Liam''s Perspective


    The world was against me, and I had no one to me but myself.


    I stared at my phone screen, watching as my third attempt to post the truth about Michael Ashworth''s death disappeared within seconds. The censorship was absolute. Every word I wrote vanished almost instantly, reced by more of Dashiell''s propaganda.


    "Murderer," "criminal," "delusional stalker"—thebels piled higher each day.


    My notification bell chimed. Another message from Dashiell ckthorne himself:


    "Enjoying the show, Knight? This is what real power looks like. Not your parlor tricks and stolen techniques."


    I clenched my jaw so hard my teeth ached. Dashiell was taunting me directly now, reveling in his control of the narrative.


    "What''s wrong? Can''t get your side of the story out? Poor thing."


    I typed back furiously: "Keep talking while you still can."


    His reply came secondster: "Big words from a dead man walking. You know what''s funny? I could have you found and killed tomorrow if I wanted. But where''s the spectacle in that? No, I want all of Veridia to witness your humiliation."


    I scoffed. "You just don''t want to fight me without an audience to save you when things go wrong."


    "Half-step Martial Marquis versus peak Master. Do you even understand the gap between us? I could kill you with a finger."


    That gap haunted my nights. The pill from Mariana sat untouched in my pouch. I needed perfect conditions to use it effectively, but time was running short.


    "See you at your wedding," I wrote, then turned off my phone before he could respond.


    The tiny room I''d rented on the outskirts of Unchon City offered littlefort. Just a bed, a table, and enough space to practice basic forms. Not enough for real cultivation.


    I sat cross-legged on the floor, trying to center myself. The Nine Secrets Jackson had taught me held immense potential, but mastering even one took extraordinary focus.


    A knock at my door shattered my concentration.


    I moved silently to the peephole. A young boy stood outside, nervous and fidgeting.


    "Message for you, sir," he called out, sensing my presence.


    I cracked the door. "From who?"


    "A man at the docks. Said it''s urgent." He thrust a folded paper at me, then bolted.


    I unfolded the note carefully: "They''re gathering tonight. Unchon riverbank. Sunset. Come if you want to know your enemies."


    No signature. No exnation. Just an invitation to what could easily be a trap.


    I checked the time. Two hours until sunset. Just enough to prepare.


    ***


    The riverbank stretched long and empty in the fading light. I concealed myself in the shadow of a boathouse, my qipressed to near invisibility, a technique I''d learned from Jackson''s third secret. <em ss="phantom-imprint">N&e+e+d! ch%a*racter+ sh^ee%t#s! and g-lo&s%sa%r$i#e+s%? Vi$s$it# *.-</em>


    If this was a trap, they''d find me ready.


    For nearly an hour, nothing happened. The sun dipped below the horizon, painting the water blood red. Then, as darkness fell, they began to arrive.


    First came a tall woman in flowing silver robes, her face obscured by a veil. She moved with predatory grace, each step gliding over the earth as if gravity held no sway over her.


    Next, a burly man with a beard that reached his waist. He carried no visible weapons, but the ground seemed to tremble as he walked.


    One by one, they gathered. Ten, then fifteen figures formed a loose circle near the water''s edge. Some I recognized from reputation alone—legends of the martial world, many unseen in public for years.


    "Orion Valois," I whispered, spotting the infamous assassin known as the Ghost Hand. Rumor held he could kill without leaving a mark, extracting the soul directly from his victims.


    Another figure made my blood run cold: Kael Westwood, eldest son of the Westwood family. He''d mastered the Iron Body technique to such a degree that even Martial Grandmasters struggled to harm him.


    I''d known I had powerful enemies, but this gathering exceeded my worst fears. Each person present could kill me with minimal effort. Together, they represented a force that even Martial Marquises would hesitate to cross.


    A young man stepped forward, his arrogance unmistakable even at a distance. "Why are we waiting? Knight is obviously noting. Let''s hunt him down now!"


    Orion Valoisughed softly. "Patience, young Bryce. The prey is sweetest when properly cornered."


    Bryce Osborne—I''d heard that name before. He imed to be Jackson Harding''s disciple, though Jackson had never mentioned him to me.


    "This public charade is beneath us," a cold voice cut through the night. "ckthorne''s publicity stunt serves no purpose except his own vanity."


    "You mistake the strategy, Kendrick," said a woman I couldn''t identify. "The public usations are merely the. We are the spear."


    Kendrick Langley—the name sent a chill down my spine. Not for hisbat prowess, which was considerable, but for his mastery of death formations. He could turn a simple room into a killing ground with a few well-ced talismans.


    "The boy has techniques from the stairway to heaven," said Orion, his voice emotionless. "That alone justifies our involvement."


    So that was it. Not Dashiell''s lies about Michael''s death, not even my challenge to the ckthorne family. They wanted what I''d learned from the stairway.


    "Is the reward sufficient?" asked a stooped old man.


    "Three million spirit stones each, plus exclusive ess to Knight''s techniques once extracted," replied Kael Westwood. "Dashiell ckthorne is many things, but cheap isn''t one of them."


    Three million spirit stones. More wealth than most martial artists saw in a lifetime. And all they had to do was deliver me—alive but not necessarily intact—to Dashiell.


    Bryce Osborneughed sharply. "You''re all overthinking this. Knight is nothing special. I could take him alone."


    "Is that why you''re here in a group, brave warrior?" Kendrick''s tone dripped with sarcasm.


    "I''m here for the reward, old man. Why waste my techniques on trash?"


    Kendrick''s eyes narrowed. "Perhaps a demonstration is in order."


    Before anyone could intervene, Kendrick flicked his wrist. Five small stones flew from his hand,nding in a perfect pentagon around Bryce.


    "What—" Bryce began, but his words died as the stones glowed crimson.


    I watched in horrified fascination as the air within the pentagon shimmered. Bryce clutched his throat, his face contorting in panic. Blood leaked from his eyes, ears, nose—every orifice.


    "Death Formation: Blood Boiling Sky," Kendrick stated calmly. "Quite painful, I''m told."


    Just as Bryce seemed about to copse, Orion stepped forward. "Enough posturing. Release him."


    Kendrick sighed but waved his hand. The stones went dark, and Bryce dropped to his knees, gasping.


    "Remember, young man," Kendrick said softly, "there is always someone better. Always."


    The demonstration left no doubt—these were not people to be underestimated. Each possessed power far beyond my current reach, and they were all hunting me.


    "Let us reconvene in three days," Orion finally said. "By then, our prey will have moved. We must coordinate our search patterns."


    "Agreed," said Kael Westwood. "Knight cannot have gone far. The tightens."


    The group dispersed slowly, melting into the darkness with the casual ease of predators certain of their next meal. I remained frozen in my hiding spot, barely daring to breathe until thest footstep faded.


    All except one. Bryce Osborne lingered by the riverbank, seemingly checking that he was alone.


    Then, to my utter shock, he reached up and removed what appeared to be a hat—but proved to be much more. His entire face shimmered and changed, the arrogant features of Bryce Osborne transforming into the familiar face of Eamon Greene.


    "Damn, that was close," he muttered, wiping sweat from his brow. "Scared me to death."


    I stared in disbelief as the man who had been supposedly crushed by Dashiell''s forces stood alone on the riverbank, having infiltrated the very group sent to hunt me down.


    Why was Eamon there? And more importantly—whose side was he really on?