Clair shifted against the wall, her black hair falling past her shoulders as she let out a breath, gripping the sword that had been limp in her hand a moment ago. Around her, several members of the Scoda Gang lay sprawled across the stone floor. The newer members were worse off—many of them groaning as they clutched wounds caused by the constructs they’d been fighting, which now lay in ruins around the hall.

  The Temple of Tema, the quest had called it. And for something so holy-looking, with the stained glass and all, getting this far had been more of a slaughter than she’d expected.

  “Are you alright, Mistress?” Natalia asked, combing back a strand of hair and slipping her sword into its scabbard.

  The ex-Ravisher’s chest rose and fell with gentle rhythms as she looked from person to person, her gaze seemingly questioning what to do next. Her responsiveness came a beat slower than usual, though. She was clearly tired.

  A groan echoed from somewhere to Clair’s left. Then another. Dust sifted down from the vaulted ceiling in thin grey curtains, catching the errant light that filtered through the temple’s cracked windows. One of the pillars—scored deep by constructs’ claws during the fighting—gave a long, grinding creak. Stone powder puffed from the fractures. The floor trembled beneath Clair’s boots, a subtle vibration that rattled through her knees and up into her chest.

  She didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. The place would hold. It had stood for centuries; it wasn’t about to collapse because of one skirmish.

  What made her jaw tighten, though, was the bracelet on her wrist. She raised it, the bead in the centre flashing once, twice—then projecting a screen into the air before her.

  QUEST COMPLETE.

  Ascension Tickets (x4) and 3,000 Points gained.

  To be distributed among the party.

  It wasn’t an inheritance.

  It wasn’t even close to an inheritance.

  Clair bit back the curse building behind her teeth. Was this really what they had fought for? What her men died for? A few points and tickets to the Ascension Tournament? Whilst it wasn’t bad, per se—tickets were valuable, points were useful—it was not part of the plan. It was not part of what she’d hoped her quest would give her.

  She slumped down, her sword clattering against the stone beside her. Natalia rushed over to support, but Clair raised a hand, fanning the girl away.

  “No need, no need. I’m just catching my breath, is all.”

  The mana circulated through her body in sluggish waves, and she wheezed a little as it moved. She’d need to re-plan now. At first, she’d believed she could get a cultivation technique for Natalia on the lower end—something affordable, functional—with the inheritance making up the bulk of the girl’s growth. But now she’d have to use the points gathered to buy a higher-level technique outright, whilst the girl herself used her own share to outfit herself with an armament that suited her.

  The only cultivation technique she could think of for Natalia, though, was something on the higher end. The Overturning Light technique came to mind—powerful, efficient, fourth space on the list, and one to be coveted. But it didn’t fit the girl’s style at all. Natalia was brash. Less used to calculating, more used to thinking on her feet, reacting on instinct. A technique that required patience like that of a sitting tree would chafe against everything she was.

  It wouldn’t do at all.

  Minutes passed. The groaning faded as her people found their feet, checking wounds, helping each other upright. One by one, they began filing toward the temple’s entrance—a slow procession of battered survivors picking their way through rubble and dust. Clair pushed herself up from the wall and joined them, Natalia falling into step at her shoulder.

  The sunlight hit like a slap after the temple’s gloom. Clair squinted, raising a hand to shield her eyes as she descended the worn stone steps.

  A figure burst from the treeline.

  The runner—one of hers, she recognised the way he moved—sprinted across the clearing, skidding to a halt before her and dropping into a bow so sharp his forehead nearly touched his knee.

  “Mistress! I bring news!”

  Clair’s hand fell from her face. “Speak.”

  “The Collar Gang.” He was breathing hard, the words tumbling out between gasps. “They’ve attacked the Venn Brothers.”

  Clair went still.

  The Venn Brothers?

  She’d only made a deal with them three days ago. Moving the Mana Beast Cores from here in the Amber Forest to the sanctuary outskirts—a simple arrangement, mutually beneficial. The arrangement protected the cores from the raids of those slum dwellers who’d taken banditry in stride, and the Venns would also get a cut for their trouble.

  One reason the Collar Gang had spread as fast as they did was because of the fractured nature of the trial realm. Aside from the nobles, no one really cooperated. No one coordinated. Everyone scrambled for their own little piece of the pie while Bobbie’s men swallowed territory whole.

  Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  And now he’d taken out the Venn Brothers. A powerful arm of the Scoda Gang’s support network in the trial realm. And perhaps future members of the gang itself.

  Clicking her tongue, Clair shook her head, her black hair splaying out behind her.

  This was a problem.

  She turned to the runner. “And do you know where they’ve taken the brothers and their fellows?”

  Shaking his head, the man shifted uncomfortably. “Unfortunately, Miss, I do not have that information. This came to me via a man named Clint. Apparently, he’d been in the area when the brothers came under attack, and thought we should know.”

  “So you paid him,” Natalia said from the side, scoffing. “That little rat squeezed resources out of you. What did you give him?”

  The man wavered for a moment. “One rank one beast core, Miss.”

  Rolling her eyes, Natalia took a step to the side, pacing back and forth.

  Clair could understand the girl’s frustration. Beast cores weren’t easy to come by—not for those at a low cultivation level, anyway. It meant they’d fought a ranked beast and won. To give one up for such little information was annoying, to say the least. Not that the information wasn’t helpful, but they would have found out about the Venn Brothers’ situation, eventually. The trade had been unnecessary.

  Beast cores were becoming a hot commodity within the trial realm as of late, too, which made matters worse. The nobles had all but taken over the sanctuary. To get in and actually use the facilities—facilities they could access several days earlier with little hassle—you now had to pay an entry fee of one beast core. Two, if the nobles didn’t like you.

  Which, if you were of the slum class, was pretty much a given.

  “So what now?” Natalia asked, combing a hand through her hair and resting the other on her hip.

  Turning to her side, Clair searched for Brigand. The large man rested against a boulder at the base of the temple steps. He nodded as she looked to him, on his feet a moment later, rushing over.

  “You need me, Mistress?”

  Brigand often ran security for her in the slums, watching over doors and following his role without complaint. He’d been close to P, and was one of the few men within the Scoda Gang devastated when the young boy had died.

  “Yes. I want to discuss the formation of the group going into the Ascension Tournament.”

  “Now?” Brigand asked, raising a brow. He glanced at the runner, who seemed to understand the implication and nodded.

  “I shall bid you goodbye, Miss. If any more information comes through, I shall return with it.”

  The runner twisted on his heels and sprinted off, deeper into the forest—no doubt keeping out of sight while maintaining his proximity to the group.

  “Yes, I do,” Clair answered after a moment.

  Natalia crossed her arms. “I thought it was just me and you joining.”

  “That was when we had only two tickets.” Clair slipped her hand into her robes and searched for a mana stone, pulling it out and feeling its warmth against her skin. She let it leak into her, the energy swirling through her veins and restoring some of what she’d spent in the temple. “Now we have another four. That’s at least three more who can enter. I want you, Brigand, and two others to participate, whilst I would like to save the remaining one for a guest.”

  “A guest, you say?” Natalia’s eyes narrowed slightly. “And who would that be?”

  The girl could probably guess where Clair was going. It was good that she was keeping up—it saved Clair from having to over-explain herself.

  “I was thinking of inviting the boy. Hector.” She let the name hang in the air for a moment. “He, much like us, loathes the Collar Gang. Any chance to screw them over should appeal to him. I’m thinking of making a deal with him—a trade for a place within the Ascension Tournament.”

  “And what makes you think the boy doesn’t have his own?” Brigand asked, crossing his arms. “Surely he would by now.”

  That was a possibility. Although Clair hadn’t heard much about him, Hector was definitely making progress within the trial realm. There were even rumours of the Clear Sky Mercenaries passing around the minor mercenary groups. Apparently, there had been quite the event several days ago—something to do with the Flamelights—but she hadn’t gotten many details at the time. She hadn’t felt it was worth the stress; what was important would eventually reach her ears.

  “I don’t like it,” Natalia said.

  And that was not a surprise at all. The girl seemed to hate the boy more than a noble hates gutter water. A fight in the dump, when they’d been completely unknown to each other—when Natalia had still been a Ravisher, slaved to the Collar Gang—seemed to have damaged her pride beyond recovery.

  An annoying trait. One that Clair wished the girl could put aside.

  But either way, she would put it aside, through understanding or otherwise. Clair wouldn’t tolerate anything screwing up the Scoda Gang’s chances of securing a significant spot in the tournament and putting it to the Collar Gang.

  Though really, it was part of the bigger mission her house had assigned to her. It was crucial that the Collar Gang not make any big steps within this realm.

  —- —- —- —-

  What a weak boy. Was everything he had ever learnt truly ruined?

  Dale stepped aside, moving past an overly clumsy jab from Carter. The form was still there—a normal person might not even notice—but within his eyes, Carter was sluggish. Predictable.

  He struck out with five fierce blows. The disappointment dodged the first two. The last three hit Carter in the gut, chest, and face, staggering him back a few steps with a pained yelp.

  “Haven’t you been training since your brief foray into the Collar Gang, Carter?”

  His one-time rival and fellow disciple scoffed, feet crunching onto the grass as the light midday wind tousled his messy hair.

  It would have been a proud sight, a few years ago. The two of them exploring a new realm together, sparring in such an open space.

  Now, it just felt like a chore.

  Murmurs drifted from the sidelines—a murmured commentary that Dale caught in fragments. The slum dwellers he’d recruited shifted on their feet, elbowing each other, whispering observations about footwork and form. A few of them weren’t half bad themselves, actually. Sharp eyes. Good instincts. And the commoners among them—three he’d snagged—watched with focused attention that spoke of formal training, however basic. That pleased him. If Carter couldn’t hold up, surely there’d be another amongst them he could replace.

  There was always someone better.

  “You’ve got no idea what I’ve been through, Dale.” Carter’s voice came out ragged, half-snarl. “You and the master both think life is so simple. But all you do is sit in the dojo and wait.”

  “I did not come here to argue with you, Carter. Only to spar.” Dale rolled his shoulders, settling back into his stance. “You asked that of me, and so that is what I shall do. Now—come.”

  Carter charged.

  His feet thudded against the packed earth, arms pumping, fists cocking back for a punch that telegraphed itself from a mile away. Dale shifted left—the blow whistled past his ear, close enough to feel the displaced air—and circled, watching. Testing. Carter pivoted, threw a combination: jab, cross, hook. The form was there. But diluted. Pathetic.

  The finesse that used to flow through Carter’s movements like water through a riverbed had turned sluggish. Stagnant. His punches landed in the right places but lacked the snap they’d once carried, the explosive transfer of weight that had made him dangerous.

  The slums had done this. The Collar Gang had done this. Dulled him down to something... serviceable.