I Can Create Clones

Marcus Drake moved through the pre-dawn darkness with the fluid grace of someone whose Middle Supreme cultivation made him nearly invisible to conventional detection methods. His spiritual senses swept the approaching Starfall estate like invisible fingers, cataloging every aura within miles while his mind wrestled with the growing certainty that had driven him to this personal investigation.

The familiar spiritual signature was stronger here, no longer the faint echo he'd detected from the main compound. Standing at the estate's perimeter, Marcus could feel it clearly—damaged pathways, trauma-induced scarring, and beneath it all, the unmistakable resonance of bloodline he'd thought he'd destroyed five years ago.

It's impossible, he told himself for the hundredth time. Lysander died. I felt his core collapse, watched his spiritual foundation crumble beyond any hope of recovery.

But doubt gnawed at him like poison. If his nephew had somehow survived, if the boy had found methods to not only heal but stabilize his cultivation at Peak Ascendant level, then everything Marcus had built was under threat. The corruption network, Aurelius's faction, his own position within the Supreme Council—all of it could crumble if the wrong person learned the truth about that night.

Moving closer to the estate's main buildings, Marcus activated concealment techniques that rendered him nearly undetectable to anyone below Supreme level. His investigation would be thorough but subtle—confirm the identity of this mysterious Lysander, assess the threat level, and if necessary, eliminate any problems before they could destabilize the careful political structure he'd spent years constructing.

The estate appeared peaceful in the early morning hours. Servants moved through their routines with the quiet efficiency of a well-ordered household, while spiritual signatures indicated that the family members remained in their respective quarters. But Marcus's enhanced senses detected something that made him pause—multiple powerful auras positioned around the estate's perimeter with tactical precision.

Security formations, he realized. Someone has been expecting trouble.

Before he could retreat and reassess the situation, a voice spoke from the shadows behind him, carrying tones that made his blood freeze in recognition.

"Hello, Uncle."

Marcus spun around, his spiritual pressure exploding outward as Middle Supreme cultivation blazed to full readiness. Standing in the estate's garden, partially concealed by morning mist, was a figure that should not have existed.

The features were different—altered somehow, unfamiliar in their details. But the spiritual signature was undeniable now, no longer masked or suppressed. This was Lysander, alive and impossibly restored to power that rivaled Marcus's own.

"You're dead," Marcus whispered, his voice carrying disbelief mixed with growing horror. "I felt your core collapse. I watched your spiritual foundation crumble."

"You felt what you expected to feel," Lysander replied, stepping forward with predatory grace. His amber eyes—so different from the brown Marcus remembered—held depths of cold fury that had been refined over years of exile and planning. "But then again, you always underestimated what you didn't understand."

Marcus's mind raced through tactical calculations as his nephew's true power became apparent. This wasn't just survival—this was transformation. The spiritual pathways he'd shattered had somehow been rebuilt stronger than before, creating a foundation that blazed with Low Supreme cultivation despite appearing as merely Peak Ascendant to casual observation.

"How?" Marcus demanded, his spiritual senses detecting additional threats moving to surround his position. "Core damage of that magnitude is irreversible. No healing technique in existence—"

"No technique you know of," Lysander interrupted, his voice carrying the weight of absolute confidence. "But then, the corruption scheme that bought Aurelius his position never prioritized actual knowledge, did it? Just political maneuvering and convenient accidents."

The words hit Marcus like physical blows. If Lysander knew about the corruption network, if he understood the scope of the conspiracy, then the threat was far worse than mere personal revenge.

"You have no proof," Marcus said, though his voice lacked conviction. "Accusations from a supposed dead man carry no weight with the family council."

"Proof?" Lysander smiled coldly. "Uncle, you're thinking too small. I'm not interested in family council proceedings or political accusations. I'm interested in something much more... permanent."

The attack came without warning, launched with the kind of devastating precision that spoke of years spent planning this exact moment. Lysander's restored cultivation exploded into action, techniques flowing with deadly beauty as spiritual energy carved through the air like invisible blades.

Marcus barely managed to raise defensive barriers in time, his Middle Supreme power clashing against his nephew's assault in a collision that sent shockwaves through the surrounding area. But even as he defended against the frontal attack, his enhanced senses detected the real trap.

Additional spiritual signatures were moving into position with coordinated precision. This wasn't a duel—it was an execution, planned with military thoroughness and overwhelming force.

"Dragon's Wrath Technique: Crimson Lightning Surge!" Lysander's voice rang out as elemental fire and lightning erupted from his restored core, techniques that should have been impossible for someone with his supposed level of damage.

The attack was magnificent and terrifying in its intensity. Streams of spiritual fire intertwined with crackling lightning, creating a maelstrom of destruction that forced Marcus to commit his full power to defense. But even as he countered the assault, he realized the true horror of his situation.

These weren't just random techniques—they were advanced Drake bloodline methods that had been lost for generations. Someone had given Lysander access to cultivation knowledge that surpassed even the main family's archives.

"Impossible," Marcus gasped as he deflected another devastating combination attack. "Those techniques were destroyed centuries ago. No one alive knows—"

"No one you know of," Lysander replied, his assault never faltering. "But then, you always assumed your ignorance defined the limits of possibility."

The battle raged across the estate's gardens with earth-shaking intensity. Marcus's Middle Supreme cultivation was formidable, but he was fighting defensively against an opponent who had planned every move of this confrontation. Worse, he could sense other powerful presences moving to cut off his escape routes.

As another surge of Dragon's Wrath techniques forced him back, Marcus caught a glimpse of movement in his peripheral vision. A figure was approaching through the battle's chaos—someone whose spiritual signature blazed with Peak Guardianship cultivation but moved with authority that suggested capabilities far beyond their apparent rank.

Multiple opponents, Marcus realized with growing desperation. This isn't revenge—it's a coordinated elimination.

"You can't win this," he called out, hoping to buy time for escape or negotiation. "Kill me, and the family council will investigate. They'll discover—"

"They'll discover exactly what we want them to find," the approaching figure interrupted, voice carrying calm authority that made Marcus's blood chill. "The tragic death of an Elder who got too close to dangerous spiritual phenomena while conducting unauthorized investigations."

The voice was young, impossibly young, but it carried depths of strategic thinking that spoke of experience far beyond apparent years. Marcus's enhanced senses tried to penetrate the newcomer's carefully suppressed aura, searching for clues to their identity.

"Who are you?" Marcus demanded, even as he continued defending against Lysander's relentless assault.

"Someone who's been planning this conversation for a very long time," the figure replied, producing what appeared to be ethereal chains that pulsed with spiritual energy beyond anything Marcus had ever encountered. "Celestial Binding Chains: Absolute Restraint."

The artifact activated with power that warped reality itself. Spiritual chains materialized from dimensional space, each link forged from compressed authority that made even Marcus's Middle Supreme cultivation feel insignificant. The chains moved with impossible speed, wrapping around his limbs and core with precision that spoke of perfect tactical coordination.

Marcus tried to break free, pouring his full power into shattering the restraints. But the chains only tightened, their Peak Supreme-level authority overriding his resistance with casual ease.

"These bindings can restrain Pre-Celestial cultivators," the figure explained with academic interest. "Your Middle Supreme strength is insufficient to break them."

Trapped and helpless, Marcus found himself face to face with his nephew's transformed features and eyes that held years of accumulated hatred. But it was the unknown figure standing beside Lysander that truly terrified him—someone who wielded artifacts that shouldn't exist and spoke with the casual authority of someone accustomed to commanding powers beyond conventional understanding.

"Now then," the figure continued, "we have several questions about your corruption network, Aurelius's plans, and the exact scope of your conspiracy. You're going to answer them all, in great detail."

Marcus's mind raced through increasingly desperate scenarios as he realized the true scope of the trap he'd walked into. This wasn't random revenge—it was a precisely orchestrated operation conducted by forces he couldn't identify or understand.

The nephew he'd tried to destroy had returned with allies whose capabilities defied every assumption he'd held about the cultivation world's power structures. And now, bound by chains that made resistance futile, Marcus Drake began to understand that his years of careful political maneuvering had led him directly into the hands of enemies far more dangerous than anything he'd ever imagined.

The interrogation was about to begin, and Marcus had the terrible certainty that he wouldn't survive to see its conclusion.