The battlefield still smoldered as dawn broke over Ebonreach. Smoke curled into the sky, the scent of burned stone and scorched flesh lingering in the cold air. The first strike had been repelled, but at what cost?
Ren stood atop the shattered fortress walls, his grip tightening around Voidfang as he surveyed the damage. Hundreds of his warriors lay dead. The Divine Heralds had been forced to retreat, but they had left destruction in their wake.
Behind him, Mira approached, her armor stained with blood—some hers, most not. "We pushed them back," she said, "but they'll return. Stronger."
Ren nodded, his jaw clenched. "Which means we don't wait for them."
Draven strode up, wiping his daggers clean. "The people are scared, Ren. They saw us push back the gods, but they also saw how close we were to being wiped out." His tone was blunt, but Ren could hear the underlying concern. If the people lost faith, the war was over before it even began.
Ren took a deep breath. He needed allies. The gods would not stop at just sending Heralds. Next time, it could be an Avatar or worse—a direct divine intervention. Ebonreach could not stand alone.
Seeking Strength
Ren gathered his advisors in the war hall, the great stone chamber still bearing scars from the recent battle. The map of the continent lay before them, marked with the names of kingdoms, sects, and factions.
"We need reinforcements," Ren said, placing a hand over the western territories. "The Cultivator Clans of Xianzhou, the Mage Guilds of Vareth, and the Beast Tribes of the Howling Wastes. They all hold power that could match the gods' forces."
Mira crossed her arms. "The Cultivator Clans despise outsiders. The Mage Guilds only care for their own power. And the Beast Tribes? They'll tear us apart before they listen."
Draven smirked. "So, just another day for us."
Ren allowed himself a small smile. Impossible tasks were nothing new to him.
"We don't need all of them," Ren said. "Just enough to tip the balance." He turned to Mira. "The Cultivator Clans respect strength. We send a challenge—if I can defeat their strongest, they'll listen."
Mira exhaled sharply but nodded.
Ren turned to Draven. "The Mages value knowledge. We offer them something even they don't have—fragments of the ancient ruins we salvaged. Forbidden magic."
Draven's grin widened. "Now that's a deal they won't refuse."
Finally, Ren looked at Kael, his beast master. "The Beast Tribes… We don't negotiate. We tame."
Kael grinned, cracking his knuckles. "I've always wanted a royal wyvern."
Ren stood straight. It was risky, but they had no choice. If they remained alone, they would be destroyed.
"Three paths. Three chances to survive," he said. "We don't wait for the gods to strike again. We make the first move."
The First Faction: The Cultivator Clans
Ren rode with a small force toward the eastern mountains, where the legendary Cultivator Clans of Xianzhou resided. They lived by the sword, by the Dao, and by the strength of their souls. Outsiders were not welcome.
The moment Ren and his warriors crossed into their territory, they were surrounded. Figures in flowing robes and golden armor appeared from the mist, their blades humming with energy.
An elder with a long silver beard stepped forward, his sharp gaze locking onto Ren. "You do not belong here, outlander."
Ren dismounted, meeting the elder's gaze without fear. "I challenge your strongest."
A murmur spread through the gathered cultivators. The elder's expression did not change. "And if you lose?"
Ren smirked. "Then I die. But if I win, you listen."
A slow, approving nod. "Very well."
From the ranks of the cultivators, a warrior stepped forward—a man wreathed in lightning, his cultivation radiating power.
Ren took a deep breath, gripping Voidfang. This was only the beginning.