VIVIAN

After what seemed like forever on the Great Highway, they reached the independent city-state of Seren just before dusk.

It was larger than most in the southern region—stone-walled, ridge-backed, and unmistakably proud. Seren had never bent knee to any foreign power, not even during the Empire annexation or demon wars. Its people didn’t call themselves citizens of the Empire. They called themselves Serans. And Serans served only Seren.

Their warriors weren’t called cultivators. They were Wardens—a holdover from an older martial tradition from a much bigger kingdom during the Great Demon War. Every Warden was trained, tested, and sworn in through rites older than the current dynastic calendar. Here, citizenship wasn’t granted by birthright or bloodline. It was earned—through military service, civic trials, or battlefield merit.

Brutal? Maybe. But effective.

Cultivators were individuals; they were martial, independent and proud.

Wardens were warriors—units of discipline and effect. And very dangerous. Their methods for mana use was also different from the Empire Cultivators. It was very secret but while less individually impressive their method allowed Wardens to fight more like soldiers coordinated and directed.

It had been the Wardens and the individual peak experts who had saved the mortal races in the Great War. The Serans had lost the most.

One thousand years later, they were still staunchly bound to their traditions. But despite all that pride, the Serans understood one thing better than most independent city-states: trade kept the individual city states routes alive and their way of life intact.

The Serans took it upon themselves to police the Southern Highway, and they produced some of the best weapon masters on the continent.

They weren’t friendly exactly—too formal, too clipped—but they were respectful. The traveling party found rooms at a stone-and-slate inn near the merchant ring, one of the few places with private suites and spell-dampening wards strong enough to muffle a telepathic message crystal.

Marissa handled it like a caravan leader. She made deals, kept up appearances, and found them a comfortable place.

Vivian was grateful—and so were the others.

They’d taken separate rooms. Vivian didn’t complain, despite being irritated. The room was clean. Quiet. High windows, polished stone floors, actual paper scroll walls instead of mana screens.

And, unfortunately, too much time to think.

That was how she found herself later that night—alone, seated at the small writing table—staring at her message crystal like it had personally offended her.

The last time she’d seen Ethan’s name was stamped across a recruitment charter on a merchant wall. Crimson and gold, practically glowing with arrogance.

She hadn’t sent him anything since their message about the Li swordsmanship. That felt like forever ago. Since then, her husband had taken on an honor duel, created life-changing technology, and apparently attracted every able-bodied woman in the entire bloody Empire.

And he STILL had not contacted her. The silence was louder than it had any right to be.

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Vivian exhaled. Reached for the crystal. She wasn’t sure why she couldn’t sleep. No that was a lie, she knew exactly why—she simply didn’t wish to acknowledge it. The encounter with Jun, his desperate plea, the finality of her own words; and then Sophie’s cutting remarks, forcing her to confront Ethan’s growing influence and her own feelings. These elements constituted a swirling complexity of unwanted emotions.

She picked up the crystal and began typing.

Vivian: Do you ever think about our wedding night?

She observed the words. Her thumb hovered. The glow flickered, sensitive to her mana. The marriage bond still pulsed beneath it—quiet, maddeningly subdued, a constant hum she was beginning to resent and, impossibly, rely on.

She had ignored it so long it was almost refreshing to examine it.

She looked again at the message and then deleted the line without hesitation. It was too direct.

She typed again, a faint smirk forming.

Vivian: So you’re building a rebellion and forgot to invite your wife? Should I be offended or impressed?

This attempt was an improvement. It contained a subtle edge, a hint of challenge. However, it still felt incongruous, as if she were enacting a role that did not quite suit her at that moment. She found herself weary of performative displays.

She sighed, leaned back, and commenced a third draft. This iteration was typed slowly, with precision, akin to how she drafted treaty clauses.

Vivian: Your recruitment charter in Yenlun is drawing attention. When did you decide you needed an army? Hopefully my father doesn’t think you’re planning a rebellion. Do you have permits for the southern city-states, or are you planning to simply charm your way through border checks?

She paused. Then added:

Vivian: Also—the Machine. I need to understand it. The part behind the casting net. If you expect public support, you’re going to have to explain it better. And not just to Path Icon anchors or mage-engineers. To people like me.

She observed the message. No edits were made this time. There was no softening. No coyness. Only controlled communication.

She activated the send function.

Message sent.

Vivian rose, brushing imperceptible dust from her sleeves, and turned toward the suite door without looking back. She had not explicitly stated her desire, but she had conveyed sufficient meaning. She allowed him the opportunity to interpret the unspoken. The message crystal pulsed once.

Vivian did not startle or smirk. She merely shifted her gaze, lifted the crystal with two fingers, and opened the reply as if it were an unrequested weather report.

Ethan’s message appeared, maintaining its customary irreverence.

Ethan: Ah. So my wife remembers I exist. Here I was thinking the sword seclusion had claimed you for good. Glad to hear from you. You’ll be proud to know I’ve caused only two minor international incidents since you left. Three, if you count recruitment posters. Why on earth are you all the way down south? Aren’t you supposed to be on Lotus Peak?

Vivian exhaled through her nose. She did not smile. (Not where any observer could discern it.)

Ethan: As for the Machine—yes, I’ll explain it. But you’ll owe me. Something formal. Possibly with tea. Also, it’s been long enough that I can’t remember if your eyes were more silver or violet. Hard to calibrate the memory without updated visuals.

She regarded the final line: updated visuals.

Her expression revealed nothing; however, her mana flared faintly, like heat ensnared within silk. This was the nature of the interaction. It was acceptable.

She rose, crossed to the mirror, and assessed her reflection. The moonlight—just enough to render her luminous—sculpted the familiar contours of her face: flawless ivory skin, sharply defined cheekbones, and lips that seemed carved from porcelain. Her deep, liquid violet eyes, unnatural and arresting, gleamed faintly in the dim light, holding a challenge he wouldn’t expect. She adjusted her robe subtly at the neckline, just enough to reveal a sliver of décolletage, highlighting the sharp line of her collarbone. It was refined and effortless.

She lifted the crystal above eye level—just off-center. The device registered the input. The review was satisfactory. The result was considered optimal.

She activated the send function. No caption was included. Subsequently, after three seconds, a follow-up message was transmitted.

Vivian: They’re violet. Try to keep up.

She placed the crystal back on the table and departed the room. Her movements were graceful. She appeared undisturbed. She exhibited a slight smile.

“Ignore that, you ass.”