201. Reunion

Alistair had thought he was going to rest for the next few hours as he awaited the trial, but as always, something else came up.

He walked into the male chambers, expecting tens of thousands of cultivators. Instead, he estimated that there were only around two thousand out of a million candidates.

That’s four percent of the total when you add the female side, Alistair thought.

It made sense. The vast majority of those qualified to become disciples of a sect like the Clear Water came from lofty backgrounds. People like Alistair and his sister were rare.

The quarters were set up so that each man had a bed and small space protected by a layer of water. The beds were arranged in circles around the edge of the tower, climbing up to the ceiling hundreds of feet in the air. From the center of the ground to the apex of the tower as a concentrated, glowing thread of water that emanated dozens of different Mana affinities despite its liquid nature.

Hundreds of young men sat around the column of water, cultivating. Despite the water being relatively thin, perhaps twenty-feet in diameter, the space inside the tower was set up so that theoretically thousands of cultivators could sit at the foot of the central thread.

Alistair sauntered over to the public cultivation chamber, ready to start absorbing some Mana, when he saw the last person in the multiverse he was expecting.

There’s no fucking way, Alistair cursed internally. I do not believe this. I’m seeing things.

Dev'rox howled like a mad beast to the point where Alistair had to stuff the imp back his soulcore inside just in case he accidentally manifested himself.

Sitting at the base of the glowing liquid Mana was an annoyingly handsome man.

His hair was bright red, standing out even among the sea of cultivators with diverse hair colors. His skin was a light brown, shining like bronze, his long legs folded underneath him as he meditated.

The young man was Red Harmonia. The greatest recruit in the history of the Cabal. The undisputed First Grandmaster of the Martial League. The youngest ever Grand Champion of fourteen years.

He was at the Clear Water Sect.

Alistair grabbed the man who exuded perfection by the shoulder. “What the hell are you doing here?”

His hand never reached its mark. Red Harmonia stood up and turned around in one motion. His movements lacked any excess energy, perfectly aligning with his intentions.

His face was somehow even more handsome than before, like the concept of beauty had been distilled, refined, and given human form just to mock lesser men. Even after excreting impurities and evolving his species, Alistair was not even close to his level of attractiveness.

“Who are you?” Red asked.

It was funny—after growing a few inches because of the Steel Body training, Alistair stood four to five inches taller than Red, and much more muscular. Yet he felt like a child in a giant’s shadow. The feeling of standing at the base of the tallest mountain peak he had ever seen had not gone away.

Mountains can be climbed, Alistair reminded himself. Let’s see how far I’ve come.

“This ring a bell?”

Alistair threw the fastest punch of his life.

The difference between Adept and Foundation, even just one level, was like that of an adult and a child. If not for the Domain that buoyed his entire existence, his punch would have shattered the sound barrier and caused an enormous shockwave. Thankfully, those physical side effects were mitigated by the Dao, but not the immense power in his blow.

Red casually avoided the blow with a slight movement of his neck. He still had on that silly all-white outfit where the collar covered his mouth.

Alistair didn’t let up. At that point, everyone in the facility was watching their battle, the cultivators around the thread of water having gotten out of their way.

Everything he had, he put to work. The precognitive vision of [Eyes of Truth] was enhanced in [Dharmic Gaze]. Spending only a tiny bit of Karma allowed him to see afterimages of three seconds in the future, Time and Fate working in tandem. Alternate timelines and threads of Fate interwove to grant the cleanest image he’d ever seen.

Tranquil Mind was an old home to Alistair. The ocean of tranquility washed over him, forcing him to the deepest depths right away. It was the sublime mentality of Zenaitsu Morogoni, the World Titan from which he derived the base of his style and understanding of the fist from.

Fluid, then still. Soft, then hard. The Kiss of Death.

Alistair swarmed Red with attacks. Three jabs and then a spinning back kick. The Tune of the Fight allowed him to listen to Red’s symphony and adjust. His moves adapted as the music grew louder, [Monk Motionlessness] automatically moving his body to avoid threats.

He even used Dispersion, the secret technique of the Church of the Holy Ones that allowed the user to get into the blind spot of the enemy. With Tranquil Mind, he could perfectly replicate the technique, his reflexes more than enough as an Adept.

All the styles he had ever learned—Silver Comet, Holy Ones, Zenaitsu Morogoni, combined into one mesh of fists, feet, elbows, knees, and forehead. Even the joint dislocation of Fara, retroactively perfected with [Adaptive Kinesthesia].

So why, why in the name of the Jade Emperor, was he utterly failing?

Every strike Red dodged, blocked, or parried. Every grapple attempt, he easily sidestepped or pushed back against, despite the massive difference in physiques. Red could have had higher Strength than him—but when he expertly diverted Alistair’s grappling, he was using minimal effort by targeting the flow of power.

His precognition did not fail him. [Dharmic Gaze] worked as good, or even better than expected. He saw Red’s moves in advance. The red-haired man wasn’t moving any faster than him—in fact, he was perhaps 10% slower at everything. Red’s variety of techniques was smaller, and his reflexes seemed marginally worse.

There was one simple answer.

Precognition was useless against perfection.

Speed was useless against perfection.

Variety was useless against perfection.

What good was seeing your opponent’s moves in the future if there was no counter?

Red might have been 10% slower, yet what did that matter if he lacked openings? How was a variety of techniques and special moves relevant when a true martial artist demonstrated knowing when to use the right technique at the right time?

“I remember you now,” Red said casually as he walked forward through Alistair’s assault without a care in the world. His hands were blurs of motion as he dealt with all the attacks without throwing a single counter. “Nenna said that you had potential. You’ve grown stronger.”

“But,” Red said, “it’s not enough.”

Alistair felt it coming. He was at Red’s right side, whereupon the man extended his fist to slam Alistair in the face.

Memories of his fight against Fara flashed through his eyes.

You cannot strike without being in range of your opponent’s strike. You cannot strike without giving an opportunity for your opponent to strike.

Alistair arced his elbow down at Red’s fist. Fist met elbow, but Red changed his trajectory at the last second, letting his knuckles glide off Alistair’s tricep.

At the same time, Alistair whipped that same arm down and up, using the built-up momentum to gain speed. He dislocated all the joints in his arm to get maximum reach.

BOOM! Bodies connected. Alistair bounced off against the water veil of one of the base level beds, shocking the candidate in the bed awake.

Blood trickled out of a nostril. Dragon’s Blood Mastery began to mend his broken nose, but not his wounded pride. That last punch from Red was completely casual, yet it had knocked him down so easily. His brain still rattled from the blow. It made no sense how strong the blow was for how little effort Red put into it.

Red Harmonia carefully watched his fallen opponent, his gray eyes lacking depth. A clump of his flawless, thick red hair fell from his head. While he had dodged Alistair’s whip-like karate chop, his thick hair had become a partial victim.

“Not bad,” Red said. “You made me use a hundredth of my power.”

Alistair got up, absorbing the blood back into his body. “Last time you said a thousandth. I’ve caught up a bit. Aren’t you worried about getting surpassed?”

“Above Heaven or under Heaven, I alone am the honored one.” Red repeated the famous phrase the Buddha said after taking seven steps following his birth. “You started as an ant and I as a celestial dragon. The further heights I have to climb are more difficult than outflowing a river. You have merely grown into a dog.”

“A dog that cut your hair,” Alistair pointed out. “Is that something celestial dragons permit often?”

Red almost smiled, his eyes blinking with amusement. He gracefully removed his jacket’s collar from his mouth for a moment, just to say one sentence. “It’s quite lonely at the top. I hope you don’t fall behind.”

Alistair was going to respond when there was a sudden explosion of aura from above. Thanks to [Dharmic Gaze], he anticipated the aura a half-second before it happened.

My precognition was three seconds for fighting in hand-to-hand, Alistair remarked. Since I wasn’t aware or ready for it, I had less time to respond. Plus, if the other party has insight into a flow of reality, it muddies the waters for precognition.

A blond-haired, blue-eyed young man jumped down from the top of the tower, landing in between Alistair and Red. “There’s to be no fighting in here,” he said. “Do you want to get kicked out before even becoming a disciple?”

Whispers and chatters from the other unaffiliated candidates filled Alistair’s metaphorical ears.

“Is that really him?”

“It has to be, he looks identical to the man on the Soulnet!”

“You idiot fool, that’s Berengar Sturmklinge, not his brother. He’s the identical twin of Leofric. Berengar’s talented, but the real future of the Disputed Shard is at the Endless Horizons Sect. A man like that is always going to a top four sect.”

“Still, he’s got to be strong to challenge those two. I’ve never seen them before in my life, but that fight wasn’t normal.”

“We should stick by them during the testing.”

“Stay away from people like that. Unaffiliated candidates with that kind of power won’t hesitate to kill you.”

“I feel bad for him. A bastard and overshadowed by his twin.”

Alistair briefly met Berengar’s eyes. They were so pale it felt creepy, with huge limbal rings that reminded him of a blue-eyed baby. He bowed deeply before the Sturmklinge bastard, easily breaching parallel.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to break the rules,” Alistair said. “I’ve met this man before, and he defeated me in a manner in which I lost face. I let my emotions get the best of me.”

Alistair could feel it in Berengar’s expression and actions. He had not been expecting one of the belligerents to apologize in such a humble manner. The edge in his expression faded.

“Very well,” Berengar stated. “We’ll see each other soon enough.”

With that, the harsh-looking man jumped back up to the top of tower, purple lightning assisting his ascent. Alistair felt a lingering dominance to the Sturmklinge’s lightning. A Natural Inheritance or storied lineage? Perhaps both?

Red, with his mouth covered again, pointed at his bed on the first tier. “Let’s talk.”

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The light water film surrounding all the beds was clear, like the Clear Water Sect’s name. The primary purpose of the film was to protect candidates from events like those that had just occurred, but you could also impress your Mana upon it to make it opaque and soundproof, which Red did the moment Alistair entered.

The space was tiny, enclosing a queen-sized bed and a five-foot berth around it. Red’s presence was strangely mute, as without exuding any aura whatsoever, it was almost like he was a dead man walking, even his life force being utterly average.

That wasn’t the end to his weirdness—when the Cabal recruit had spoken without the collar covering his mouth, Alistair saw fourteen teeth instead of the usual ten or twelve.

Red pulled out a vial filled with a purple liquid and a dropper. He placed a single droplet of the liquid on his tongue and blew into the air.

“Just in case,” he mentioned, “there will be no prying ears or eyes.”

“What are you doing here?” Alistair asked plainly.

“It’s part of my mission,” Red explained. “Nenna assigned me here.”

“To find the key,” Alistair said.

For the first time, Red showed an emotion other than arrogance. His eyebrows involuntarily lifted, and his mouth shifted underneath his collar. “How do you know that?”

Alistair carefully considered the words he was about to say. “I guarantee on my Dao the information I can provide you will be of great use to you and your organization. However, I want something.”

“What is it?” Red snapped. “I’m not authorized to grant tickets out of frontier universes. Plus,” he looked at Alistair, “I don’t mean this to insult you, but you’re not yet talented enough for an involved polity to recruit. The Cabal is weak for the involved, but there are levels to everything.”

That checked out with the informational missive. Once he had some time to use the Orichalcum drachma, he had bought it from the System Store with half a Palladium drachma.

It said that the Cabal was a Grade-3C polity, meaning their strongest cultivator was Ascendant and they had between 5-25 of them.

Considering polities in the involved ranged from Grade-3D to Grade-2A, the latter of which had a thousand Divines and 10 million Ascendants, calling the Cabal weak for the involved was perhaps an understatement.

Technomagica, for example, the liege polity of the Rainmorrow Cluster, was a Grade-2D polity, meaning they had 1-3 Divine realms.

The Cabal was unusually involved—Dev'rox chuckled, though Alistair allowed it since he purposefully let the imp hear the pun—in the frontier’s affairs for an involved polity, even for a weak one. A Grade-3C polity still had a hundred thousand Grade-4s, or Exalteds, as most of the multiverse called them, meaning the Final Frontier Empire was like a speck of dust in their eyes.

“That’s… never mind, that’s not what I was going to ask for. I want you to train me.”

Alistair felt happy that he managed to shock Red again. “You want me to train you in exchange for information?”

“Yes,” Alistair said. “I don’t need explicit instruction or anything like that. You can keep your hidden secrets. I just want to spar you over and over. That’s all I require.”

Red jumped into his bed, pulling the covers up to his neck without taking off his clothes. “Sure. Once we both get into the sect, I’ll give you thirty minutes every day.”

Red was a mystery, but Alistair was confident he wouldn’t break his word. A man of such arrogance, who used the Buddha’s words upon birth, whose gray eyes looked down on everything in the world, had no need for lies. He was above all that.

“Okay, that settles that. To answer your question,” Alistair said, feeling the awkwardness of standing above Red Harmonia tucked into his bed, “it’s a long story. It begins during the initiation, when…”