The address on the elegant cream-colored card did not belong to a student apartment or a quiet suburban home. It led Kaelen, via a discreet ride-sharing service he had paid for in cash, far from the bustling heart of the city and into the rolling, forested hills that marked the beginning of the region's wealthiest enclave. The air grew cleaner here, the roads wider and smoother, flanked by ancient stone walls that hid sprawling properties from the view of the common man.
The car turned onto a private road, marked only by a pair of massive, wrought-iron gates set into a stone archway. There was no name, no number, just a discreet, glowing keypad and a camera lens that glinted in the twilight. The driver, a nervous young man, stopped the car.
"This is it, sir," he said, clearly intimidated by the sheer scale of the entrance. "I... I can't go any further."
"This is fine," Kaelen said, his voice calm. He paid the driver, adding a generous tip that made the young man's eyes go wide, and stepped out into the cool evening air. The gates were a masterpiece of mortal craftsmanship, depicting a stylized, roaring lion intertwined with thorny vines. He recognized the iconography instantly from the research he had done on the city's prominent families after his interrogation of Elias.
This was not a neutral meeting ground. This was the main estate of the Valerius family.
A cold, intellectual amusement settled over him. Isolde Thorne was either incredibly bold or incredibly foolish. She had invited him, a man she knew was in direct conflict with Dante Valerius, to a gathering at his own family home. This was not just a test; it was a carefully orchestrated piece of theater. She wanted to see how he would react when placed directly into the lion's den.
He walked up to the gate. He didn't touch the keypad. He simply stood there, waiting. A moment later, a polite, disembodied voice emanated from a hidden speaker. "Can I help you?"
"I am here for the gathering," Kaelen stated simply.
"Your name, sir?"
"Kaelen." He offered no surname. Let them work for it.
There was a pause. He could imagine the frantic search through a guest list on the other end. Then, the voice returned, its polite tone now colored with a hint of confusion. "Of course, sir. Welcome."
With a heavy, well-oiled groan, the massive gates swung silently inward, revealing a long, winding driveway lit by elegant, old-fashioned lamps. The driveway snaked through a perfectly manicured forest, leading towards a massive mansion that blazed with light in the distance.
He began the long walk, his senses fully extended. The entire property hummed with a low-level spiritual energy. It was a weak, unfocused energy, the kind generated by wealth and proximity to minor cultivators over generations, but it was enough to create an oppressive atmosphere for any normal mortal. The trees themselves seemed to watch him, their branches like silent, judging sentinels.
He finally emerged from the treeline and saw the mansion in its full glory. It was a sprawling, ostentatious structure of stone and dark wood, a modern interpretation of a gothic manor. It was designed not as a home, but as a monument to power and old money. Dozens of luxury cars were parked in the circular driveway, their polished surfaces gleaming like jewels under the spotlights that illuminated the building's facade.
The sound of polite conversation and the faint clinking of glasses drifted from the open doors. Kaelen walked up the wide stone steps and entered the lion's den.
The inside of the mansion was even more opulent than the outside. The foyer had a soaring, two-story ceiling from which hung a crystal chandelier the size of a small car. The floors were polished marble, and the walls were lined with dark, imposing portraits of stern-faced men and women—the Valerius ancestors.
A servant in a crisp, black uniform approached him silently. "Your coat, sir?"
Kaelen handed him his simple jacket, feeling slightly out of place amidst the sheer, overwhelming display of wealth. This was the world Dante Valerius had been raised in. No wonder the boy was so arrogant; his entire reality was a carefully constructed ecosystem designed to reinforce his own importance.
He was led into the main hall, a massive room with a fireplace large enough to roast an ox and floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over a series of formal gardens. About thirty people were scattered throughout the room, conversing in low, cultured tones, holding delicate glasses of champagne and wine.
Kaelen scanned the crowd with his [Soul Sense]. It was a fascinating, if pathetic, collection of auras. The vast majority were mortals, the sons and daughters of the city's elite. Their souls flickered with the bright, fleeting energies of youthful ambition, lust, and petty jealousy. They were peacocks, displaying their fine clothes and expensive jewelry, their power entirely derived from their family names.
But scattered among them, like specks of iron in a pile of sand, were a handful of others. He counted five of them. They were cultivators, all in the Qi Sensing realm, their spiritual energy as weak and muddy as Elias's had been. They stood slightly apart from the mortals, carrying themselves with a quiet, watchful arrogance. They were the true guards of this gathering, the sheepdogs pretending to be part of the flock.
He spotted Isolde Thorne across the room, standing near the massive fireplace. She was engaged in a conversation with a tall, thin man with a neatly trimmed beard who Kaelen vaguely recognized as a junior history professor from the university. Isolde looked stunning. She had exchanged her practical student attire for an elegant, simple, dark blue dress that perfectly complemented her poise. She saw Kaelen enter, and her eyes met his across the room. She gave him a small, almost imperceptible nod of welcome, a silent acknowledgment that the guest of honor had arrived.
Before he could move towards her, another figure intercepted him. It was one of the cultivators he had sensed, a young woman with a sharp, intelligent face and an aura of academic pride.
"You must be Kaelen," she said, her voice crisp and analytical. "I'm Elara. I'm a postgraduate researcher in theoretical physics. Isolde told us about you. The polymath."
Kaelen gave a noncommittal shrug. "I have broad interests."
"So we hear," Elara said, her eyes scanning him with an intensity that was more like a scientific evaluation than a social greeting. "We were discussing the statistical improbabilities of certain local folklore aligning with geological survey data. A fascinating topic, wouldn't you agree?"
It was another test, a verbal handshake to confirm he was one of them. He played along, discussing the topic with a carefully calibrated mixture of insight and academic humility. He realized this was the "Hermetic Circle." They were a collection of bright, curious minds who had stumbled upon the edges of the hidden world and were now trying to map its shores with the limited tools of mortal science and history. They were intelligent, but they were blind, trying to understand a hurricane by analyzing a single drop of rain.
As he spoke, he felt a new, hostile gaze lock onto him from across the room. He didn't need to turn to know who it was. Dante Valerius had spotted him.
Dante stood near a group of his fawning admirers, his face a thunderous mask of pure, distilled hatred. He was holding a glass of what looked like whiskey, his knuckles white where he gripped it. If looks could kill, Kaelen would have been reduced to a pile of smoldering ash. The fact that his mortal enemy was here, in his own home, conversing with his peers, was an insult of the highest order. He was practically vibrating with the effort of not causing a scene.
Kaelen ignored him completely, continuing his conversation with Elara. The most effective way to enrage a man like Dante was to treat him as if he didn't exist.
A short while later, Isolde gracefully extracted herself from her own conversation and approached them. "Kaelen, Elara," she said, her smile warm and welcoming. "I'm so glad you could make it. I trust you're finding the conversation stimulating?"
"Immensely," Kaelen replied dryly.
"Good," Isolde said. "Because the main event is about to begin. Marcus Valerius—Dante's father—has graciously agreed to let us view a few select pieces from his private collection tonight." She gestured towards a set of large, ornate double doors at the far end of the hall. "I think you'll find them... particularly relevant to your research."
The doors were opened by servants, and the small group of the Hermetic Circle, along with a few other curious guests, were ushered into a private gallery. The room was dark, the walls lined with velvet. A series of spot-lit, climate-controlled glass cases stood on pedestals, each containing a single artifact.
It was a collection of minor spiritual objects, things that a true cultivator would dismiss but which were priceless treasures to these dabblers in the arcane. There was a corroded bronze dagger that still held a faint trace of blessed energy, a chipped crystal that hummed with a low-level power, and a scroll written in a language that had been dead for three thousand years.
The members of the Hermetic Circle gathered around the cases, their voices low and excited as they debated the origins and properties of the artifacts. Kaelen walked among them, listening to their theories. They were intelligent, their deductions logical, but their conclusions were all wrong. They were like men born in a windowless room trying to describe the sun based on a single, faint ray of light shining through a keyhole.
He stopped before the final display case. It contained a single, small, obsidian shard, polished to a mirror shine.
"This is the prize of the collection," Isolde said, coming to stand beside him. "It was recovered from an archaeological dig in the Blackstone foothills. It predates any known civilization in the region. The geologists say it's simple volcanic glass, but it's completely inert to carbon dating, and it has… strange properties. It's always cold to the touch, and some people say they feel a sense of dread when they get too close to it."
Kaelen looked at the shard. He didn't need the System to tell him what it was. He could feel it. The cold, dead energy radiating from it. The faint, almost undetectable trace of chaotic, demonic power.
This was not a natural object. It was a fragment. A piece of shrapnel from a battle fought between gods and demons at the dawn of time. It was a tiny, solidified splinter of the very evil that was sealed within the mountains.
He had found his proof. The tomb was real. The prison was real. And it was leaking.
"Fascinating," he said, his voice a low murmur, his mind racing with the implications.
It was at that moment that the double doors to the gallery were thrown open with a dramatic bang.
Dante Valerius stood there, his face flushed with alcohol and rage. His carefully maintained composure had finally shattered. He was no longer trying to hide his hatred. Behind him stood the members of the martial arts club he had brought with him, their expressions grim and hostile.
"The academic discussion is over," Dante announced, his voice slurring slightly but filled with venom. He pointed a trembling finger at Kaelen. "This evening's entertainment will now be a… sparring demonstration."
He strode into the gallery, his cronies fanning out behind him, blocking the exit. He walked up to a large, elevated, carpeted platform in the center of the room that had been set up for musical performances. It was a lei tai, a traditional dueling platform.
The trap had been sprung. The entire evening—the invitation, the intellectual discussion, the viewing of artifacts—it had all been a carefully constructed stage for this single, violent moment.
The mortal guests in the gallery gasped and began to back away, sensing the sudden, dangerous shift in the atmosphere. The members of the Hermetic Circle looked confused and alarmed. Isolde's face was a mask of cold, unreadable calm, though Kaelen could see a flicker of annoyance in her eyes. Her controlled experiment had just been hijacked by a drunken fool.
Dante stepped onto the platform, a cruel, triumphant smile finally returning to his face. He was back in control. He was the master of this house, and he was about to put the dog in its place.
He looked directly at Kaelen, his eyes burning with a hateful, victorious fire.
"I have been told," Dante said, his voice dripping with malicious intent, "that you believe you are a superior martial artist. That you believe my friends, the champions of our university, are nothing but children." He gestured around the room. "Here, now, in front of everyone, I would like to offer you the chance to prove it. I, Dante Valerius, challenge you to a sparring match."
The challenge hung in the air, thick and heavy. It was not a request. It was a death sentence delivered with a smile.