Chapter 35 - Ambush

The caravan moves at a steady pace, the rhythmic creaking of wooden wheels blending with the soft murmur of merchants and guards. De-Reece walks along the side, his senses extended beyond what the eye can see. Solar remains a silent shadow at his side, golden-violet eyes sweeping over the surrounding terrain.

For the first few miles, the road remains uneventful. Sparse trees line the path, their branches swaying gently in the evening wind. The Iron Fang Trading Company maintains a disciplined march, their mercenaries vigilant but calm. No signs of ambush, no lurking threats.

Yet something lingers in the air. A faint undercurrent of tension.

De-Reece listens carefully as the guards exchange hushed words.

"Too quiet," one mutters.

"Should've seen scouts by now."

"You think the rumors are true?"

Rumors. Scouts. Missing patrols.

De-Reece files the information away, keeping his expression impassive. If something is coming, he will be ready.

Night falls swiftly. A camp is set along the roadside, a makeshift formation of wagons forming a loose perimeter. Fires are lit, the scent of roasted meat filling the air. De-Reece remains on the outskirts, sharpening his blade with slow, deliberate movements.

The merchant leader—Harel—approaches. A calculating man, his graying hair and sharp eyes mark him as someone who has seen his fair share of deals and dangers.

"You fight?" Harel asks, though his tone suggests he already knows the answer.

De-Reece does not look up. "When necessary."

The merchant hums. "Figures. You carry yourself like a warrior, but not a mercenary." He glances at Solar. "And that beast of yours… not exactly a common pet."

De-Reece meets his gaze, unbothered by the scrutiny. "Do you need something?"

Harel chuckles. "Straight to the point. I like that." He folds his arms. "We lost contact with our forward scouts before reaching this stretch of road. Could be bandits, could be beasts, could be worse." He gestures toward the flickering campfire. "If something happens, I'd rather have an extra sword that knows how to use itself."

A test. A way to gauge De-Reece's reliability.

De-Reece considers the offer. He does not fear battle, but neither does he serve without reason. "And the price?"

Harel smirks. "No charge for the journey. Food, water, and safe passage until we reach Ironhold."

A fair trade.

De-Reece nods. "I'll keep watch."

The first attack comes in the dead of night.

A distant, echoing scream shatters the stillness. The guards react instantly, scrambling to their positions. De-Reece is already on his feet, Solar's fur bristling as a low growl rumbles from her throat.

A shadow moves beyond the firelight—quick, deliberate.

Then, the attack begins.

Figures emerge from the darkness, dressed in tattered cloaks, their weapons glinting with an unnatural sheen. Not bandits. Too organized. Too fast.

Cultivators.

The first strike is swift—a spear-wielding attacker lunges from the shadows, qi-infused tip aiming for the nearest guard's throat.

De-Reece moves before the thought is fully formed. His blade flashes, intercepting the strike with Domineering Demon Sword, the force behind the attack sending a shockwave through the air.

The ambusher stumbles, but another takes his place.

The air thickens with killing intent. The caravan is under siege.

Solar surges forward, a blur of black and gold, her claws ripping through flesh as she takes down an assailant in a single, savage motion.

More enemies appear—silent, coordinated.

A sect-trained force.

But whose?

De-Reece narrows his eyes as he weaves through the chaos, dispatching foes with precise, brutal efficiency. These are not common rogues. Their movements, their formations—they belong to a doctrine of combat.

A hidden force.

A warning strike.

But for who?

The battle rages. The guards fight desperately, but they are outmatched. The attackers move with calculated strikes, their techniques clean, practiced.

Then, amidst the chaos, De-Reece catches sight of a figure standing atop one of the wagons—a lone warrior, unmoving, observing.

A presence unlike the others.

De-Reece doesn't hesitate.

With a single breath, he shifts, launching himself toward the figure. Shadow Phantom Steps propels him forward, closing the distance in an instant.

Their eyes meet.

And then—without a single motion—the figure vanishes.

A flicker of qi, and they are gone.

A message, not a battle.

A warning.

And suddenly, just as quickly as the ambush began, the remaining attackers retreat, melting back into the night.

Leaving only silence, blood, and unanswered questions.

The camp is in disarray. Bodies litter the ground, both friend and foe. The merchants, shaken but alive, tend to the wounded. Harel stands over one of the fallen attackers, expression unreadable.

"These weren't ordinary bandits," Harel mutters, confirming what De-Reece already knows.

No, this was something else.

A test. A message.

De-Reece gazes toward the empty road ahead, a storm brewing in his thoughts.

The sect selection has not yet begun.

And already, unseen forces are making their move.

The journey south is far from over.

The towering black-stone walls of Ironhold stretch endlessly along the horizon, a fortress city built upon the remnants of ancient battlefields. It is the last stronghold before the Sect Selection Grounds, a place where hopeful cultivators, wandering warriors, and hidden factions converge. The air pulses with latent qi, thick with tension and unspoken rivalries.

De-Reece moves with measured steps as the Iron Fang Trading Company caravan approaches the heavily guarded gates. The sentinels of Ironhold, clad in steel and adorned with sect insignias, stand like statues, their gazes sharp as they inspect each arrival. Among them, sect-affiliated warriors keep silent watch, representatives of the forces that control this world.

Solar prowls beside De-Reece, her golden-violet eyes scanning the road. Several heads turn at the sight of the black-furred beast, its presence marking De-Reece as someone of uncommon skill or background.

The caravan halts at the checkpoint, where a robed officer steps forward. His garb bears the emblem of the Azure Crest Sect, a rising orthodox force under the banner of Mount Hua. His expression is unreadable, but his eyes linger on De-Reece.

"You. Step forward."

De-Reece strides forward, meeting the officer's gaze without flinching.

The man's eyes narrow. "You are not with these merchants."

Harel, the merchant leader, answers smoothly. "A hired blade. Nothing more."

The officer studies De-Reece, taking in the travel-worn robes, the well-kept sword at his waist, and the restrained but undeniable aura of a fighter who has tasted real battle. His gaze flickers to Solar before finally speaking.

"State your purpose in Ironhold."

De-Reece answers without hesitation. "The Sect Selection."

A shift in the atmosphere. Though thousands will compete, few stand out before the trials even begin. De-Reece feels the weight of scrutiny, some watching him with intrigue, others with caution.

The officer exhales. "You'll find the Selection Registry in the inner district. Do not start trouble before the trials begin."

Without another word, De-Reece steps past the gates.

Ironhold is more than just a city—it is a warzone before a war. Every step through the streets is an unspoken challenge, a display of dominance or restraint.

Cultivators from all walks of life move through the training halls, weapon markets, and alchemy pavilions. Some belong to the orthodox sects, their robes pristine, their demeanor calm but exuding silent arrogance. Others wear the markings of unorthodox clans, eyes sharp, postures carrying the weight of fighters accustomed to conflict.

De-Reece's presence does not go unnoticed.

Solar's low growl rumbles as she senses the tension thick in the air. He follows her gaze, noting the gathering figures along the path ahead.

A confrontation is already underway.

At the edge of a training square, Kalia stands her ground, her dark eyes locked onto two cultivators clad in deep crimson robes—disciples of the Crimson Serpent Sect.

The sect is infamous for its brutal cultivation methods, favoring blood refinement and oppressive combat techniques. Their philosophy: Dominate or be dominated.

One of them steps forward, lips curled into a smirk. "You should have accepted our offer, Kalia. We don't ask twice."

She stands firm, her stance perfect, her breathing steady. But the bruises forming on her arm tell De-Reece that this is not the first exchange of blows.

The disciple's palm glows with a red-tinged qi, veins pulsing unnaturally beneath his skin. A blood arts user.

He lunges.

Kalia twists at the last moment, pivoting into a counterattack. A flicker of jade-green qi pulses around her—Serpent's Gale Steps, a technique designed to evade and retaliate.

But the Crimson Serpent disciple is relentless. His next strike lands—a shockwave of force sends Kalia skidding back, her boots carving into the stone ground.

De-Reece watches in silence. She is strong, but she's still holding back.

She's waiting. Calculating.

Another attack comes—a downward, crushing palm aimed at her chest.

De-Reece exhales.

"That's enough."

His voice cuts through the tension like a blade.

Kalia's gaze flicks toward him. A second later, she exhales but does not let her guard down.

The Crimson Serpent disciple turns, irritation flickering across his face. "Who are you supposed to be?"

De-Reece steps forward, posture relaxed, but his presence unmistakable. "An observer." His gaze shifts toward Kalia. "And you're wasting energy before the real trials begin."

Kalia scoffs, wiping dust from her sleeve. "I had it handled."

The disciple sneers. "Another arrogant fool. Speak again when you have the strength to back your words."

The air tightens, a silent challenge hovering between them. Some cultivators lean in, sensing the possibility of another fight.

But De-Reece doesn't rise to the provocation. His gaze remains unreadable.

The real battles haven't started yet.

Without another word, he turns away.

Solar follows without hesitation.

Kalia exhales, stepping back from the confrontation, though her eyes never leave De-Reece. "You always did have a way of ruining my fun," she mutters.

De-Reece doesn't reply.

The Sect Selection isn't a game.

And if Kalia wants to walk this path, she'll need to remember that.

As the crowd disperses, De-Reece feels the lingering gazes of others. People are taking notice.

Across the square, a figure watches.

Clad in elegant white and gold robes, a youth leans against a stone pillar. His posture is relaxed, but his eyes are sharp—watchful, calculating.

Kaelen.

A clan-born prodigy, a scion of a noble house.

He does not approach, but the smirk on his lips is clear. A silent acknowledgment. A warning.

"You're not the only one here to prove something."

De-Reece meets his gaze for a brief moment before continuing onward.

The Sect Selection is close.

And every step forward brings new challenges.