I held my breath as The Man with the Mustache pulled out a small circular device from his pocket. The "Divine Plate," as he called it, looked like an ordinary tal disc—until it began to glow with eerie blue light, illuminating the damp walls of the underground chamber.
"My own invention," he whispered proudly, his eyes reflecting the blue glow. "Attuned to sense residual energy signatures of powerful artifacts. The stronger the pulse, the greater the treasure."
We'd been wandering through the labyrinthine ruins of the Immortal Bane Sect for hours. My muscles ached, but curiosity pushed forward. After weeks of imprisonnt in this place, I was determined to leave with sothing worthwhile.
"Are you sure this thing works?" I asked, watching him hold the plate with almost religious reverence.
He shot an offended look. "Thirty-seven successful excavations speak for themselves! I've unearthed treasures from the Five Divine Mountains to the Sunken Valley with this beauty."
The plate's pulsing increased as we moved deeper into the chamber. The stone walls around us were covered in faded carvings—scenes of battle and cultivation that had survived centuries of darkness.
"There!" he exclaid suddenly, stopping before a large stone tablet embedded in the wall. "The plate never lies!"
I approached cautiously, running my fingers over the tablet's surface. Strange symbols were etched into the stone, partially obscured by moss and ti.
"Can you read this?" I asked.
He squinted at the markings. "Ancient script of the Immortal Bane Sect. Sothing about... 'guardians' and 'worthy blood'... typical mystical nonsense." He waved dismissively. "What matters is what's behind it."
I frowned. "Behind it?"
"Secret compartnts, my boy! The ancients loved their hidden caches." He stepped back. "Your strength might be useful here. Give it a good hit—right in the center."
I hesitated, mories of various traps I'd encountered in this place flashing through my mind. But the prospect of finding sothing that might help escape—or better yet, sothing to aid against the Martial Guild when I returned—was too tempting.
Channeling my energy into my fist, I struck the center of the tablet with considerable force.
The stone cracked but didn't break. I hit it again, harder. Fractures spread across its surface like spider webs, and on the third strike, the tablet shattered completely.
Nothing happened.
No hidden compartnt revealed itself. No ancient treasure tumbled out. Just scattered stone fragnts at my feet.
"Well, that's disappointing," I muttered.
The Man with the Mustache didn't seem bothered. "Patience! This is just the first layer." He knelt, examining the wall behind the broken tablet. "Ah, as I suspected. Look here."
I crouched beside him. The exposed wall surface was smooth—unnaturally so compared to the rough stone surrounding it.
"Another seal," he explained, pulling various implents from his pack. "More sophisticated. We'll need finesse, not force."
He produced a small vial of reddish powder and began carefully tracing symbols on the smooth surface, muttering incantations under his breath. The powder glowed faintly where it touched the stone.
"What exactly are you hoping to find?" I asked, watching his thodical work.
He didn't look up. "The Immortal Bane Sect was infamous for their forbidden techniques—thods of cultivation that broke conventional limits. Imagine what such knowledge could do for soone with your... unique constitution."
His words stirred sothing within . If there were techniques that could accelerate my growth, I needed them. Every day away from Isabelle was another day she remained in danger.
"There we go," he said, sitting back on his heels. "Now we wait."
The symbols he'd drawn began to pulse rhythmically, their glow intensifying. Minutes passed in tense silence.
Suddenly, he cursed under his breath.
"What's wrong?" I asked.
"Not enough energy to trigger the release chanism." He rummaged in his pack again. "We'll need sothing stronger."
He produced another vial, this one containing what looked like blue fla sohow captured in liquid form. My instincts imdiately tensed.
"What is that?"
"Essence of Ancient Fla," he replied casually. "Extrely rare. Extrely powerful." Spot an error? Visit the original post on M&VLEMPY&R.
Before I could object, he uncorked the vial and poured its contents onto the symbols he'd drawn. The blue fla spread across the wall, following the pattern of the powder.
The effect was imdiate. The entire chamber shuddered. Dust and small stones fell from the ceiling.
I grabbed his shoulder. "What did you do?"
His face had gone pale. "I might have... miscalculated."
The blue fla intensified, spreading beyond the symbols, crawling across the wall like living fire.
"We need to go," I said, pulling him to his feet. "Now."
He shook his head, eyes wide with terror but fixed on the wall. "Too late. It's coming."
"What's coming?"
"Corpse transformation," he whispered. "The guardians awaken."
Before I could demand clarification, the wall before us exploded outward. I shielded my face from flying debris, and when I looked again, a massive figure stood in the newly created opening.
It was a man—or had been once. Standing nearly eight feet tall with bulging muscles that seed too large for human anatomy, it wore tattered robes that might have been elegant centuries ago. But where its head should have been, there was nothing—just a ragged stump of a neck.
"What the hell is that?" I managed to ask, already shifting into a defensive stance.
"A mighty realm cultivator of the Immortal Bane Sect," The Man with the Mustache whispered, backing away. "Or what remains of him. My ritual... it must have activated the sect's guardian system."
The headless figure turned toward us with unnatural awareness. Without eyes to see, it still tracked our movents perfectly.
"Can we reason with it?" I asked, knowing the answer even as the words left my mouth.
"It's dead, Liam. Has been for centuries. Just a powerful corpse animated by ancient formation energy." He continued retreating. "And extrely dangerous."
As if triggered by his words, the figure moved. Its speed was shocking—one mont it stood motionless, the next it had closed half the distance between us.
"Run!" The Man with the Mustache scread, turning and bolting down the passageway we'd entered through.
I had no chance to follow. The headless guardian reached in a blink, its massive fist swinging toward my chest. I barely managed to block, crossing my arms before and channeling my energy as a shield.
The impact was like being hit by a charging bull. I flew backward, crashing into the opposite wall. Pain erupted in my right hand—fractured, at minimum. My vision blurred montarily from the force.
"Liam! It's too powerful!" The Man with the Mustache called from the safety of the corridor. "Fall back!"
The guardian advanced again, its movents fluid despite its bulk. I rolled aside as its fist smashed into the wall where I'd been, pulverizing stone.
"What the hell did you do?" I shouted, scrambling to my feet.
"The ritual must have triggered the sect's defense chanism!" he called back. "That's a mighty realm cultivator—preserved and empowered by ancient arts!"
Great. Just what I needed—an undead super-warrior from a forbidden sect.
I glanced toward the corridor. The Man with the Mustache was already a retreating shadow. So much for partnership.
The guardian attacked again, a sweeping blow that would have taken my head off if I hadn't ducked. Even without a head, its combat instincts remained intact. Each movent was precise, calculated—the muscle mory of a master fighter preserved beyond death.
I managed to put so distance between us, evaluating my options. My right hand throbbed painfully—definitely broken. Taking another direct hit like that first one would be disastrous.
The guardian paused, as if sensing my assessnt. Then it did sothing unexpected—it reached into its tattered robes and pulled out a rusted, ancient sword. The blade might have been corroded by ti, but I could feel its deadly intent from across the chamber.
"Oh, co on," I muttered.
Fighting unard against this monster was bad enough. Now it had a weapon too?
I needed to even the odds. My crimson sword lay where I'd left it when we entered, near the remains of the stone tablet. If I could reach it...
The guardian seed to read my thoughts. It positioned itself between and the sword, its stance clearly communicating: not happening.
I flexed my injured hand, wincing at the pain. This wasn't going to be pretty.
"So you're what passes for security in this place?" I called out, knowing it couldn't understand but needing to steel my resolve. "I've faced worse."
Had I, though? The raw power emanating from this thing felt different—older, more primal than what I'd encountered before.
The guardian swung its ancient sword in a practice arc. The movent was fluid, expert—the technique of a master swordsman preserved in muscle mory despite the absence of a mind to guide it.
"Liam!" The Man with the Mustache's voice echoed from the corridor. "Don't be a fool! That's a mighty realm guardian—it won't tire, it won't feel pain, and it won't stop until we're dead!"
I backed away slowly, mind racing through options. "Any suggestions beyond running away?"
"Yes!" he called back. "Run away faster!"
So much for expert advice.
The guardian advanced again, its sword raised. I sidestepped its first swing, feeling the rush of air as the blade missed my torso by inches. Its follow-up attack ca imdiately—a thrust aid at my heart that I barely deflected with my forearm guard.
The impact sent fresh waves of pain through my injured hand. I couldn't keep this up—not without a weapon, not with a broken hand.
Desperate tis.
I feinted left, then dove right, rolling across the stone floor toward where my crimson sword lay. The guardian pivoted with shocking speed, its blade slashing downward. Stone chips flew where it struck, re inches from my fingers.
I grabbed my sword with my left hand, awkward but better than nothing, and spun to face my opponent.
The headless guardian paused, as if reassessing now that I was ard. Then it attacked with renewed ferocity—a flurry of strikes that drove back step by step. Each parry sent shockwaves up my arm. My crimson blade glowed brightly, responding to the conflict, but even its power felt inadequate against this ancient horror.
"It's too strong!" The Man with the Mustache called from his safe distance. "Its cultivation level must have been extraordinary in life!"
"You don't say," I growled through clenched teeth, barely blocking another devastating swing.
My back hit a wall—nowhere left to retreat. The guardian sensed its advantage, pressing forward relentlessly.
Ti slowed. In that mont, I saw my situation with perfect clarity: I was trapped in an ancient tomb, fighting an undead warrior from a forbidden sect, while my supposed ally cowered in a corridor. Isabelle believed I was dead. The world had moved on without .
And I was angry.
Anger surged through —not the hot, uncontrolled rage of my earlier days, but sothing colder, more focused. I was Liam Knight. I had survived betrayal, imprisonnt, and worse. I was not going to die in this forgotten place.
My crimson sword flared brightly, responding to my determination. I channeled my energy into the blade, ignoring the pain in my broken hand.
The guardian brought its sword down in what should have been a killing blow. I t it head-on, our blades connecting with a shower of sparks. The impact should have shattered my arm—but instead, I held firm.
Surprise rippled through . Where was this strength coming from?
No ti to question it. I pushed back, forcing the guardian to step away. For the first ti since our battle began, I had created space—an opening.
I wouldn't waste it.
"Enough of this," I snarled. Despite my injured hand, I gripped my crimson sword with both hands, channeling every bit of my power into the blade.
The guardian seed to sense the shift in our battle. It charged again, its ancient sword raised for another devastating attack.
I planted my feet firmly, raised my glowing crimson blade, and roared a challenge that echoed through the chamber. Golden light erupted from my body, enveloping in a radiant aura as I launched myself toward the headless warrior, both fists driving forward in a desperate counterattack.
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