The third morning of the Autumn Festival dawned with a deceptive stillness. The bruised clouds of the previous day had vanished, replaced by a sky of piercing, crystalline blue. To the citizens of Thousand Blade City, it was the perfect weather for the final day of the Grand Tournament. To Blake Harrison, however, the air felt thin and cold, as if the world itself were a sheet of glass stretched to the breaking point.
He spent the morning in the infirmary, not as a patient, but to check on the young alchemist's brother as he had promised. The building was quiet, the air thick with the sharp tang of eucalyptus and boiled roots.
"He's stabilizing, Master Blake," Sila whispered, her eyes red-rimmed from lack of sleep but glowing with a profound, desperate gratitude. "The essence... it cleared his lungs. The healers say he will live."
Blake nodded, his expression unreadable. He reached into his belt pouch and placed a small stack of silver coins on the table. "Make sure he has what he needs to recover. Don't let your family fall into such desperation again. If you have trouble, come to me directly."
"I don't know how to thank you," she stammered, bowing low.
"By being a credit to the clan," Blake said simply.
He left the infirmary, the weight of the girl's gratitude lingering in his mind. It was a strange sensation—power used not to crush, as he had used it against Garrett Hawthorne, but to mend. He walked back toward his quarters to prepare for the final match, but his path was blocked by a group of senior disciples who were hanging crimson lanterns along the corridor.
"Master Blake!" one of them called out, a youth named Leo who had always been a few steps behind Blake in training. "Are you ready to finish the Valerians today? After what you did to the 'Iron Son,' the whole city is betting on you."
"The Valerian champion is Elias's older brother, Julian," Blake reminded them. "He's at the peak of the 6th Layer. He won't be as easy to rattle as Garrett."
"He's just a fancy fencer," Leo laughed. "You have the Sterling Gale and that internal force of yours. You're the hero of the hour!"
Blake gave a polite nod and moved past them. He didn't feel like a hero. He felt like a man walking a narrow tightrope. The closer he got to the summit of his goals, the more he felt the precariousness of his position.
In his room, he found his ceremonial armor laid out on the bed. It was a masterpiece of the Sterling forges: leather boiled in dragon-oak oil, reinforced with plates of shimmering white jade. It was light, durable, and cost more than a merchant's mansion. Beside it lay a new sword, its hilt wrapped in silver wire and a small emerald set in the pommel.
"A gift from the Clan Head," a voice said from the doorway.
Blake turned to see his father, Thomas. He was dressed in his full military regalia, his expression unusually somber. He walked into the room and closed the door behind him.
"You look troubled, Father," Blake said, picking up the new sword. The balance was perfect—better than his practice blade.
"It's a heavy day," Thomas replied, sitting on the edge of a chair. "The tournament final is just the beginning. The betrothal announcement tonight... it changes the political landscape of the entire region. The Hawthornes are humiliated after your win over Garrett. The Valerians are nervous. We are at our most powerful, Blake, but that also means we are the biggest target."
"I'm ready for the target," Blake said, sheathing the sword.
Thomas looked at his son, his eyes tracing the lines of Blake's face. "You've grown up so fast. It feels like only yesterday I was teaching you how to hold a wooden stick in the dirt. Now, you're the pride of the clan. I just want you to remember... the clan is a great machine, but you are a human being. Don't lose yourself in the gears."
"I won't," Blake promised.
"Good. Now, get dressed. The procession leaves in an hour. This is the last time you'll walk as a mere disciple. Tomorrow, you'll be a Lord-to-be."
The procession to the arena was the most grand yet. Drums thundered from the manor walls, and the Sterling warriors marched in lockstep, their armor gleaming like a river of silver. Blake rode a white stallion, flanked by Jazmin and his father. The city streets were a sea of people, their cheers so loud they drowned out the music.
When they reached the arena, the atmosphere was electric. The finals were the crowning jewel of the festival. The City Lord was already in his seat, and the representatives of the Great Houses were gathered in their respective boxes, their faces masks of formal politeness.
Blake stepped onto the sand for the final time. Across from him stood Julian Valerian. Julian was elegant, his movements characterized by a cold, clinical precision. He held a long, slender rapier that seemed to vibrate with a faint, blue light—a sign of his refined internal energy.
"Blake Harrison," Julian said, his voice smooth and cultured. "You performed a miracle against the Hawthorne brute. But the 6th Layer of the Valerians is not built on muscle. It is built on the flow of the world. You will find that I am much harder to hit."
The gong sounded, its deep resonance signaling the start of the final battle.
Julian moved instantly. He didn't charge; he glided. His rapier was a blur of silver, unleashing a dozen stabs in the span of a breath. Blake was forced back, his new sword clashing against the rapier with a series of high-pitched pings.
Julian was right—he was different from Garrett. Where Garrett was a wall, Julian was the wind. Every time Blake tried to counter, Julian was already elsewhere, his blade snaking in from an unexpected angle. Blake felt the sting of a shallow cut on his cheek, then another on his forearm.
The crowd was hushed, captivated by the technical brilliance of the fight.
Blake narrowed his focus. He could feel the 5th-layer energy in his marrow, pulsing in response to the pressure. He stopped trying to chase Julian's speed. He closed his eyes for a fraction of a second, relying on the sensitivity he had developed during the Marrow-Refining process. He felt the displacement of air, the vibration of Julian's footsteps on the sand.
Julian lunged for a finishing strike aimed at Blake's throat.
Blake didn't parry with his sword. He pivoted his body, the rapier whistling past his ear, and reached out with his left hand. His fingers, reinforced by his internal tempering, clamped down on the side of Julian's blade.
The cold blue light of the rapier flared, burning Blake's palm, but he didn't let go.
"What?" Julian gasped, his elegant composure breaking.
"Speed is a shadow," Blake said, his voice low and steady. "But shadows can be stepped on."
Blake pulled the rapier, throwing Julian off balance, and delivered a shoulder-check fueled by the full weight of his 5th-layer momentum. Julian was sent reeling. Before he could recover his stance, Blake was upon him, the silver edge of his new sword held at Julian's chest.
The Valerian champion looked at the blade, then at Blake's burnt, bleeding hand. He saw the cold determination in the boy's eyes and knew the match was over.
"I... I yield," Julian whispered.
The arena exploded into a riot of noise. People were jumping over the railings, the Sterling disciples were roaring, and the banners of the Sterling House were being waved frantically.
"Winner of the Grand Tournament: Blake Harrison!"
Blake stood in the center of the cheering masses, his chest heaving. He looked up at the Sterling box. His father was standing, his arms crossed, a look of profound relief on his face. Jazmin was radiant, blowing him a kiss. Even Silas Sterling, the Clan Head, was standing, acknowledging the victory with a majestic nod.
As Blake left the sands, he was nearly mobbed. He was hurried through the tunnels back to the staging area, where healers immediately began tending to his burnt hand.
"A small price for such a victory," Elder Marcus said, appearing in the doorway. "The City Lord is impressed. The marriage contract will be finalized within the hour. You have done more for this house in three days than most do in three decades."
"Thank you, Elder," Blake said, his hand wrapped in cooling bandages.
The return to the manor was a victory parade. The entire city seemed to follow them back to the gates. The evening feast was set to be the grandest event in the history of the Sterling Clan. The gardens were lit with thousands of floating lanterns, and the long tables were overflowing with delicacies from across the continent.
Blake was ushered to his quarters to change into his formal betrothal robes—deep crimson silk with silver embroidery. As he dressed, he felt a strange sense of finality. This was it. The goal he had been working toward since he was a child was finally here.
He stepped out onto his balcony, looking down at the celebration below. He could see Jazmin in her own crimson gown, surrounded by the daughters of other noble houses. She looked like a queen.
"Master Blake?"
He turned to see Vance standing in the shadows of the room. The guard looked worse than he had the previous night. His face was gaunt, and his hands were shaking uncontrollably.
"Vance? What are you doing here? You should be at the feast."
"I... I can't," Vance stammered, his eyes darting toward the door. "Master Blake, you have to listen to me. I was reassigned to the 'Black Cell' archives. I saw things... ledgers... names."
"What are you talking about?" Blake stepped toward him, his brow furrowed.
"The Harrisons... your father... they're not what you think," Vance whispered, his voice cracking. "The Sterling Elders, they've been—"
Suddenly, the door to Blake's room was thrown open. A group of senior Sterling enforcers, led by a man named Captain Dravis, stepped inside. Their faces were grim, their hands on their weapons.
"Vance," Dravis said, his voice like iron. "You were ordered to stay in your quarters. You are under arrest for the theft of clan documents."
Vance shrieked and tried to bolt for the balcony, but Dravis was faster. He caught the guard by the throat and slammed him against the wall.
"Wait!" Blake shouted. "What documents? What is he talking about?"
Dravis looked at Blake, his expression softening only slightly. "Do not trouble yourself with this, Master Blake. This man has lost his mind to the wine and the pressure of the festival. He has been spreading lies about the Harrison lineage to stir up trouble between our houses."
"Lies?" Blake asked, his heart beginning to thud against his ribs.
"Baseless rumors meant to undermine tonight's ceremony," Dravis said, signaling his men to drag Vance away. "The Clan Head has ordered his immediate detention. Please, finish your preparations. The ceremony begins in twenty minutes."
Vance struggled as they dragged him out, his muffled screams echoing in the hallway. Blake stood in the center of his room, the festive music from the garden filtering through the window. He looked at his bandaged hand, then at the crimson robes he wore.
The "Black Cell" archives were where the clan kept its most secret records—the dark history that allowed the Sterlings to maintain their power. What could Vance have possibly seen that would terrify him so much? And why would it involve the Harrison name?
Blake shook his head, trying to clear his mind. It's the pressure, he told himself. The stress of the tournament. People are always jealous of success. They want to tear us down on our big night.
He took a deep breath, straightened his silks, and walked out of the room.
The Great Hall was a cathedral of light and sound. The twelve Elders were in their positions, and the Clan Head sat on his throne. Blake's father was standing to the side, looking pale but resolute.
As Blake entered, the music stopped. Every eye in the room turned toward him. He walked down the center aisle, his footsteps echoing on the marble. He stopped before the throne and bowed.
Jazmin was brought forward from the opposite side, her hand held by her mother. She stepped up beside Blake, her eyes shining with triumph.
Silas Sterling rose, a massive scroll in his hands. "Citizens! Elders! Today, we unite the twin pillars of our strength. Today, Blake Harrison and Jazmin Sterling are bound by blood and vow. Let the contract be read!"
The ceremony began—a long, formal recitation of lineages and land-rights. Blake stood perfectly still, his gaze fixed on the Clan Head. He should have felt elation. He should have felt the thrill of victory. But as the words washed over him, he couldn't stop thinking about the look of pure, unadulterated terror in Vance's eyes.
He glanced at his father. Thomas was staring at the floor, his hands clenched behind his back so tightly that his knuckles were white.
"And now," Silas Sterling proclaimed, his voice filling the hall. "The final seal. Blake Harrison, step forward."
Blake took a step toward the throne. Silas held out a silver bowl filled with clear spring water. "A drop of your blood to seal the covenant between the Harrison spirit and the Sterling soul."
Blake took the small ritual dagger. He looked at Jazmin, who nodded encouragingly. He pressed the blade to his thumb.
A single drop of crimson blood fell into the water.
Instead of dispersing, the blood stayed together, swirling into a dark, pulsing knot. The water in the bowl began to turn a deep, sickly grey.
The hall went silent. The Elders leaned forward, their faces twisted in confusion. Silas Sterling's eyes narrowed, his grip tightening on the bowl.
"What is this?" the Clan Head whispered, his voice trembling with a sudden, sharp fury.
Blake looked at the water, his heart skipping a beat. "I... I don't know."
Silas threw the bowl to the ground, the grey water splashing across the white marble. He looked at Thomas Harrison, his face contorted with rage.
"Thomas! You told me the blood was pure! You told me the Harrison lineage was untainted!"
Thomas fell to his knees, his head bowed. "Clan Head... please... the boy has no knowledge... he is a genius... his strength is real!"
"Strength is nothing if the origin is rotten!" Silas roared. He turned his gaze back to Blake, and for the first time, Blake saw not pride, but a cold, murderous disgust. "Guards! Seize the Harrisons! The ceremony is void!"
"What?" Jazmin shrieked, backing away from Blake as if he were a leper. "Grandfather, what are you saying?"
"He is a fake!" Silas screamed. "A shadow-spawn! The blood does not lie!"
Before Blake could even reach for his sword, a dozen enforcers were upon him. He tried to resist, his 5th-layer energy flaring, but he was surrounded by 6th and 7th-layer masters. A heavy blow struck the back of his neck, and the world of Thousand Blade City, with all its gold and glory, dissolved into blackness.