A day passed. In a hidden room tucked away from the world, nineteen boys rose from a thick red bath that clung to their skin like paint.
The liquid had felt like fla all day, scalding them under the surface, biting at bone and breath.
They had gritted their teeth until their jaws ached and swallowed every whimper, because their parents had told them this was how you beca a cultivator.
Cultivators were powerful. That was what they had been taught until it sat in their heads like a hymn.
And when they had seen Calyx fight that calamity, the mory had burned brighter than the bath itself.
Who would not want to be the one standing tall while monsters fell.
So they endured. Hour after hour, the red thinned. The heat dulled.
By the ti the day ended, the bath had turned clear as spring water, as if it had taken sothing from them and left nothing behind.
They climbed out dripping, and the changes were plain. Muscles sat thicker on their arms and backs. Shoulders looked broader.
Their bodies were not ripped, they were still children, but there was a new athletic shape in them, a hint of strength that did not belong to yesterday.
All except one. Almsgiver, Goldman’s son, was still fat.
His cheeks were still round. His belly still pushed out soft and stubborn.
Water ran down him as it did the others, and the vat cleared, as clear as the rest.
But the bath had not carved him into lines the way it had carved his friends.
The boys noticed. Children always noticed.
They tried to console him in the clumsy ways they knew.
"Hey Alms, don’t worry. We’ll still be friends if you can’t cultivate."
"Yeah Alms. Your father is already loaded so just enjoy life."
"It isn’t too bad to be a rchant like him."
Almsgiver only shook his head, calm as ever.
"I’m fine. I do agree being a rchant is pretty cool."
That was his way. He did not frown. He did not cry.
He treated the world like weather, sotis good, sotis bad, always moving, always normal.
Ghost attendants led them out in a neat line. Their bare feet slapped softly on stone as they climbed, breath still carrying the faint tallic taste of the solution.
A boy nad Grab Grapes, Alms’s best friend, had been fat too. Now he was fat with muscle under it, his arms thicker, his posture different.
He kept glancing at Almsgiver like he expected sothing to change if he stared hard enough.
At last he could not hold it.
"Sir," Grapes said, voice tight with worry. He pointed straight at Almsgiver. "This friend of mine. This big fat boy. Will he be able to cultivate too?"
The ghost attendant looked at Almsgiver. Then at Grapes. Then shrugged, wearing a confused expression that was almost human.
He did not know either. He had been given orders. Not answers.
They climbed into a brighter room where the parents waited.
Gasps went up as mothers and fathers saw the changes. So reached for their sons’ arms as if checking muscle was a way to confirm hope.
Others simply stared, mouths half open, as if the boys had been sculpted by gods hands.
Goldman saw the others and felt relief. Then he saw his own son. His relief flipped into a cold drop in his gut.
He stepped forward at once and cornered the ghost attendant, keeping his voice low but failing to keep the panic out of it.
"Venerable. Did it not work?"
"It did work," the attendant said.
"Then why is he..." Goldman’s eyes flicked to Grapes, to the other boys. "Why is he still... Fat?"
The attendant’s gaze stayed on Almsgiver for a mont, unreadable.
"There will be an opening Health Institution District in two days. Best you co there."
Goldman’s knees hit the floor without him deciding to bend. He knelt at the attendant’s feet as if pride had never existed.
"Please sir. Help him. Is he sick?"
The ghost attendant shook his head.
"He has sothing going on. I think it is sothing good."
Goldman held his breath, searching the face for comfort. The attendant did not coat words in sugar. That much Goldman had learned.
So when the ghost said good, it ant good, even if the vagueness still made his heart worry.
Goldman bowed his head anyway, a broken little motion.
The children were taken up to a villa on the fourth floor. Ten spirit stones a night, paid without argunt.
They did not need to hide much. They were mortals, and the Terrace already had eyes on every street.
Attendants patrolled without tiring. If anyone caused trouble here, help would arrive before a scream finished forming.
While the Radeon Terrace’s operation ran smoothly, the five Summit Emperors t without their entourages, far from the Terrace and any hall that carried Eldric’s scent.
The room was quiet in the way money demanded. Thick walls. Soft carpets. Tea that never cooled.
A severed hand lay on the table. It was dried and stiff, fingers curled as if it had died clutching air.
A tag hung from its wrist with neat script that read Secret Realm.
Janis looked composed, almost bored, which ant she was thinking faster than the rest.
She sipped her tea and let her gaze travel the table, asuring each face.
"Is there sothing to worry about the secret realm?" she asked, and her confusion sounded practiced.
No one answered at once.
Tiberius tapped two fingers on the table, a slow drum. He wanted to hear them talk themselves into honesty.
Calixtus broke first, voice careful.
"I do not know what this secret realm is. If there is ancient knowledge inside, new materials, then we should go."
Gregodor’s eyes looked tired, the kind of tired that ca from obsession, not age.
He reached out and lifted the dead hand by its tag, letting it dangle like a poor prize won at a carnival.
"I played for three days straight before I won it," he said. "This one seems to be an entrance for Gilded Core. I asked an attendant. He said Gilded Core is the highest cultivation that can enter."
A small disappointnt moved around the table, half-expecting they too could give it a go.
Agrippino leaned forward, elbows near the tea cups.
"Any other details?"
"I took everything I could. Read it yourselves."
Tiberius unfolded the paper and let his eyes run. The details ca clean and blunt.
Eldric had created a labyrinth. It was open to all. Anyone could enter and gamble ti for reward.
Inside were techniques, incomplete cultivations, pills. Simpler things that still had bite. The attendant had promised there were no duds.
Then ca the second part. The ticket.
An exclusive zone within the labyrinth, sealed away. Only accessible with an entrance token like the dead hand.
It might contain cultivation manuals, weapons, and pills of the highest quality.
Items best suited for the participant, as if the realm watched and chose.
Gregodor spoke again, voice low.
"The attendant also told he will be selling it at the auction."
"So one open in public," Agrippino said, "and one closed."
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