A few days passed after the surprise 'family meeting'---
Riven had now gained five new subordinates, who were trained and specialized in any type of warfare.
Areal, ground, information, guerrilla… You mention it, they got it. Covert information gathering, espionage, legion destabilizing… his grandfather had trained them to be some of the best spec ops soldiers the Dynasty could find.
Maybe the Direct subordinates of the Divine Marquise from the Four Direction Enforcers hold more sway in such a subject than these guys.
The elder lady had met her friends from fifty years ago, too. It was a joyful period for them.
At last, the estate quieted.
In the backyard garden, the Matriarch stood with a cane in one hand and a long register in the other, a maid helping her walk.
"The favors we received will need returning," she said. "Courtesy demands reciprocity."
"Yes, madam," the maid replied.
Silas Ashvale stood nearby, nodding mechanically as she passed down instructions.
"I understand, Mother," he said with a sigh, his voice distant.
Just then, the steward approached, bowing.
"Your Grace, Old Madam, a young master named Murong Fu requests an audience."
"Murong Fu?" the Matriarch raised an eyebrow.
"He says he's from Swallow Nest Manor, outside the state—along the Great Lake."
"The Murong family," she said thoughtfully. "I've heard they come from a martial background."
"Martial artists?" Silas recoiled slightly. He waved his hand. "No, no… We are not meeting them. Definitely not."
The steward respectfully nodded and turned to leave.
"Wait."
The Matriarch's voice cut through the air.
She looked at the steward. "Invite him. Let him speak with Riven."
The steward, noticing the heavy atmosphere, quickly bowed and left the area.
Silas frowned. "Mother, martial artists are reckless. They disrespect the law. The court has made it clear: we're not to associate with rogue sects or blades-for-hire."
The Matriarch tapped her cane firmly on the ground. Her gaze turned sharp.
"Spineless."
Silas was silenced.
"A strong dragon doesn't crush the local serpent. We are new to this land. If someone from the martial world wishes to extend a hand, slapping it away would only earn us trouble."
She turned to Silas. This child was the only one who did not betray her husband, but in return, his spine seemed to be made out of tofu.
"We'll need both civil and martial ties to hold this territory. Since Silas has no stomach for it—let my grandson handle such things."
"…Yes, Mother."
Silas finally agreed. A small flicker of relief passed through his face.
He wouldn't have to deal with the martial world. Riven would.
And Riven… well… was far better suited for it.
…..
The Exile's Garden backwoods --
By a stream shaded beneath the weeping arms of a willow tree, stood a small, quiet pavilion.
The air was cool, rippling with the faint scent of water and fresh leaves.
Solwing chirped sharply, hopping across the stones in the stream, splashing gently. In the clearing nearby, Riven Ashvale moved through his martial routine.
His fists surged forward in a rhythm like crashing waves—each strike flowing seamlessly into the next.
His movements were fluid, calculated, and honed.
The air trembled with each motion.
The sound of his strikes cracked through the garden like distant thunder, and the aftermath vibration sounded like the gallop of ten thousand hooves on the battlefield.
After some time, the routine seemed to be coming to an end.
With the final strike, his inner energy circulated through his body. He exhaled hard, his breath bursting out like a storm wind.
Every bone in his body thrummed with power, humming with a resonance that echoed through his core.
Facing the water, Riven dropped his stance. Knees bent, hips anchored to the earth, he drew in a controlled breath—
He closed eyes, raised his left hand to the front and his right hand cocked back in a fist.
Suddenly, all inner energy was withdrawn back to his energy core.
Not a single energy strand was circulating his body now.
Normally, he should look like an average mortal now -
Yet, his presence grew increasingly heavy.
The air around him blurred.
Wind blew lightly. The birds' chirps faded into the background.
Silence.
Just then-!
His right hand which was cocked back, flashed and disappeared and appeared as a straight right punch.
The sound came a split second late.
KACHA!
The air ripped—something invisible, an invisible force, traversed through the air at a marked speed.
BOOOOM!
Ten meters away, the surface of the stream detonated as though TNT had gone off underwater.
Water exploded upward in a towering splash, and wind roared back in retaliation, slamming into Riven's face.
Solwing, mid-bath, let out an indignant screech. It flapped his wings and flew out of the blast range.
Midair, the crane flared its wings and glared at Riven, clearly displeased.
Slowly opening his eyes, Riven let out the breath he had been holding.
The suffocating presence melted as if it never existed.
Riven laughed softly, wiping sweat from his brow. "I'm sorry, friend," he muttered. "Didn't mean to ruin your morning."
Not listening to him, Solwing kept sending gusts of wind towards him by flapping its wings at him, to which Riven responded with amused chuckles.
"Hahaha"
The wind tugged at his damp robes, but it only helped cool his burning body.
He drew back his fist and stood straight with a grin, the fire in his eyes dimmed, and returned to gentleness.
His skin radiated light warmth like a flickering flame dancing through the cold winter air.
A warrior, clothed in noble robes. Muscles steady. Spirit refined.
He murmured to himself, "Ancestor's fist art is meant to unify body and mind. Skin, flesh, tendons, bone, marrow, organ, and nerve—all must resonate together."
He paused, reflecting.
"I have reached the ultimate simplicity now. And have merged the technique into my foundation.
I have transcended the limits of this fist art."
But the vibrations that once tempered his body had now become faint, ineffective.
"The fist art manual… It seems it served its purpose. It's no longer enough for you, my liege." A middle-aged voice drifted over.
Riven looked to his right towards the small pavilion.
There on the pavilion roof sat a man cross-legged. Caldor.
The old man grinned, disappearing from where he stood and appearing about two meters away from Riven.
With one hand on his heart, he bowed. To which Riven waved his hand and said, "At ease."
"My liege, you have polished the mortal body to the brink now. No more refining would help. It is best for you to start to break through and ascend to Innate now." He voiced his thoughts.
"Hmm… that's the plan. But well, I need a better technique for myself sooner or later." Riven muttered offhandedly.
He needed more. Stronger techniques. Those that refined the subtle meridians and opened the acupoints.
In the martial world of the Nine Dynasties, martial arts were ranked from Yellow to Heaven: Yellow, Mystic, Earth, and Heaven. Each had upper, middle, and lower grades.
The Grand Ancestor Fist arts —an upper-grade Yellow-rank technique—had carried him far, but it was a foundation-building art, nothing more.
"In the Great Ashenvale martial world… there's the North Mystic Divine Skill in the North Mystic Blessed Land… the Solitary Nine Swords by the Lone Sword Demon…
And some other famous techniques, but…"
He exhaled again, eyes narrowing.
"This'll get a bit complicated."
His thoughts flowed-
'North Mystic Divine skill is a skill that plunders others' energy without drawback. Basically, a demonic technique. Surprisingly, the technique has a connection with Selene's lineage.'
He obtained this information from the confidential records that are exclusively accessible to Selene.
It appears that the elders of Virelyn's family did not distinguish between good and evil.
'I'd love the Solitary Sword Arts by the Sword Demon, but who knows where this old bastard is sleeping?'
A hundred years ago, after an incredible run of victories with no defeat that left the nine dynasties in awe, the Lone Sword Demon mysteriously vanished.
Some whisper that the sword master is no longer with us.
But really, someone of his stature and realm couldn't simply fade away after just a century!
"Why don't you learn the sword or spear from us, my liege? Everyone would teach you everything they have after all." Caldor said.
Riven looked at the grinning man, who completely did not hide his enthusiasm, with a deadpan face.
"I'm not a weapons guy. I'm more into being an Elementalist." Riven shook his head and explained.
"Elementalist…" Caldor muttered to himself. With one hand on his chin, he said, "That's quite a rare fighting style."
Caldor's reflections were gently interrupted when a steward quietly approached from the side path.
The old man disappeared in a gust of wind. The presence of the hands was only known to him and the elder lady.
The steward stopped at a respectful distance, bowing with respect.
"Your highness, a martial artist named Murong Fu has arrived. The Matriarch requests that you receive him."
The steward stayed bowing and did not lift his head.
"Murong Fu?" Riven raised an eyebrow.
'Selene's cousin?', he thought.
Unconsciously, a somewhat questionable grin appeared on his face. 'The man who shared childhood with Selene… huh…'
He stopped his thoughts from spiraling and advised the steward.
"Very well. I'll meet him. Bring him here."