The Black Estate towered like a fortress over the Seventh Continent's capital, its shadow stretching across the obsidian walls and white stone streets of Noxium City. But inside its polished halls, shadows whispered in human form.
Jareth walked them alone.
No escorts. No declarations. Just silence.
Servants bowed from a distance, their eyes betraying a storm of recognition and caution. They had seen his return, felt the weight of the qi he summoned, and watched the expressions of the elders fracture like shattered glass.
He wasn't just back.
He was dangerous.
The estate's interior was a labyrinth of polished blackstone, subtle runes etched into the walls to suppress or amplify cultivation energy based on access rank. These walls had seen generations of betrayal, succession, and bloodshed and they would see more.
A silent shadow peeled from one corridor and moved alongside Jareth without a word. She was short, deadly, and hooded in midnight silk. The only servant who had stayed loyal.
"Welcome home, Young Master," she said, not looking at him.
"Home implies warmth, Ayaka."
She chuckled. "Then we can call it what it is. A throne of daggers."
He stopped at the central lift, a floating circular platform lined with sigil anchors.
"I assume the meetings have already begun?" he asked.
Ayaka nodded. "The Inner Table was summoned the moment your core flared. Your uncle is speaking on your behalf."
Jareth stepped onto the platform. "Then we should join them. I'd rather speak for myself."
The lift surged upward, air humming with force. Below them, the estate's spires disappeared in a blur. At the peak, in the Hall of Command, the real games were played.
---
The council room was shaped like a half-moon, with seven obsidian thrones facing inward and an elevated dais where the Patriarch's throne sat empty.
Marrek stood before the seated elders, his voice tight, calculated.
"…and so I argue that while Jareth's core is impressive, we cannot yet confirm its stability, its connection to any realm, or its potential. To declare him heir prematurely"
The door opened.
Every head turned.
Jareth entered without hesitation, cloak trailing behind him. Ayaka took her place behind him like a shadow becoming one with the walls.
Jareth didn't bow.
He didn't acknowledge his uncle.
Instead, his eyes scanned the seated members of the Black family's Inner Table.
There was Elder Voku, the war strategist with half his face replaced by steel grafts. Mistress Enira, who ran the intelligence division and was likely already studying his blood samples. And then Elder Malen, a cultivator whose beard was older than some continents.
He stopped in the center.
"You speak about me like I'm not in the room," he said.
Marrek's expression curdled, but his voice remained calm. "You interrupt a private session of the family's core leadership."
"I am the core now."
Gasps rippled around the chamber. Jareth raised his hand and summoned his core.
The chamber dimmed as the SSS-ranked core flared to life again. Denser now. Pulsing with a frequency that made the elder thrones buzz with suppressed force. Even the protective runes in the walls shimmered under the strain.
Voku narrowed his eyes. "Where did you awaken this core?"
"Where I was sent to die," Jareth said. "And now I've returned with the very thing you all crave."
Enira leaned forward. "And what is it that you crave, child?"
He smiled. "Power. And the Black Throne."
Marrek stepped in. "He's bold, but unstable. Let the patriarch decide..."
"The patriarch is dying," Jareth cut in. "And everyone here knows it. He's been hooked to life-sustaining arrays for months. You're just waiting for the last breath to strike."
The room stilled.
Enira arched an eyebrow. "Then let us be clear. Are you declaring your claim to the succession?"
Jareth nodded once. "I am."
Voku's mechanical eye whirred. "Then prove it. Not just with cultivation. Show us vision. Command. You will be given a domain. A city near the border of the Ashen Straits. Develop it. Make it rise. If you succeed, you will earn your seat."
Marrek smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "You'll be sent to Ashveil. A dying trade hub plagued by rebels, with a ruined core array. You'll have no reinforcements. No funds. No respect. If you fail, your core dies with your ambition."
Jareth shrugged. "Then I'll turn Ashveil into a beacon so bright it casts a shadow over this throne."
---
Hours later, in his private chambers, Jareth stood before a digital map of the continent. Ayaka leaned against the far wall, arms folded.
"You realize this is a trap," she said. "Ashveil is a graveyard."
"All traps are. Until the predator turns them into hunting grounds."
"You'll need more than words."
He nodded. "Which is why I'll need her."
Ayaka frowned. "Her?"
Jareth flicked his fingers across the map. A glowing profile expanded: tactical reports, battle simulations, cultivation data, academic scores.
Name: Sera Wynne
Status: Civilian. Unauthorized cultivator. Intelligence flagged her for core manipulation violations.
Talent: Unknown. Cultivation path: Variant
Ayaka narrowed her eyes. "She's an anomaly. Half the data on her is redacted."
"Exactly. Which means she's either a failed experiment or a hidden weapon. Either way, she's useful."
"And if she refuses?"
Jareth smirked. "Then I'll give her a reason not to."
---
At the edge of the Seventh Continent, where shattered towers rose like broken fingers, a young woman with silver-streaked braids stared into a forge of blue flame.
Sera Wynne's eyes narrowed.
She had seen the reports. Heard the name.
Jareth Black had returned.
And if he came to Ashveil, so would the war.