Rise of The Abandoned Husband

I stood in the dimly lit chamber of the Scripture Pavilion, my body still radiating a soft golden glow from mastering the Vajra Holy Body Skill. The stunned faces around me reflected disbelief, awe, and in Cedric's case, poorly concealed rage.

"Four hours and five minutes," Ricardo Beaumont said, checking his timepiece. "Unprecedented."

Cedric Holt stepped forward, his face contorted with denial. "This proves nothing! He must have studied this technique before coming here."

His accusation hung in the air, drawing murmurs from the growing crowd of cultivators who had gathered to witness my achievement. The golden light emanating from my skin was evidence enough, but Cedric couldn't accept defeat so easily.

"I've never seen this technique before today," I stated calmly, though anger simmered beneath my composed exterior. "But if you need more proof..."

Cedric sneered. "What are you suggesting?"

"Choose another Divine Rank technique. Any one you want. I'll comprehend it right now."

The crowd gasped. Even Daphne looked at me with concern.

"Liam," she whispered, "Divine Rank techniques drain tremendous mental energy. Attempting two in succession could be dangerous, even for you."

I appreciated her concern but kept my eyes locked on Cedric. "Well? Or are you afraid to be proven wrong twice in one day?"

Cedric's eyes narrowed, calculating. "Fine. God Buddha's Thousand Hands technique. It's at least twice as complex as the Vajra Holy Body Skill."

Perfect. I'd been curious about that technique anyway. While primarily defensive, it would complement the offensive capabilities I'd already developed.

"Double our original wager," I proposed.

"Double?" Cedric repeated, momentarily taken aback before a smirk spread across his face. "You're digging your own grave, Knight. Agreed."

Ricardo quickly retrieved the scroll, placing it before me with a concerned expression. "This technique has defeated masters with decades of experience. Even I haven't fully comprehended it."

I unrolled the ancient parchment, immediately confronted by intricate diagrams depicting energy pathways so complex they resembled a spider's web viewed through a kaleidoscope.

"The timer starts now," Blaise announced, producing a small hourglass.

I closed my eyes, diving into the scroll's mysteries. Unlike the Vajra technique, this one required precision rather than power. Each energy pathway connected to dozens of others, creating a defense system so elaborate it could simultaneously block attacks from multiple directions.

Hours passed. I was vaguely aware of people coming and going, watching with varying degrees of interest or skepticism. The killing intent that occasionally spiked within me made concentration difficult—a side effect of pushing my cultivation too hard, too fast. I forced it down, focusing solely on the technique.

"Four hours," someone announced.

Sweat beaded on my forehead. This technique was indeed more challenging. The pathways kept shifting in my mind, refusing to align properly. Was Cedric right? Had I finally encountered my limit?

"Four hours and thirty minutes," came the update.

"He's failing," I heard Cedric whisper triumphantly to someone. "Look at him struggle. His earlier success was just luck."

I blocked out his voice, concentrating harder. There was something I was missing—a fundamental principle that connected all the seemingly disparate pathways...

Then I saw it. The technique wasn't about creating thousands of individual energy shields as I'd assumed. It was about creating a single, unified energy field that could manifest in countless forms simultaneously. The thousand hands weren't separate entities but expressions of one unified defensive consciousness.

"Time's up, Knight," Cedric declared loudly. "Four and a half hours. You've failed."

Just as he finished speaking, golden light erupted from my body—brighter than before, almost blinding in its intensity. The energy coalesced around me, forming ephemeral, translucent hands that moved in perfect synchronization with my thoughts.

"Impossible," Blaise whispered, shielding her eyes from the glow.

I opened my eyes, the thousand energy hands mimicking my every movement. With a simple gesture, I directed them outward, then pulled them back, demonstrating complete control.

"Well, Cedric?" I asked, extinguishing the light with a thought. "Satisfied?"

His face had drained of color. "You... you must have..."

"Must have what?" I challenged. "Studied both techniques in advance? Known exactly which one you would choose? Or perhaps you think I've secretly been training here for years?"

The crowd was silent now, watching the confrontation with bated breath. Cedric looked around desperately, seeking support but finding none.

"You tricked me somehow," he insisted, his voice lacking conviction.

"Twice the original wager," I reminded him. "You'll kneel and apologize not just for your uncle's actions but for your own accusations today. In front of everyone."

Realization dawned on his face—the full weight of his impending humiliation. The Holt family was one of Veridia City's most prestigious; this public disgrace would haunt him for years.

"I won't do it," he hissed. "I refuse."

Ricardo stepped forward. "A debt of honor cannot be refused, Cedric. You made the wager freely."

"My father will hear about this," Cedric threatened, backing away. "The entire Holt family will—"

"Will what?" I interrupted. "Come after me? They've already tried. Your uncle learned his lesson. Would you like the same education?"

The killing intent I'd been suppressing all day flared briefly, causing several nearby cultivators to step back instinctively. Cedric flinched, genuine fear flashing across his face.

"Fine," he spat. "I'll do it. But not now."

I considered pressing the issue but decided against it. I hadn't come here to humiliate aristocrats, satisfying as that might be. I had more important objectives.

"Tomorrow then. The main hall at noon." I turned away, signaling that our conversation was over. "I have research to conduct."

As the crowd dispersed, discussing what they'd witnessed in excited whispers, Daphne approached me.

"That was extraordinary," she said quietly. "But I'm worried about you, Liam. I sensed something... darker beneath your power. Something volatile."

She was more perceptive than I'd given her credit for. The killing intent had been growing stronger lately, harder to control.

"I'm handling it," I assured her, not entirely truthfully.

"The Spirit Binding Technique you mentioned earlier," she continued. "It's not in this pavilion."

This caught me off guard. "What do you mean? I was told all techniques are archived here."

"All official techniques," she clarified. "The Spirit Binding Technique is considered forbidden knowledge. Only the Guild elders and Marc Fairlight would have access to such scrolls."

This complicated matters. I couldn't exactly walk up to Marc Fairlight and ask to borrow his forbidden technique scroll—not after our last encounter.

"Is there another way to acquire it?" I asked.

Daphne hesitated. "There are rumors... the Veridia City Martial Guild maintains a secret archive of forbidden techniques. But accessing it would be..."

"Dangerous? Illegal? Likely to get me executed if caught?" I finished for her.

She nodded grimly.

"I'll figure something out," I said, more to myself than to her. "Thank you for telling me."

As Daphne left, I realized I needed to shift my immediate focus. If finding the Spirit Binding Technique would require infiltrating the Martial Guild—something that demanded careful planning—I could use my remaining time here for another purpose.

"Ricardo," I called to the scholar who was still examining the God Buddha's Thousand Hands scroll with fascination. "Where would I find historical records in this pavilion? Specifically about events from around thirty to forty years ago?"

He looked up, surprised by the question. "Historical records? Those would be on the fourth floor. But no one goes there anymore—everything important has been transcribed and brought down to more accessible levels."

"I'd like to see the originals," I insisted.

Ricardo shrugged. "Your privilege as a special guest, I suppose. Take the spiral staircase at the eastern corner all the way up. I should warn you though—it's mostly dust and forgotten scrolls up there."

Perfect. Dust meant privacy, and forgotten scrolls might contain information that someone had wanted buried.

The spiral staircase was narrow and poorly lit, clearly unused for years. Each step creaked under my weight, sending small clouds of dust dancing in the air. By the time I reached the fourth floor, my black robes were coated in a fine gray layer.

The space was cavernous but eerily empty compared to the floors below. Only a handful of ancient bookshelves remained, holding what looked like no more than a dozen volumes total.

I approached the nearest shelf, examining the spine of a leather-bound tome. "A Comprehensive Chronicle of Martial Arts Evolution," I read aloud, my voice echoing in the empty chamber.

This was exactly what I was looking for. If there were any records of my father or the mysterious Masked Woman who had massacred the Immortal Bane Sect, they would be in these historical texts.

I pulled down the first volume, careful with its fragile binding, and began to read. The early pages detailed the emergence of cultivation techniques thousands of years ago, but I quickly skimmed ahead to more recent history.

Hours passed as I methodically worked through each book, searching for any mention of names or events that might connect to my past. The killing intent that had troubled me earlier subsided, replaced by the calm focus of scholarly pursuit.

In the third volume, I found a brief reference to a "masked cultivator" who had appeared at a martial arts tournament forty years ago, defeating all challengers before disappearing without claiming the prize. The description was frustratingly vague—no mention of gender or distinguishing features beyond the mask itself.

"Not enough," I muttered, replacing the book and reaching for the next.

The fourth volume contained regional histories, including a section on the Immortal Bane Sect. My heart raced as I turned to those pages, only to find them...blank. Three pages had been carefully excised from the binding, leaving only the heading intact.

Someone had deliberately removed the historical record of the Immortal Bane Sect's destruction.

"Why?" I whispered to the empty room. "Who would want this hidden?"

I continued my search with renewed determination, working through the remaining volumes until only one remained—a slender book bound in faded red leather with no title on its spine.

Opening it revealed not a history book but what appeared to be a personal journal. The handwriting was elegant but hurried, as if the author had been racing to record their thoughts before forgetting them.

The first entry caught my attention immediately:

"I have seen her again—the woman in the silver mask. She moves like death itself, leaving destruction in her wake. The elders refuse to acknowledge her existence, striking her name from our records, but I cannot forget what I witnessed at the Western Mountains."

My pulse quickened. This had to be about the Masked Woman—the same entity connected to Clara somehow.

I turned the page eagerly, but found only blank pages. The rest of the journal was empty—either never filled or deliberately cleared.

"Damn it," I muttered, closing the book with frustration.

Still, I had confirmed one thing—the Masked Woman was real, not just a vision I had experienced. And more importantly, someone had systematically erased records of her existence. The question was: why? What made her so dangerous that even her memory needed to be expunged?

And what was her connection to Clara?

I placed the journal back on the shelf and stood, brushing dust from my robes. I hadn't found what I came for—information about my father—but I had discovered something perhaps equally valuable: evidence of a conspiracy to hide the truth about the Masked Woman.

As I prepared to leave, my eyes were drawn to a small, leather-bound book I hadn't noticed before, tucked behind the others. It was unmarked and seemed older than the rest, its pages yellowed and brittle.

I reached for it with a growing sense of anticipation. Something told me this unassuming volume might contain the answers I sought—about my father, about the Masked Woman, about my own mysterious heritage.

The past was beginning to unveil itself, one dusty page at a time. And with each revelation, I was one step closer to understanding who I truly was.