Chapter 63: Arrival

Alex still felt like his veins were buzzing, every breath alive with the leftover sting of divine current. It wasn’t as painful anymore, but it left an internal itch that was impossible to ignore. Like being plugged into the electric socket of a storm that refused to die down.

He sat there, sweat cooling on his skin, when Obby broke the moment, “You should probably put pants on, meatboy. Hard to look dignified when the Heavens just spanked you bare-assed.”

Alex groaned, dragging a hand down his face. He scrambled for his robes and armor, fumbling through the buckles with half-numb fingers, the faint crackle of static sparking off the metal fittings.

By the time he got himself dressed, the camp had erupted with cheers, laughter, congratulations, questions; his name was on everyone’s lips. Holly practically glided across the dirt on her one leg, the swirling winds beneath her carrying her forward, before she wrapped herself around him. He staggered, smiling despite the ache in his bones, holding her close for a breath before the barrage began.

“What was that?”

“Does it always look like that?”

“Did you shove a spike in your spine? Are you insane?”

He batted the questions away with short grunts, and deflections, anything to keep from explaining his half-suicidal cheat.

Then a different voice boomed over the noise, “You angered the Heavens, human!”

The chatter stopped. All eyes turned toward Ghrukk, the ork looming there with his firery-shadow energy billowing like a storm cloud himself.

Alex raised a brow, unsure what the hell the ork was implying.

Myrae stepped in, placing a hand on the Ork’s shoulder. When she spoke, her tone came out calm but her gaze was concerning. “Alex, Heaven Tribulations are important steps on a mage’s path. What you just faced wasn’t normal.”

“Okay…” He tilted his head. “But… We are worldstriders, isn’t that the point? I survived, didn’t I?”

The half-elf shook her head slightly before taking on a tone of speaking as if to a child learning the rules of a game, one that could kill him. “Tribulations are predictable, in their own way. They always begin the same, with yellow lightning, building steadily in strength depending on the one facing it. Most learn to guide it inward, letting it temper their channels and bones. Others…” her eyes flicked to Doran, “…contain it, forge it into themselves, or redirect it.”

Doran grunted, arms crossed. “Aye. Dwarves bind da Heavens in steel, make da lightning ours instead a’ theirs. That’s da proper way.”

“That is a way,” Myrae said pointedly. “But there’s also the most dangerous path. Attacking the storm itself. Dominating it or dispersing the tribulation by proving your will stronger than the Heavens.”

Alex frowned. “…I could’ve done that?”

“Yes. But it’s a path only fools or legends attempt. Because the Heavens will fight back.” Her voice dipped lower then. “That’s when yellow lightning can change. Darker and stronger… to orange.”

He frowned. “But mine did turn orange. And I didn’t attack the cloud.”

They all shifted at that statement. Myrae’s gaze swept to Doran, to Ghrukk, to Rynel, Sarson, Selka, their faces all set in grim seriousness. “Yes,” she said softly. “That is why we are worried.” She stepped closer, her eyes piercing. “So tell us, Alex… what did you do?”

He shifted uncomfortably under all their stares, rubbing at the tingling ache still crawling across his skin. “I wasn’t doing anything crazy,” he said finally. “At first I wasn’t anyway. I was just… fighting the energy inside me. The Wrym-Heart energy toxin in my blood was already reacting, so I leaned on that in the beginning. Then I thought maybe that my martial art’s caustic aura would help, too. And it did. A lot, actually. That’s when the lightning changed.”

The group muttered among themselves, glances darting between one another like conspirators passing a secret between comrades. Ghrukk rumbled something low to Doran, who just grunted. Rynel’s brow furrowed deeply, Sarson shook his head with widened eyes, looking slightly fearful.

Finally, Ghrukk turned back, his tusked grin strained. “Your martial art might’ve tricked the Heavens. Made them think you were fighting the storm itself. You said it was rare, yes? Something with a… defiant origin?”

Alex hesitated, the name of his martial art heavy on his tongue. He’d never said it aloud to anyone outside his fellow earthlings. But if these people understood… maybe it was time.

“It’s called the Path of the Demon Asura,” he said. “The manual said it came from someone—or something—that fought the Heavens themselves.”

The reaction to his words was instant. Rynel spat to the side, muttering something under his breath. Doran’s eyes narrowed, lips pulling into a grim line. Ghrukk, though, looked almost… impressed.

“Oh, gods above,” Rynel said flatly.

“Well, that makes sense then,” Myrae said, dismissing their tension with a flick of her hand. “The Asura were ancient enemies of the Heavenly System. Anything tied to them still stirs resentment.”

Alex perked up at that. “What were the Asura?”

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“Later,” Myrae said, her tone was firm but not unkind. “Much later, perhaps. For now, know this: using your martial art during a Heaven Tribulation will make it harder for you… But it will also grant greater rewards. As you’ve already seen.”

She was right. He had felt it. That trial had changed him more than any of his Earthly tribulations, three times over, maybe more. His very body felt different, stronger, as if the lightning was tempering his other stats as he fought to outlast the storm. Looking at his status screen even confirmed this theory.

Myrae’s eyes softened slightly. “But be warned. Your lightning turned bright orange. Yellow is standard. Orange means the Heavens are angered. And red…” she trailed off, shaking her head. “Well, we don’t need to worry about that.”

Alex leaned forward. “What’s red? How powerful is red lightning?”

“Later, Alex,” Myrae cut him off, sharper this time. “We have other things to do.”

He didn’t push her further, accepting he wouldn’t get more information at the moment. He tightened the last buckle on his chest plate, Myrae’s words replaying in his head. Orange. Not yellow, not the “normal” path. Orange.

The Heavens themselves had turned up the voltage just for him, and he’d still walked out of it. The thought warmed inside his chest, pride building in him even as the last tingles of lightning still danced across his skin.

The others’ reactions only made that feeling stronger. Everyone of them seemed to know what Asuras were, enough to fear—or hate—them. And yet Alex, the one actually walking their path, was the only one in the dark.

He connected to the presence in his soulspace, thinking aloud so only Obby could hear. What about you? Any files on these Asura things?

The rock shifted faintly against his mind. “I don’t seem to have that information,” Obby said, tone maddeningly neutral.

Alex sighed. Of course you don’t.

Still, the question gnawed at him. Who, or what, the hell had walked this path before him? And what exactly had they done to make even the heavens themselves so pissed off? And then there was the red lightning. Myrae’s dismissal didn’t help his curiosity, it only dangled the thought in front of him like bacon on a hook. If orange meant the Heavens were angry… what did red mean? Hatred? Wrath? Divine execution?

Alex caught himself smirking at the idea. If orange lightning had reshaped him this much, what would red do? How much stronger would he need to be before he could even think about facing it?

Stronger. A lot stronger, he told himself. But one day…

He crouched by the firepit, robes on, armor cinched, speaking low with Eric and Kate. They were hashing through ideas for the dungeon, routes through the ruined city, division of roles, fallback signals if the chimeras pressed too hard. Everyone was tired but focused, sharpening their thoughts for what lay ahead.

And then the wind changed.

The sudden shift didn’t come on a breeze, but a gale. A sudden, violent maelstrom slammed through the camp so hard Alex had to plant a hand on the ground to stop himself from beind blow off his feet. Dust whipped sideways, tents snapped, and even the heavier supply crates rattled against the rocks.

He jerked his head up, and his blood froze.

The light dimmed as a shadow passed. It wasn’t just clouds, nor the lightning storm from before, that had dissipated by now. Instead, something vast rolled across the sun, drowning the camp in shadow. Alex craned his neck, eyes going wide, and for a split second his gut threatened to drop out of his body.

A ship.

Not a typical boat for water, but an old-world leviathan of oak and iron, the kind Alex had only seen in history holovids. Only this one floated in the air, a silhouette blotting out half the sky. Its sails pulled taut on the gale, yet they weren’t cloth; the sails shimmered like veils of molten glass, translucent aether glowing faintly with each ripple. The keel gleamed, sleek and perfect, no rivets or seams to be found. The whole hull was covered in faint traceries of runes, like glowing veins of silver-blue crawling across its length.

It hovered there, motionless. It felt like it was watching them.

Every conversation in the camp died. Every breath seemed held tight. Even Ghrukk’s squad shifted uneasily, hands on their weapons, and their expressions showed a nervousness Alex hadn’t seen before.

The leviathan lingered a minute, one long, oppressive minute. Then part of its side opened, and something detached. A smaller craft slid free, its own single energy-sail unfurling like a glittering wing. It dipped into the gale as if the air itself had turned into sea waves, gliding with obscene grace until it angled straight down toward the camp.

Figures stood at its bow, looking down at them like royalty inspecting insects. The closer it got, the sharper their features became. And then Alex’s whole body locked tight.

There was no mistaking it, no chance of it being anyone else.

The robes of the Mystic Arcanuum caught the light as the boat descended, their layered silks heavy with meaning Alex didn’t need explained. But it was the face that froze him, the gaunt angles, the pale, stretched skin, and those eyes, shining like knives behind half-lidded calm.

Malric Vaunt.

The small boat didn’t crunch against the stone, it didn’t even land in the normal sense. A lattice of aether shimmered beneath its keel, crackling faintly, holding it aloft a handspan above the ground. Smooth, and controlled, and Alex guessed it was undoubtedly expensive.

His jaw clenched as the passengers descended one by one.

Malric Vaunt stepped off first, robes of the Arcanuum sweeping against the conjured platform, his every movement was graceful and calm, like he owned the ground he was stepping onto. Six others followed. Alex’s gaze swept over them, instinct running hot while Obby overlaid neat tags and glowing numbers in the corner of his vision.

Malric Vaunt: Late Stage Adept, Solid Core. Just ahead of Alex, but not untouchable.

Five others: Middle Adepts, Liquid Cores, power dense and stable. Each one was stronger than most adventurers Alex had ever fought, but not beyond imagining. He could take any of them, and so could most of their squad.

The last one: Alex’s breath caught.

She moved differently than the rest. The tall woman wore armor like a second skin, polished metal plates traced with thin lines of light. Her golden hair was tied back and fell against her shoulders, framing a face that radiated poise and certainty. Her eyes, gold to match her hair, seemed to bore through the camp itself, cutting lines of judgment across everyone they landed on.

Alex switched to [Aether Sight], and winced. Her core burned bright. Solid Stage, like Malric’s, but deeper and denser, pulsing with the kind of refinement that spoke of years balanced on the edge of a breakthrough. She was nearing the next tier, Magus.

She stepped forward, boots tapping the conjured platform, falling naturally into a stride beside Malric. The rest of their men fanned out with predatory precision, spreading into the camp and hemming everyone in with casual confidence.

Alex’s hand twitched, beginning to curl into a fist, but froze. Not yet.

Then Malric spoke, “Ah… Alexander Pierce… and the other Worldstriders as well…” His lips curved in something too thin to be a smile. “I have been looking for you for some time. To think you would be the reason for this disturbance, though.”

Alex studied Malric with narrowed eyes, searching for tells. Perhaps the twitch of a lip, the flex of a brow, anything to give away his angle. He got nothing. The bastard’s face was carved stone, calm and unreadable.

Why me?

Theories spun in his head. Did they want to drag him into the Urhara Empire like some prize recruit? Malric was Arcanuum through and through, did that mean this was a leash, not an invitation? Or maybe they wanted to trade; knowledge, resources, a temporary alliance? No. Alex didn’t believe it. Malric had too much steel in his eyes, too much hunger.

And then there was that word he had used. Disturbance.

Alex’s stomach knotted. Did they somehow know he and the squads had slipped into this Dungeon without sanction? In Terraxum, the “crime” of an unsanctioned delve was hammered into him, every punishment threatened like it was execution-levels of serious.

Before he could chew on the idea further, Obby spoke, “Or maybe it was the giant lightning storm you caused just a few minutes ago? You know, the one that was blasting orange lightning across the mountain range? Subtle, meatboy. Very subtle.”

Alex ground his teeth. He hated admitting it, but Obby was probably right.

Malric’s mouth opened, words smooth and slow—

But the woman beside him cut him off like he was nothing. “Alex. Worldstriders. Other citizens of the Empire.” Her voice carried like iron, being that it sounded cold and absolute. “I regret to inform you that—”

She stepped forward, gold eyes flashed, her armor gleaming as she raised her chin. “You must come with us, under our authority, by the power Urhara Empire’s sovereignty.”

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