follow, are a time of celebration!”

Of course, he and his Oasis cohort could set aside the ‘cruelties of the world’ however much they wanted, holed up in their walled cities. The rest of them quite literally weren’t afforded the luxury of sleeping well at night. Other than the few organizers, there didn’t seem to be any of the Oasis folk present. This time his words drew a slightly less enthusiastic reception; it was a little rich to speak of desert wide unity when his people did not care to attend. By his beaming smile, he didn’t seem to notice—or perhaps it was that he didn’t care.

“We shall feast; trade; make merry. This year shall feature all the usual hallmarks of a Festival. But with a key difference.”

His eyes gleamed merrily. “As you all know, we are under threat. Not I. Not merely the Oases. We. The whole of the Western Desert. Perhaps the whole of the Izod Desert. The Ugoc Clan has unified the North. As we speak they sweep East and West.”

Now his eyes narrowed. “They come for us. And they will do nothing so benevolent as merely conquer.” His voice dropped to a whisper, but somehow his words still reverberated across the plains. “Where they go, they raze. They leave tribes aflame, men and women slaughtered. Raped. Discarded. For these are men who do not share the basic decencies of you and I! These are men for whom honor means nothing!”

…Right. As opposed to the morally upright citizens of the Izod Desert. Dorian was no believer in morality, but this was bordering on moronic. One murderous bottom-scrubbing civilization calling another barbarous?

But this Zhang kept speaking, and he had a preacher’s voice. He knew how to modulate his tone, when to raise it to inspiring heights and drop it to fearful, hushed lows; he knew what gestures to make and when to make them. He had all the mechanics of a great speaker save for that elusive, key quality—a connection with his crowd.

He was, after all, one of the elites. He didn’t seem to have made even an effort at empathy. If Dorian was amused by how out-of-touch he seemed it must’ve stuck out sorely to the rest of them. But as he spoke, his words floated into their minds anyways, finding purchase with smooth rhetorical hooks.

“They have gone against the will of the Heavens,” said Zhang. He let the phrase sit for a beat. “They come riding Vordors. They come commanding Wyrms, Endspiders, and all manner of horrid Beasts! Their Techniques spurn the way of nature. These are rank savages, bringing the Beast hordes to bear upon our families! Most of you have heard of their probing incursions already. Some have felt it firsthand. Left unchecked they’ll be the end of us all.”

He put a finger to his lips. “This year’s festival is special. It has always been a time of unity. This year, unity is of special import. The Ugoc hordes are numerous, yes, and strong—but so are we. Scattered we are but easy pickings. But if we each contribute to the defense?” His smile was defiant. “These brutes shall find the West is not to be trifled with.”

The festive mood had been all but stamped out with his words. All that remained was a taut silence. Tribesmen looked to one another, uncertain.

Zhang forged on, still smiling. “Which brings me to a special announcement: the league of Oases is sponsoring an event to promote our desert’s finest martial talents. Alongside this year’s Festival comes a Tournament. The Tournament of Prodigies.”

Who could’ve seen this coming? As hushed whispers sprang out all among them, Dorian rolled his eyes. At last they were getting somewhere.

“Each Tribe shall send their best young talents to participate in a Tournament. As for the prizes, the Oases recognize the severity of the situation. Accordingly we have made little off-limits. Each Oasis shall fund the prizes from their own coffers. What is on offer? Elixirs of heavenly potency. Funds. Access to the extensive vaults of Oasis tomes. Training from the Oases’ most revered experts. For the most promising talents—Spirit Weapons.”

That turned heads. Even Dorian perked up. The rest, especially those vaults, sounded like quite the treat—but Spirit Weapons were another tier entirely. As far as he knew nobody in Rust Tribe had a true Spirit Weapon. If he had to guess, only a handful existed outside the Oases themselves; it must’ve been rare for even the elites in those walled cities. To forge them, the bare minimum was the core of a high-level Profound Beast and an equally high-powered blacksmith to boot. The process itself was fiendish. Usually the creation of one was a once-in-a-decade affair, and each existing Weapon was tracked closely by the forces of the Desert. Most had changed hands tens of times. The legendary ones had their own sobriquets—names like ‘Blood Rose’ or ‘Azure Crescent,’ names which triggered Dorian’s reflexive eye-roll but which were no doubt effective at perpetuating their auras of awe. What separated these Spirit Weapons from the humdrum weapons of ordinary Tribesmen were their soul bonds. Normally, the jurisdiction of a Tribesman’s qi ended at his body; the reason most in the Tribes chose not to wield weaponry was that they simply could not channel qi. Not so with Spirit Weapons. Spirit Weapons bonded to the user’s soul; they became an extension of the user’s will, and with it came a substantial boost to power and skill.

It was through his Spirit Weapon that Dorian had drained Demon King Yama. To nab another--whips or flails, perhaps, to pair with his new qi and Techniques would already establish him as one of the major powers of the desert. Along with some good old-fashioned cultivation to higher Realms, he’d be fully ready to treat this Desert as a stepping-stone to higher places.

Which was all to say that for the first time in Zhang’s speech, Dorian perked up.

“You are all doubtless aware of Festival tradition. Each year we gather, too, to compete in friendly matches of strength, skill, smarts, and prowess. Each year we honor our finest warriors. This year is no different… save for the fact that the best performers will be granted a place at the Tournament.”

He clasped his hands together and dipped his head in a short bow. “Prepare yourselves well, Tribes of the Desert! May your Festival days be filled with joy and victory.”

Dorian’s fists clenched. Yes! Finally, he was getting somewhere. It’d taken two whole weeks, but at last he’d found his launching pad to the top of this hellhole—hopefully out of it. With any luck he’d nab the best treasures and be gone before he even had to contend with the looming threat of the Ugoc.

***

Later that night…

Rust and Tuketu were a grim presence in the command tent that night.

“I don’t like it.”

“I don’t either.”

Tuketu turned to Rust, arms crossed. “What are we to do? Refuse the call? We’ll be crushed under the Ugoc stampede.”

He grinned ruefully. “Let’s face it, old friend. They have us dead to rights.” “It’s obscene,” snarled Rust. His eyes flashed. For a moment he let a trickle of emotion bear him along. “What a blatant power play. The Oases mean to poach our best from under our very noses!”

“Perhaps,” said Tuketu. “Perhaps not. Perhaps they truly do mean to strengthen our forces and forge stronger alliances with the Desert Tribes. We’ve no choice but to trust them.”

“You know those vipers better than that,” said Rust. “Loyalty is but a word to them. They’ll stab us in the back if they had so much as a pittance to gain.”

“If this is a scheme to suck up the best talent, they’ll have earned the ire of the rest of the Western Desert…” Tuketu shrugged. “Strong as they may be, they still rely on us for trade. We need one another.”

Rust shook his head.

“You mean to tell me that if any of our young Chosen is given a taste of Oasis life, they won’t flee for it in an instant?”

They looked at one another in silence. “Then what is your suggestion?” said Tuketu softly. “What are we to do—defy the Oases? Send our second-rate talents, perhaps? It takes but an age test and a cultivation scan to know we’ve cheated them. And besides, perhaps we do stand to gain. The Tribe that wins the Festival gains the prizes, after all…”

Rust stared in stony silence.

“That Io boy,” he said at last. “There’s something off about him.”

Tuketu looked surprised. “Of all our Chosen, him? He’s the least of our worries.” He licked his lips. “I was most impressed with his feast a few days ago. He’s shaping up to be a model Tribesman. What’s your concern?”

For a moment, Rust stood stock-still. “He’s rushing,” he said softly. “He’s moved too fast. Too much. From your observations, the testimony of those who’d seen him before—something does not add up.”

“Sometimes,” said Tuketu with a wry grin, “You think too much. The boy’s had strokes of monstrous luck. He’s got a good head on his shoulders. That’s all there is to it.”

Rust shook his head. “Regardless. In the coming days, if he performs well and he’ll be among the strongest in the Tribe—neck-and-neck with the elite hunters. He’s risen in two weeks to a senior of the Tribe, a position it took us years to earn. This does not concern you?”

“It…does,” said Tuketu. “But not nearly as much as it does you, I imagine.”

He rubbed the bridge of his nose, pinching it with two fingers. “Lately something has felt wrong,” he said softly. “I am not by nature a superstitious man. I make no fuss over feelings. But this has become too much for even me to ignore. Perhaps my gut has picked up on something my brain has missed.”

Rust sighed. “Or perhaps I’m growing senile. Keep a close eye on him. If you see any irregularities—any at all—make certain to report back to me.”