CHAPTER 588: AMORPHOUS SECT

In the vast expanse of the cultivator domain, at its southern border within the star-born reaches, lay the ’Dread Spire Wastes,’ a death land, a place even the mighty feared to venture into.

It was a region where the boundaries between two planes of existence had collapsed long ago.

The sky above hung fractured like shattered glass, bent and twisted by collapsed gravity wells, while below stretched nothing but mountains of crystallized voidstone, jagged and alien.

The air itself was heavy with dark haze that gnawed at one’s vitality with each breath, turning even the strongest cultivator’s body into a candle burning far too quickly.

This place was a land of death.

If one did not fall victim to a sudden gravity storm or the tearing winds of the void, then the haze would hollow them out, leeching their strength.

And if one did not fall to these, there still remained the mind-shattering whispers that bled from the voidstone mountains, chaotic echoes from the other side, clawing at sanity.

The threats did not end just here, as the creatures that called this anomalous land home hunted freely in such chaos, feasting upon intruders unlucky enough to encounter them.

So, though the Wastes brimmed with rare treasures and unfathomable mysteries, even the greatest empires had chosen to leave it untouched.

Yet at the heart of this fractured land stood something no less impossible than the Wastes themselves.

A grand castle floated high above, surrounded by twisting, collapsing space, yet wholly untouched, a solitary bastion of order in the midst of chaos.

The dark gothic fortress loomed with grim majesty, its boundary walls spanning more than a kilometer. Jagged fragments of stone still clung to its base, as if the land had been torn upward by some unspeakable force and suspended in defiance of the broken realm.

At its center rose a singular, colossal spire, a crown of stone and shadow piercing the shattered sky. Around it stood eleven lesser towers, each a masterpiece of unique design, no two alike.

Upon every tower gleamed a unique sigil, each one different, each heavy with its own story.

This was the Amorphous Sect.

One would assume, from the grand and ancient castle and from where it stood suspended within the Dread Spire Wastes, that it belonged to an imperial sect, if not that, then at the very least a twilight-grade power.

But no one would ever assume the truth.

The castle belonged to an earth-tier sect, a sect with fewer than ten disciples in total, none of whom had reached the stage of Void Ascendant, not even their sect master.

At the peak of the grand spire, in its main chamber. It was a cavernous hall drowning in shadows, and at its heart rested a long table forged from onyx-dark crystal.

Around this table stood twelve throne-like chairs, towering, violet and black, and all carved equal in size and stature. Upon the crest of each seat gleamed a distinct symbol, the very same sigils etched upon the towers outside.

At this moment, four of those twelve chairs were occupied. The silence between the four individuals was heavy, their faces betrayed the strain each bore.

The first seat on the right bore the symbol of a mirror. Upon it sat a young woman whose beauty dazzled, yet carried with it a sharp, unapproachable chill.

Her eyes were twin mirrors, silver-white and depthless, empty of emotion, reflecting nothing back to the world but itself. Snow-white hair framed her face, half braided to one side, the rest spilling loose down her back like strands of cold moonlight.

Her expression was cold, the kind born not of arrogance but of countless inner battles, honed into a warrior’s mask. Over her white regalia, a mantle of fur draped across her shoulders, its pale texture giving her the presence of one carved from winter itself.

The second seat on the left side, across from her, bore the symbol of four outward-pointing marks forming a cross, giving the impression of endless space stretching beyond mortal comprehension.

There sat a regal young man, appearing to be in his early twenties. His eyes were clear gray, sharp with an unyielding clarity.

The right side of his hair was shaved, revealing silver tribal tattoos on his skull, while long silver hair fell behind his pointed ears, and his features were cut like fine steel.

He wore a skintight carapace of dark metal that climbed to his neck and slid even behind his ears, a masterpiece clearly forged by the Empire of Iron.

Draped above it, a silver tunic clung in layered folds, leaving his right shoulder bare. Dark stripes and insignias traced its fabric, marking him with the impression of nobility sharpened into a weapon.

The fourth seat of the left side bore the sigil of a single, unblinking eye. Within its iris was etched the vision of a world both colored and strange —a design unsettling to behold, evoking a feeling of both nightmare and dream.

A young child was occupying the seat. His skin was ashy dark, but his most striking feature was his eyes, which seemed like pools of shifting colors, always blending and moving.

He wore a plain blue and gray robe, and his head was crowned with a thick, overgrown afro of brown curls. From it curved two large goat-like horns, curling downwards, their tips angled toward his own eyes.

At the base of the table stood the seat marked by decay, its sigil a skeletal tree whose branches dissolved into dust halfway through. Simply looking at it gave one the faint sense of things wasting away.

This chair was taken by a woman who appeared to be in her late twenties. Her features were sharp and well-formed, her dark hair falling in smooth waves along her shoulders.

She wore a dark, revealing western-style dress, a cloak of snakeskin flowing down her back. Two obsidian serpent maws clutched her shoulders, securing the cloak with a predatory grip.

It was she who drew the weight of the chamber. The other three, without speaking, kept their eyes fixed on her.

The snow-white beauty was the one to break the heavy silence.

"Avelor Isoldein, where did Master go?" Her voice was flat, without emotion, yet her anger came through all the same.

"Liviana," Avelor chuckled, her words more taunt than reply, "Maybe Master grew bored of your antics and went out to get some fresh air."

In an instant, Liviana’s eyes turned pupilless, and the temperature in the chamber plummeted to a frigid cold.

The cold beauty suppressed her anger and, after a moment, spoke, "We don’t have time for your jokes. Tell us where Master went." Avelor said, her eyes narrowing.

"It’s not like you can’t make a guess."

"One of our sisters has been kidnapped by an unknown Imperial Sect, while the Celestial Wardens have captured that mongrel for murder. He will be executed in maybe a month if he is unlucky."

Her tone sharpened as her smile faded, sadness softening the charm she had carried a moment ago. "Our precious little angel, Xnoura, has been turned into a mindless mutant."

Her words made the others uneasy, the weight of them sinking into the chamber.

"So, unless he really went for a stroll to get fresh air, Master has likely gone to find a solution to the problems plaguing us."

"If you understand all that, then why did you allow him to leave?" A sharp voice cut in, the silver-haired elf being its source, his expression tight as though restraining the urge to say more.

"Yes, Lady Avelor," came a childish voice. The young boy’s small fists clenched as he spoke. "We had decided that only after we created a strategy would we take action."

"You had half the key, precisely because we feared Calvanyr or Liviana might act on their own and seek help from their clans." His eyes, dreamy yet heavy, welled with tears. "We trusted you."

"Nyros, don’t be a kid," Avelor said flatly. "Do you think we have any other options left to us?"

"If we wish to save our brother and sisters, in the time we have, our only choices are Clan Veythar, the House of Elandor, or some power that could rival an Imperial Sect, or those cowards themselves."

She leaned back slightly, her pale hand gesturing first toward the cold beauty, then to the regal elf.

"But even these two, scions of such powers, will tell you the same thing: the only way their clans would lift a finger to help is if we pay them a price they cannot refuse."

"And the only price that could move them is the legacy of the Amorphous Sect." Her voice cooled, almost calm as she added, "That is why I felt it was only right to leave that decision to the only person who has the right to pay that price."

"Still," Calvanyr, the elf, replied sharply, "Trying our method would have been better than watching our brothers and sisters die, or live in agony."

"And I still believe my family would have helped us, maybe at most, only wished to study my gifts." He then added softly, as if saying it to himself, then others, "Not strip them from me or make me their slaves, as you claim."

Avelor almost laughed aloud. "Boy, you may have lived three times as long as me, but you know nothing of the bottomless greed of the high and mighty clans."

She sneered, her voice sharp with contempt. "How do you think they have stayed at the top for millennia? Let me assure you, it was not by being generous."

"But surely you could have made a better choice than letting Master leave alone," Liviana said. Her voice, though steady, carried both concern and a hint of shame.

"You are all acting as if our Master is some weakling," Avelor replied, a wide grin spreading across her otherwise stern face. "Sure, he is weak, and his only advantage is his status as an immortal adventurer."

"But, I did not choose him because he was an immortal adventurer who offered me great power. I chose to follow a man who could make you believe you had won, never knowing you had been playing in his palm the entire time."

Her smile darkened. "So yes, the odds are against him, and he is standing against big powers. But now that they have angered him, on top of the rage he had been carrying these past months?"

She leaned forward, eyes glinting. "I would be worried about what he is going to do to those bastards."