Lian's nights had become a ritual of quiet intensity, the kind that settled deep in the bones and sharpened the mind like a blade against whetstone.
The forbidden book no longer gathered dust under his bed; it was his constant companion, its filthy, burnt pages handled with a reverence born of both temptation and caution. Every evening, after the academy's floodlights dimmed and the distant hum of training yards faded, he would sit cross-legged on the floor of his dorm room, the single lamp casting long shadows across the walls. He read slowly, deliberately, tracing the faded ink with his scarred fingers, committing each ritual, each diagram, each warning to memory.
The Harvest Path was not mere brutality—it was a calculated science of theft. The eyes of a fallen cultivator, if consumed within moments of death, granted fragments of their perceptual Qi: the ability to see meridian flows in real time, to anticipate strikes before muscle twitched, to pierce through illusions as if they were mist. The heart, the most prized, held the condensed core essence; devouring it could shatter realm barriers in days, stealing slivers of the victim's talent and widening one's own dantian like forcing open a rusted gate. Lesser organs offered lesser gifts—liver for tireless endurance, brain for sudden bursts of technique comprehension—but the warnings were etched in frantic scrawl: mismatched souls clashed like fire and ice, rejection burned from within, and the act itself left a trace that drew the Reapers, those silent enforcers of galactic taboo.
Lian understood the temptation intimately.
He would use it.
Not today.
Not tomorrow.
But when the moment arrived—when a worthy target presented itself, someone whose power would serve his revenge, someone whose death would echo the emptiness Harlan left—he would be ready.
Preparation began in earnest.
That very night, after a particularly grueling session with Elara where their blades had sung silently through the air in perfect synchrony, Lian slipped out of the academy gates. The silver badge on his jacket granted him unrestricted passage; the guards barely glanced at him now, their eyes holding the wary respect reserved for the Scarred Ghost.
He descended into the underlevels of Nova Prime City, where the gleaming spires gave way to labyrinthine markets bathed in neon haze and the acrid tang of forge smoke. The crowds here were rougher—Korrak haulers with scaled muscles glistening under work lamps, Nethari engineers with chitin clicking as they bartered parts, Vorani informants whispering in shadowed corners.
He moved with purpose, hood pulled low, void eyes scanning for tails. None followed.
First, he found a discreet aug-smithy tucked behind a Gromek-run scrapyard. The owner, a massive rock-like being with crystalline growths pulsing faint blue, asked no questions when Lian slid credits across the counter. The item he requested was delivered wrapped in black cloth: a beautiful aug coffin, compact yet exquisitely crafted. Sleek matte alloy, seamless design, internal stasis field calibrated to preserve biological material indefinitely—organs viable, Qi essence intact. Expensive enough to drain half his academy stipend, but worth it. The Gromek sealed it in a plain carrier case, no markings.
Next came the chains—titanium links so thin they could pass for jewelry, yet reinforced with precursor runes that suppressed Qi flow on contact. Silent magnetic locks, unbreakable without specific resonance key he kept on his pendant. Bought from a shady Mechari vendor who dealt in restraint gear for bounty hunters.
Then the tools: a monomolecular scalpel with vibration dampeners for soundless cuts, precision forceps, sterile vials etched with containment runes, and a portable cauldron—small enough to fit in a backpack, forged from precursor alloy that heated without flame or smoke.
Each purchase separate.
Different districts.
Different vendors.
Paths doubled back, alleys twisted.
No trail.
He returned to the academy near dawn, carrier case slung over shoulder like ordinary supplies.
Hidden compartment under dorm floor—dug wider.
Coffin.
Chains.
Tools.
Book beside.
All ready.
For the right time.
Three days later, routine shifted.
A silver-robed messenger knocked early.
"Principal Vaeloria requests you. Immediately."
Lian followed through marble halls, past curious student glances.
The office grand—high windows over city, holo displays floating.
Vaeloria waited behind desk.
Alone.
Silver hair immaculate.
Eyes piercing.
Holo projected massive arena—tiered seats for thousands, multiple rings, energy barriers shimmering.
"Stellar Youth Tournament," she said direct.
"Inter-sector."
"Three months away."
"Top academies compete."
"Individual and team events."
"Scouts from clans, corporations, hidden sects."
"Prizes immense—relics, manuals, elixirs, direct realm aids."
"Winner prestige opens doors."
She leaned forward.
"You join."
"Represent us."
"Benefit huge."
"Resources."
"Exposure."
"Growth under pressure."
He thought brief.
Tournament—strong opponents.
Life-death feel.
Breakthroughs likely.
Eyes on him.
Possible harvest target.
Or lead to killers.
He nodded.
"Agree."
Vaeloria's faint smile.
"Good."
"Special preparation."
"Team optional—you solo focus."
"Train as you wish."
"Resources open."
He left.
Back to yard.
Elara waited.
Told her.
She nodded.
"Strong foes."
"Grow fast."
Sparred harder that night.
Words more.
He opened slight.
About preparations hidden.
Not details.
Just readiness.
She understood.
No questions.
Trust absolute.
The coffin waited.
Chains gleamed.
Book secrets burned mind.
Tournament coming.
Power needed.
The chain echoed.
Silence sharper.
He trained.
Prepared.
For competition.