The following morning, Glacien and Pyros departed with Archsage Solarian for the Jade Sanctum, leaving under the reluctant gaze and repeated warnings of their guardians. There was no ceremony, only the quiet sense that something irreversible had begun.
Aurelion did not accompany them.
His spirit had already returned fully to his body, anchoring the seals that kept the three Dragon Kings and the deep-sea horrors suppressed. If his consciousness strayed too long, the bindings would loosen, and the oceans would not forgive such negligence. With his attention fixed inward, command of the region passed entirely to Vexar.
Rowan Mercer stayed behind as well.
He had intended to seek entry into the Iron Front and, if possible, become a direct disciple of Archsage Solarian. But intention alone meant nothing. Before choosing a side, he needed clarity. This world resembled the legends he knew, but it was not the same tapestry. Threads had shifted. Names were wrong. Roles were blurred.
For example, the Iron Front's senior disciple was known as Archsage Solarian now, yet Rowan distinctly remembered a different figure occupying that role in the stories he once studied. And Vexar's words the day before had carried a sharpness beneath the courtesy, as if warning him away without saying so outright.
The waters here were deep. Too deep to wade in blind.
So Rowan chose caution. He would speak with Vexar again, compare what he learned with Archsage Solarian's version of events, and only then decide whether to align himself with the Iron Front or seek another path altogether.
In truth, there was a third option he preferred above all others.
If given a choice, Rowan would rather stand beneath Archsage Solarian's counterpart, the one who walked alone, refined wonders with his own hands, and kept only a single true disciple. Power, protection, and focus all in one place. But that door was all but sealed. That master did not take students lightly, and Rowan was not foolish enough to expect an exception.
With that thought set aside, Rowan rose into the air and landed atop the city wall.
Vexar was already there.
Lightning cracked softly around him as he trained, a barbed thunder-whip snapping through the air again and again. His movements were relentless, precise, stripped of flourish. Even the sea fiends bound nearby to assist his training looked near collapse, scales dull, breath ragged.
Rowan raised his voice, easy and sincere.
"Vexar-san, your discipline puts the rest of us to shame."
The whip dissolved into sparks. Vexar exhaled, then dismissed the weapon entirely. Only then did he turn.
"Training admits no laziness," he said. "Every moment wasted is a step closer to ruin."
Rowan smiled. With a casual gesture, he conjured a table, chairs, and a spread of food and drink that steamed invitingly in the salt air.
"Indulge me for a moment," Rowan said. "I have questions worth the pause."
Vexar hesitated only briefly before sitting. There was a debt between them, unspoken but understood. If this conversation repaid even a fraction of it, he would not refuse.
Rowan poured a cup and offered it.
Vexar pushed it aside. "I no longer drink. Desire dulls judgment."
He did, however, take the food, chewing slowly before speaking.
"Blackscale," he said, using Rowan's alias, "I will be direct. I do not recommend that you join the Iron Front."
Rowan's eyes sharpened. "That's not what I expected to hear."
"Insolence would be easier," Vexar replied. "But you deserve honesty."
He stared at the untouched cup, then suddenly seized it and drained it in one swallow, as if some internal restraint had finally snapped.
"My father was named Shen Zhengdao," Vexar began. "A leopard spirit. Unlike most of our kind, he never fed on humans, never ruled through fear. Before awakening fully, he was raised by a wandering ascetic. Learned restraint. Learned doctrine. Learned hope."
Vexar's voice was steady, but something brittle hid beneath it.
"My father revered the Iron Front. He believed it represented order and salvation. He even established schools across the wild ranges, guiding wandering spirits toward discipline instead of savagery."
He laughed once, quietly.
"His greatest pride was me. When I was accepted into the Iron Front, he believed his life's faith had been rewarded."
Vexar's hands clenched on the table.
"Inside, I learned the truth. No matter how hard I trained, no matter how flawlessly I obeyed, I was never one of them. To my peers, I was a beast pretending to wear human skin."
The worst of it came from above.
The senior disciple, Archsage Solarian, offered him authority. A command. Leadership of a task force meant to 'correct' rogue spirits in the lower realms. On paper, it was mercy. Capture, educate, release.
In reality, it was slaughter.
Most of those taken were harmless. Hermits. Guardians. Creatures who had never harmed a mortal soul. They were refined into resources and distributed quietly to favored disciples.
Vexar did the work. Again and again.
And in return, he received scraps. Less than even the most pampered juniors. Promises were made. None were kept.
"If I had been slower," Vexar said flatly, "I would have been bound myself. Reduced to something obedient. Like Solarian's personal attendants."
His palm slammed into the table.
"I've done unforgivable things. I won't pretend otherwise. But regret doesn't change reality."
He looked directly at Rowan now, eyes burning.
"This world rewards strength alone. If I climb high enough, if I am undeniable, then my brother and the spirits under my protection will never suffer what I did."
Silence settled between them, heavy as the sea below.
Rowan did not interrupt. Some truths demanded to be heard in full.